Perfect Pain

Puppets are made to dance across the stage. Perfect, beautiful, sweet little marionettes who do and say as one might please. That was what Utonium intended to create. Dolls are meant to bring others joy. But is that all the girls are to their 'father?' If so, what can they do? And who can they turn to on an empty stage?

Tre ragazze piccole. Un'equazione che crudele quello conduce alla loro nascita. Puppets che sono fatti per ballare prima di una città rotta. Ma che cosa accade quando le ragazze colpiscono la strada?

Hey, everyone. Here's an attempt to make a PowerPuff Girl fiction. Heh. It probably won't be very good, but I do hope you like it. This is as close to angst as I can create. As for the ending...I will leave that up to you. ^^

"Perfect."

That is the word that Utonium whispers each night before tucking each little angel of Townsville into bed.

"Perfect."

Such a word is thought to be pleasant. After all, Blossom's papers are so often marked as such, coupled with Ms. Keene's usual littering with gold stickers and smiley faces.

"Perfect."

So many pieces of Bubbles' artwork have been established as such. The very picture of beauty and childhood innocence is, after all-depicted in the selfsame pictures that litter the refrigerator with multiple magnets.

"Perfect."

In Buttercup's one venture that she is allowed, her occasional temper tantrums and her more violent prone of offensive manuevers, those too, are perfect. After all, how many villains or "undesirables" that rot the good name of Townsville have fallen by her hand?

"Perfect."

"Excellent."

"Wonderful."

"Superb."

Such is the praise that goes to the three sole defenders of a broken city. Every headline raves about their deeds. It is unthinkable anyone should even faintly give dissent or disdain towards the three perfect little tenshi. Else, you are also an undesirable element of society. For how can anybody not appreciate perfection in its most splendid form-the one that Utonium abandoned his loved ones for years in mad pursuit of recreating it?

Perfect. China dolls. Perfect is good. Perfect is right.

Perfect is dubbed so for a reason. 'Perfect' is so rarely acheived in this lifetime, if ever at all. Perfect comes from Heaven. It was what was meant to make everyone and everything happy.

Perfection is in the form of three little girls who carry the burdens of the entire city on their shoulders.

Perfection is being enclosed forever in the body of a preschooler, watching your companions and those you have dubbed as friends grow up from children to adolescents around you, while you are forced to remain in the same Kindergarten class, year after year after year.

You are sweet. You are lovely. When you smile, the world smiles with you, along with a great cajoling of "awwws," all about you. How are you not loved-adored, even?

Perfection is having everyone assume that you have one favorite color.

And thus, all that you own should be that selfsame color. After all, even if you would rather have a violet teaset then a blue one, a blue teaset is presented to you at your birthday-even when you didn't really want a teaset at all that year.

And even when you must battle some terror stalking your home city on a daily basis, you retain your innocence to the point that you are still expected to dress up in a lacy dress, gather your stuffed animals, and sit around a plastic table for a tea party.

If you are crushed into the pavement, and must stagger up again, you may not cry. Should someone kick dirt into your eyes, you, however, must scurry off to your teacher, and weep as if your heart should break.

And, when all people expect out of you is violence, brashness, and aggression, what can you expect for your birthday but punching bags? Gloves? Samurai movies? Even when you would rather have flowers, people will stare at you in bewildered derision, and begin to hysterically giggle at that of someone as violent as you ever doing anything to a daisy other then stomping on one. Should you express any feminism-or explore any part of your nature-you are not a whole of anything anymore.

And, most certainly, not perfect. And we can hardly have that, can we? Perish the thought.

And what will people give you other then a text book? For you are De Facto leader. You are the brains. You do not want to spend your time reading petty comics or romance novels. Certainly not. You must research. You must be brilliant.

You wouldn't be selfish and want to watch cartoons? You wouldn't be so cruel as to not take that extra credit course-even when its overwhelmingly obvious you do not need it?

Of course not.

You are perfect. You can never miss a step.

But, after being told the same word over and over and over again, a child may still be naturally curious to know what said word means?

Blossom was the one who first looked it up in her studies, using the enclyopedia set that she had never asked for for Christmas.

Excellent or complete beyond practical or theoretical improvement.

Exactly fitting the need in a certain situation or for a certain purpose.

Accurate, exact, or correct in every detail: a perfect copy.

Entirely without any flaws, defects, or shortcomings.

Unmitigated; out-and-out; of an extreme degree.

~*~*~

Perfect.

The book had fallen from the little girl's hands that night, before magnolia orbs had steadily filled with tears, and the small girl had buried her head in her small hands.

Perfect.

Utonium never stopped using that word. And why should he? He had left the woman he loved-a kind and dear family-in order to manufacture a perfect child. He knew nothing of being a parent, of course-after all, he had been nothing shirt of a holy terror as a child himself-but to faciliate his own work, he had thrown himself into absolute seclusion in order to create a child to make the world brighter.

To engineer a littl girl that would make the world-broken as it was by greed, discord, anger, and the uncouth ingredients of the human heart-great once again. After all, only a perfect child could manage as such.

For years, he had toiled with his creation-and, after a radius accident in which Jojo had forcibly shoved him into adding a most dangerous chemical compound-the man had completed his goal.

And so, three little girls of flesh and blood had been crafted from mere ingredients inside not a hospital, but a dark, and neglected laboratory. Crafted, not born. There had been no chance for them to explore the reality they had been thrust into. They had not been able to live as infants. Already-learned. With personalities.

They were just...there. Ready made. Perfect.

This story had been told to them many times. But it was only now that Blossom had the stark reality of it all press into her.

She had to bite back her tears, and replace it with a perfect smile.

After all, crying over perfection-a heavenly, God-sent gift-was now theirs. It had already been. Always.

Blossom smiled absentmindedly.

And then, screamed, throwing the accursed book on the ground after sending a line of fire of the accursed pages-leaving it to burn.

Every year, another porcelain doll joined the others lined Bubbles' shelf, beset in lace and in frills.

She had never asked for a doll. She had never requested one. But no one ever need ask what Bubbles may or may not want. If she is hurting, then a popsickle will make it better.

If she is frightened, then she must be assured that she is an assailant as well as well as an adorable little girl.

If she is angry, Bubbles may not express it. For everyone loves Bubbles-and she, in turn, must love everyone. How else would it be?

In picture to that selfsame innocence, Bubbles may express as much love as she might, but never may she ask what she wants.

Bubbles must be happy.

Bubbles must never make doubts. She did, once-but, thankfully, Utonium hardly interpretated it as such when she finally asked whether or not the professor loved her and her sisters.

The man had smiled, and waved her off in the midst of his work after telling her something.

"I love what you DO," the man said earnestly.

Bubbles is an object.

A toy, really. Just like those porcelain dolls, it is not the doll itself people love-nor learn to love. It is what the doll does that makes them happy.

The doll sits with the others in fine porcelain-unfeeling material that nonetheless offers a charming, simpering smile on painted lips, with a rosy blush painted on her cheeks.

Her eyes are bright, but dull. They do not brim with tears. They do not question why the said orbs must see bloodshed day after day after day.

And still be an innocent little girl after all these years.

Bubbles is Perfect. If someone is hurting, she can't ignore them. It could be a problem so needlessly dull as a girl being jipped by her lover, and needing a patient ear to rant to. If there is a criminal about, she must take care of it, instead of leaving it to the police.

She must be human. But not be human. Just puff. Just another doll that couldn't live for itself.

It is then Bubbles tenderly cradles a small doll in her arms, and stares at the doll, who stares back.

Blank.

Empty.

Unfeeling.

No one knew Bubbles for what she was.

And thus, no one could love her for HER.

The doll stares at her.

It doesn't care for her. And why should it? It needn't care for anyone or anything-just the fact that some little girl should hold and carry her. After all, the moment Bubbles is obsolete, it will simply find another little girl.

SMASH!

The doll is thrown at the wall.

Now, she is no longer a perfect anything.

But a perfect mess of china and lace and shards, complete with deadset, broken eyes.

One after another, the dolls are seized from the shelf, and, one after another, meet the same fate. They are smashed. They are torn. They are left in a wrecked pile of what may have once been figures, but now, were unintengible, powdery ruins, lying with discarded frills and ribbon.

No longer little beauties. No longer whole. Or perfect.

Bubbles' blue orbs dilated, and filled with tears before turning away.

Ms. Keene has noted that the girls' behavior HAS been somewhat...unusual, as of late. But just because something is...rather unusual doesn't undermine perfection.

Her eyes travel over to Buttercup-where Mitch and the other boys are attempting to tug her into their roughhousing. Typical little violent girl!

Buttercup's name means nothing. Utonium could come up with nothing for the little girl but the most random name he could think of off the top of his head.

Why Buttercup? 'Because it also begins with a 'B.'" Of course. Neither bright and welcoming-like a flower-or pure, radiant, and beautiful, like a bubble-just a little, golden flower that couldn't possibly give an emphasis to who she is.

Buttercup is expected to be tough. Angry. No-nonsense, no long words, and kick-can until you're gasping for breath.

She remembers when she tried to attend a tea party hosted by one of her sister's girlfriends. But the other girls seemed uncomfortably aware that Buttercup does not belong in a place of beauty, or elegance.

After enduring a good bout of the awkward stares, elbow nudges, and giggles at everything she shyly quoted-the girl excused herself to go out onto the playground, where the boys eagerly shambled her in to their kickball game.

Of course.

Falling in love with the leader of the Gang Green Gang had been a once-in-a-lifetime-chance to show a feminine side she wasn't even aware she possessed. But then, he'd betrayed her. That was first love for you. Garbage-at least for her.

She really shouldn't have tried.

People expected brute strength. Else-what else would happen? Everyone would walk all over her and her sisters-or, at least, more then they usually did.

And who was liable to take three little girls seriously-with or without their powers? Blossom was too busy playing leader when she'd rather not. And Bubbles? Save for her rare, nonsensical fits of rage, she was locked in a world very unlike Buttercup's. One of lolita standards-one of refined sweetness.

Buttercup ached for it. Her hands were dirty. After all-she was the perfect representation of 'spice.' Perfect.

Perfect.

Whole.

There was only way need for her to represent or express any emotion at all: Violence.

Okay, occasionally-she enjoyed it. She was fierce for a reason. But couldn't she allowed to wear anything but green?

Of course not, she thought bitterly, as Mitch finally left her be to line up at kicker position. If she wanted to, she could easily kick that thing halfway across Paris.

But that was nothing new. Nothing about them was expected to change-from the day they were born, to their eventual expiration date.

The thought was frightening-but Buttercup had to wince the thought away. If she was a Puff, as it were....

.....what would happen to them? Did they have human hearts? Humans weren't meant to be human. Humans were...something else altogether.

Imperfect.

That's what made them beautiful. Humans were meant to try, to fail, to succeed. They were made to wreck things.

And, to fix them.

They lived with the mystery of their creation-whereas, Buttercup knew all too well how she'd been made. The thought had never bothered her.

Till now. It made her feel remarkably uncomfortable-as if she were back at the tea party, back where she wasn't wanted.

Well...no. She was wanted here-but not for the right reason. If Buttercup had a design flaw, would someone still love her?

Or was she a machine-an automan? Something to be thrown away once you realized it wasn't what you thought it was?

There was little expectation for Buttercup's life-other then continously endure as a five year old girl, graduate from Pokey Oaks again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again, defend Townsville, and....

.............and.....

.......

The rest was blank. What DID she want to do with her life? There was no door that couldn't be opened for her.

An astronaut? Yes. That was easy. She was in better condition then any astronaut.

Boxer? Please. She'd knock them out of the ring before the round even started.

Puffs were born with intensified intelligence. There wasn't anything that she need work hard for. Nothing to strive for. You were a Puff in this city-anything you could possibly ask for was extended for you before you could even ask.

That was Buttercup frowned as she sank onto a plastic seat, feeling Ms. Keene's surprised vision upon her.

No doubt, she didn't want to ask Buttercup of all people what was wrong. That was questioning perfection. A veritable sin.

~*~*~

Buttercup's eyes narrows as the sound of Bubbles' sobbing filters in from a nearby window.

How she would like to cry so easily. When Bunny passed away-done in by the unequal distribution of materials that forged her-the imperfect puff had spontaneously combusted, leaving the three frozen little girls underneath a streetlight-near the torn fabric that had once been Bunny's.

They had buried it in the backyard-it had been the least that had been salvagable. Bubbles had wept brokenheartedly for hours on end. Blossom had crept behind the shed to bury her head in her hands, and piteously weep.

But Buttercup had been left to stand alone near the makeshift grave, where her fists and teeth had been violently clenched, an odd, ripping noise reverberating from her body as her petite figure began to shake.

The world began to tremble in and out of an absentminded focus as she continued to tremble, now immensely pale.

Something violent was shaking inside of her insistently-as if some enormous creature were seizing her by the shoulders, and was screaming at her to do SOMETHING.

Anything.

Sometimes, Blossom wonders about Princess Morbucks, and her quest to become a Powerpuff Girl. Why, she doesn't really know. After all, while Princess was an incredibly spoiled brat, surely she couldn't wasn't asinine as that.

Morbucks got to be human. Imperfect. That was what made her special. Why couldn't she veritably enjoy what she did have?

After reading the pyschology books she never wanted and never asked for, Blossom thinks she might have an answer-especially after viewing Princess' home life.

Her mother left for Las Vegas with some other man. As for her father, he had grown up never knowing how to give affection excluding handfuls of cash. He had never even held Princess once, other then having his newborn little girl gently handed to him by a midwife-and then, much to her shock, he immediately thrust the mewling child into the hands of a bewildered nurse.

She was named 'Princess,' a term of endearment he had never had for her. She had been overdressed in robes that were not meant to be hers-and she was taught to believe that the children playing across the street from the private property of the Morbucks estate were filthy urchin.

Princess was never "spoiled." They preferred the term of "privelged" child.

Oh, how Blossom pitied her.

Like them-Princess rarely had to work for a thing in her life. But the relentless truth that money can rarely buy you happiness didn't seem to claw into her yet.

Nor did she realize that being a PPG was a futile hope. Nix. Nada. Not going to happen.

And, even should it, would Princess really want to be converted into more of a doll then she was already was? She was already dressed on a daily basis-fed, cooed to, carried about, dressed once again....

She wanted the love. The attention. The adoration with something that came from being rich, powerful, and....a hero.

The hero part, she rarely could care less about. Acknowledgement for something SHE had done-on her own-was a prize she would never retrieve. Whether if it was from Morbucks-who only occasionally remembered he had a daughter in the first place-or from Ms. Keene, or from anyone else-was impossible.

But the doll could become human, if she only let herself. If the blue fairy could come for Pinnochio, she could come for a spoiled little girl.

As for Blossom....

The girl stared morosely at her appearance in the looking glass. She had never felt so lonely, or hollow before in her life.

~*~*~

Sometimes, Bubbles suspects Him knows the truth. After all, he's hardly been serious when it comes to actually engaging the girls in combat. If anything, the deranged villain has played circles instead of actually taking the PPG seriously. After all, the pure root of evil-that wasn't a telemarketer or an insurance salesman-was certainly prone to devious tricks, ones that could easily undermind Earthly perfection, should it try hard enough.

The amusement in his eyes is all too evident when they face each other down in actual combat. He rarely thinks them threats. In fact, he seems to enjoy the prospect of three little headaches.

Him will waltz about with little to no purpose at all in his agenda, other then to cause mayhem. And, unlike other villains, Him wouldn't hesitate to crush opposition, if he didn't find them enjoyable enough to play with.

But the girls are different. He taunts and torments them-but there is almost a degree of pity in his green eyes whenever he looms and leers in the darkness.

Him doesn't break toys. He plays with them.

Is that why he's never destroyed them-even now?

Bubbles ponders it sometimes when she hugs her plush Octi to herself-one source of comfort that will take her seriously by not saying anything at all in the dead of night.

Does Him believe them to be little more then figurines without purpose?

They can find no consolation outside of each other. But they're always within an inch of one another-and the reason Buttercup and Blossom are so often nipping at one another's ankles is because they rarely have time to cool off. There's no separation-for how can there be? Home, School-Work-there is no reprieve.

But bad things happen when a Puff goes solo. And the awful terrain of lonelines makes it's dark assualt once again as the puff in question ventures alone over the city of Townsville, over a sea of blinking lights.

The air is curious-hard to inhale at such an altitude as the wind ripples about one's hair. Birds cast odd looks at the peculiar visitors to their realms-such creatures were hardly meant to fly-but continue on their way as the Puff stares about at the world below them.

People continue to rush aimlessly and purposely about the world. Even at the witching hour, motion never ceases-and people about the world are in constant motion, regardless of stasis.

But when you stop-stop, and stand still, when it seems you are submerged completely into the world as nothing more then a particularly unique specimen designated to bring happiness to others, but never to yourself....

The puff freezes, shudders, and hurries to rejoin the others. Better three against the world then one.

But, one day, the girls are told by Ms. Bellum something crucial.

Something special.

Something that was so veritably wonderful and so terrible to a doll to understand, to comprehend-when dolls do not understand, do not comprehend:

"Girls....I love you. I love you so much."

~*~*~

You.

Though I love what you do, I love you for you.

Such a little thing to ask to hear at least once in life:

I love you.

Whether by a teacher, a parent, a lover or a relative or friend-to know that you've locked a place in someone's heart-

~*~*~

Occasionally, Bubbles reads the fairy tale about the prince who was transformed into the very form of imperfection to match his own dark heart, with the only available way to break the curse was to learn how to love.

And to be loved in return.

Perfection, Bubbles decides, is an ugly thing, and an impossible dream at that. Perhaps at the gates-but never here. For people to get as close as they can get is more then enough, and that's just fine with her.

To have the mayor's secretary-and a friend at that-say those magic words, ones that the Professor had uttered; uttered, but not really ever meant-

An imperfect person admitted to loving them. And a doll loved her in return.

As Miss Bellum was imperfect, so was their bond. A bond tied to a impudent, asinine mayor's assistant, and three little girls.

And thus, as long as their bond was imperfect, so was Bubbles. For Perfection is a cruel thing, and insists that there be no unpropiety.

After lowering her book down to the ground, Bubbles began to cry-very different tears then what she was accostumed to actually shedding:

Happy ones.

~*~*~

One day, a few weeks later, it happens.

The day had dawned casually enough. Professor Utonium had sleepily crawled from his labratory, his body automatically making a turn for the kitchen as always. He needed coffee, and needed it now.

But, this morning, the scent of hot, roasting coffee beans did not meet him. The man had started in surprise midstep from the kitchen door, before his eyes travelled over to the nearby clock hanging on the wall.

Half past six. Surely Blossom would be up by now, making coffee as always.

He uncertainly opened the door.

But only emptiness greeted him.

~*~

"Buttercup?"

He passed the girls' bathroom, frowning ever so slightly.

"Bubbles?"

He passed the upstairs closet.

"B-Blossom?"

No answer.

No answer.

No answer.

Finally, feeling more then a tad puzzled, the man had opened the girls' bedroom.

Only, to his bewilderment, to find an empty bed. Had the mayor called the girls in so early?

But, after dialing the nearby hotline, a bemused Mayor simply told the professor that he hadn't had any reason to call the girls that morning. After all, he'd been busy enough as it was. His assistant had so recently up and resigned early yesterday evening.

The girls were not seen at school the following afternoon. A concerned professor drove about town-but the man had found nothing.

A city wide search was established. Around every hook, every crook, every man, woman, and child was set about to call the girls' names:

"Blossom!"

"Bubbles!"

"Buttercup!"

But still, no answer.

~*~*~

Days went by. Then, the days turned into weeks. The police also continued their search for Miss Bellum-who had simply vanished after resigning. Her flat was empty, and stripped bare. Evidently, the woman had done a bunk.

Crime ran rampantly through the streets. But this time, there were no tenshi to save them. And the residents of Townsville-terrified for their lives-fled soon after.

No one resides in Townsville, now. The streets are barren-and the homes that don't lie in shambled pieces are deserted.

The stores have all been boarded up. Broken glass litters the silent street-which is broken only by the croak of the occasional crow that comes to visit the deserted old ghost town-which is remarkably reminiscent to that of a wintry tree that has been stripped of all its fruit.

Pokey Oaks was practically decimated off the face of the Earth. Thankfully, no one was hurt, but, needless to say, school is out of session....

....forever.

One resident still remains in the ruins. I hear the old professor is still attempting to recreate his success, but to no avail. To be quite honest, I don't much care to talk of that, and shall resume the conclusion of this tale.

~*~*~

The residents of Townsville have scattered to the winds. Perhaps Mojo Jojo is currently trying to decimate your town off the face of the Earth, or maybe Him works as that creepy greengrocer near your home.

Maybe Mitch is in your class, or lives in your neighborhood. Or Beatrice and Betty speak of three angels who had dominance over the sky where they used to live. Perhaps you will scorn them. Again, it is your choice to believe me or not-I don't much care.

And of the girls? Well, it hardly is kind to give away confidential information. Else, it's hardly confedential, no?

But I suppose I can spare a few more words.

People are people. Puffs are no different, though you call them by a different name. What has befallen them since the night the four fled Townsville forever?

Oops. Looks like I just gave it away. The cat's out of the bag, now. Ah, well.

It does not seem much to ask-that someone do their best. But to continuously demand for Perfection is a cruel thing, and it is a lesson that the citizens of Townsville learned well, if not harshly.

At the end of the day, three little girls were simply very, very tired. And, they did what they could with what they had where they were. After all, while the habit of wishing to carry the world's burdens upon your shoulders is an admirable one, the only thing you will accomplish is to be soundly squashed, regardless of who and what you are.

To ask that of any man or woman is absurd. And even more idiotic to ask it of three little girls, who were denied the right to live as ordinary children-or, more importantly, as themselves....

....for a period of time.

I will not tell you where they are. But I will tell you that they are very happy, now. It does not seem much to have that someone who wants to make you smile.

But then again, it does not seem like quite a bit to ask-that you be told that you are much loved. I am happy to inform you that the Bellums (As it is now ;) are quite happy, and that the girls are much loved by their parent and peers.

Some say they continue their crime-fighting spree....once in awhile. Not as much is expected of them anymore.

But you know what?

I believe they're just fine with that. Even dolls have their limits.

Well...even little girls have their limits, I should say. The girls are hardly things. They breathe. They bleed. Just as you and I do.

And thus brings a close to the story, with this last piece of definite knowledge I can leave you:

The girls are happy. Imperfect. Careless, sometimes.

And they have every right to be.

Because, wherever the girls might be, they're messing up, in some form or another.

And are having a great time, I might add. ^^

~*~*~

Whoa. Seriously-this was the weirdest, worst Fanfiction I've ever made. *Winces.*

Please, take care, everyone.