(Disclaimer: The setting and characters of this story, with only a couple exceptions, belong to Cartoon Network. This first chapter features a poem belonging to William Butler Yeats, which falls under the public domain and is thus really not that big of a deal, you guys. What little remains belongs to me and, as you read it, to you.)

The Flames of X

Chapter One

"Something in the Air"

The City of Townsville smoldered. The hottest summer on record swallowed up day after day in little hazes of exhaustion. Then, before any of the Powerpuff Girls knew it, their summer had dissolved into fall. Now it was time, at last, to enter second grade at Pokey Oaks Elementary.

The first swirls of autumn leaves, from proud red to bright sunlight gold, were stirring in the air like whirlwinds of fire. Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup lugged backpacks as they soared through the air that somehow managed to feel heavy even with super-strength.

And somehow, at the beginning of September, it was still hot.

"I'm going to die," Blossom groaned, slumping down to the ground. "That does it. Just leave me behind. Go on without me!"

"Wow, I thought Bubbles would be the first to crack," said Buttercup, smirking. "C'mon, you can't take a little heat?"

"A little heat?" Bubbles echoed. "This is volcano-hot! Or almost as bad...and it doesn't even have the cool lava in it!"

"Well," said Buttercup, folding her arms. "I guess I could slow down for you all."

Blossom wiped sweat from her forehead. "I just wanted to stop for a minute. Not too long. After all, I hear they're giving away free lemonade at school. I want that as soon as I-"

Buttercup's expression snapped from smug to desperate like a rubber band. "Free lemonade? I'M SAVED." And with that, she zipped away.

Blossom waited a good five seconds before bursting out laughing. "What do you think she's going to do when she finds out I made it up?"

Bubbles drooled.

"Bubbles?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry," said Bubbles, grinning sheepishly. "I was thinking about the lemonade. Sounds good, doesn't it?"

Blossom sighed. It was going to be a long day. A sweltering day was bad enough for your first day of school, but these days she and her sisters couldn't even hope for a nice little crimefighting interruption: there just wasn't much crime to fight anymore.

Oh, sure, you'd get the occasional mugger or bank robber, or even a half-hearted supervillain attack, or a giant monster. But the real big ones? At some point, they'd either finally learned their lesson and straightened out, or got locked up in the massive underwater prison the Professor had helped design last year, the one everyone called the Max.

For the first time in their lives, the Powerpuff Girls were going to have to be on the edge of horribly, painfully normal.

Professor Isaac Utonium woke up tired after half-forgotten nightmares, gasped up stale air-conditioned air. Felt the comforting give of the bed beneath him to remind him that yes, he was just asleep and no, none of that was real.

Taking a nice nap after the kids flew off to school had become a part of his routine what, a year ago? However long ago, it was a bit draining taking care of three elementary schoolers who preferred playing catch with asteroids over footballs.

Today, though…today there was something in the air. That was the phrase that kept looping through his head as Utonium slugged down the stairs in search of coffee. Not that he needed it to wake up. Just to get rid of that headache. Feeling like this, he knew he couldn't get back to sleep if he tried.

It felt like ants tumbling in his stomach.

"Something in the air," he repeated, and took a long sip of black coffee. Utonium sighed and took a long look at the empty house. There was something profane about the house when it was empty. It brought back memories: a man who lived alone in a house too large for him, with nothing to live for but his studies and no one to talk to but empty beakers and tape recorders.

Today it was worse: today, it gave him the nauseating, nonsensical feeling that maybe they would never come back. The house, preserved in its emptiness, with traces scattered all over the floors and tables. Blossom's books—she'd been on such a poetry kick recently—and Bubbles's drawings—that grew better every day—and Buttercup's martial arts pamphlets and weights.

Utonium stared at the empty bottom of his coffee mug, at the tiny circle of black in the white. He looked for a long time before the doorbell rang, shaking him out of his trance.

"I've been lied to," Buttercup grumbled as she sat down in her seat, without a glass of lemonade in sight. Somehow that didn't seem dramatic enough. She added: "and very much deceived."

All familiar sights, all around them: Mitch Mitchelson in the back, still scraping by with the skin of his teeth. Mike Believe in the opposite corner, staring dreamily into space, doodling comics. Robyn, decked out in nervous pink, looking like she's about to burst into nervous giggles at any second. Elmer and Darla and Vic and everyone else. Only the nametag on the desk was different.

Bubbles frowned. "Who's new?" She pointed to three new seats, parallel to the girls'.

Blossom stared at them. Squinted. "Oh, no. It's not possible."

"What's not?" asked Buttercup. "Speak up, already."

Bubbles gasped. "No! Lizard people are joining the class! I HATE LIZARD PEOPLE."

"No, no!" cried Blossom. "I just can't help but wonder. Three new students all at once? Seated right next to each other? Doesn't that seem weird to you? I mean, who do we know who's about our age, and there are three of them, and they're all related?"

Certain things simply have to happen after certain sentences. If you ask what could possibly go wrong, something has to go wrong. If you say you're about to retire from the force, you have to be retired in a rather unpleasant way. And if you, for instance, imply that someone you don't like is about to enter the room, they're obligated to immediately enter in the loudest, most obnoxious way possible.

The Rowdyruff Boys burst into the classroom through the ceiling, cackling like hyenas and hi-fiving in mid-air, showering pieces of ceiling on the entire classroom.

"Oh man, that's a good one, Brick!" Butch snickered.

"Yeah!" said Boomer, and dragged a hand through his long, blonde hair. "But, um, what if, like, the pizza guy has allergies and he can't smell anything? Or the doctor does?"

"It's a hypotheti…harpomagnet…hypno-pathetic situation, Boomer," said Brick. "You're thinking about it too much. The point is that they both have to smell, but they can't—"

"It is you!" said Blossom.

"Well, if it isn't the Powerpuff Girls," said Brick. He shoved his feet onto the desk and smirked. "So sorry to crash, uh, your school right here. But me and the boys've been thinking about getting a better edutainment."

"Education," said Blossom.

"That thing, yeah. And since we got let out by the Max for being kids and all, we thought we'd start acting like kids more proper. So here we are. Ready to learn things."

"We're gonna learn all of the things," Butch added. "Like space and magic and stuff. Smart things."

Blossom's eye twitched.

"And we're gonna make friends with all these losers, too," said Boomer.

Bubbles winced.

"Whether you like it or not," said Brick.

Buttercup slammed her head against her desk so hard that it snapped in two, and the cheap air conditioner chugged on.

"Doctor Farfield?"

"You could at least look happy to see me, Isaac," said the man in the doorway. The side of his mouth curled up in a boyish smile. In fact, everything about Doctor Albert Farfield was boyish: his wrinkled suit, clip-on tie, bright swoop of blonde hair and sunlight-through-amber eyes. The only hints that he was about as old as Utonium were the wrinkles creeping up around his mouth and eyes.

"I'm not—I mean, I am, Al," said Utonium, backing out the door to let Farfield in. "I just didn't expect. Well. I thought you might call."

"Normally, I would," said Farfield. He found a couch to sink into. "Especially since it's been a while. What was it last time? Dick Hardly's funeral? Damn. Poor guy."

"You can feel sorry for him if you want to," said Utonium. "You know how I feel about him."

"Oh, he did some terrible stuff. I think, in the end, he just wanted to know. The money was a bonus. And hey, he was one of the Fantastic Four, wasn't he?"

Utonium chuckled. "You can't seriously still be using that nickname, can you? This isn't college. And I feel weird about making jokes about superheroes now that…well…"

Farfield laughed. "God, isn't this surreal? Superheroes! How crazy can you get?" He paced the room now, picking up Blossom's books, Bubbles's drawings, Buttercup's weights.

"I'm still getting use to it myself," said Utonium. "Feels like a dream sometimes."

Farfield was too engrossed in one of the books to answer. "The pink one, Blossom, is seven? Biologically, I mean."

"Yes. Why?"

Farfield cleared his throat and read from the book:

"The darkness drops again, but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle.

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?" Farfield took a deep breath. "Whew! Pretty grim stuff for a seven year old. Where are those, uh, kids, anyway? Out?"

"School."

"You let them go to school? Interesting."

"Al, of course I let them go to school. I don't have time to home-school."

Farfield nodded absently. "Through that door, to the basement—that's still where you keep the lab?"

"Yes," said the Professor. The ants in his stomach, that nausea, hadn't quite gone away, and he was getting tired of this dance. "Listen, I need to know why you're here."

"Isaac, I'm sorry," said Farfield. He rubbed his temple, as if getting to the point gave him a migraine. "It's money. We need to talk about Chemical X and money."

"Today," droned Mr. Lowland, the new teacher, "we're going to learn about division. Have any of you learned about division before? It may be the most important bit of math you ever learn this month. You know who uses division? Rich people. If you can learn division, you can be rich too. Or be a teacher. Teachers aren't rich." Lowland's eyes glazed over. "But I could be rich if I really wanted…like a movie star or something. With interviews and babes. Anyway. Division is important…"

After two hours trying to hold still—and they actually were trying, to Blossom's amazement—the Rowdyruff Boys looked up at Mr. Lowland with the frozen, horrified look of a puppy staring at an oncoming semi.

"How do you take it?" whispered Brick, and it took a good ten second for Blossom to realize he was talking to her. "I'm going to go crazy."

"Um. Years of practice?"

Brick groaned. "Practice. I'd rather practice blowing something up, thanks."

"Then why're you here?"

"Because I'm bored, dummy. Mojo never has time anymore, with his big fancy corporation and stuff. HIM is just…creepy. You guys are the only people we know."

Blossom blinked. "You mean me and my sisters? You know how many times we've beaten you up, right?"

"Yeah," whispered Brick. "Giant super fights. Good times!"

Blossom frowned. Is that really how he sees it? There was something sad about that, somehow.

"Mister Rowdyruff," said Lowland, sniffing. "Please keep your comments to yourself. And Miss Utonium. I was under the impression that you knew better."

"Sorry, Mr. Lowland!" said Blossom.

"Keep comments to myself," grumbled Brick. "I mean, that doesn't even make sense. They're comments, man. The whole point's for people to hear—"

"Excuse me?" said Mr. Lowland. "Are you giving me sass, young man?"

"Nope," said Brick. "No sass here." His red eyes glinted. "See, if I was giving you sass, I'd be acting different. I'd probably do something like…"

Oh no. Not today. Not on the first day of school.

Brick bolted out the classroom through the window, a beam of red streaming right behind him.

Blossom breathed a sigh of relief. "You know, guys," she said to her sisters, "I thought he was going to do something else."

"Like throw a pickup truck through the window?" said Bubbles, pointing right behind her.

"Right! Like throw—"

Brick threw a pickup truck through the window.

"You turned the scientific community upside-down, Isaac. Life from Chemical X? Here we all are, just trying to understand it at all, and why it does so many different things at different times, and you up and create life from it!"

"It was by accident," said Utonium.

"I know," said Farfield. "And that's partly why I'm here. Because you're brilliant, Isaac. I know it. Even they know it, back at the Institute. But everyone's starting to wonder. Isaac, we…we think you're heart's not really in the research anymore. You're too close to your subjects."

"The girls, you mean."

"Your subjects, I mean," said Farfield. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. Isaac, you have to remember that they are not human. For whatever reason, they look human. They act somewhat human, though it's obvious they think differently. Maybe if they can really want anything, they want to be human. You're fooling yourself if you think they are human, though. And every dollar we give you, month after month, year after year, you don't find us anything new. You just spend money to, what, buy them toys? Send them to school?" He laughed, slapped his knee. "Play this superhero game, here? Come on, Isaac. You're smarter than this. You were the cold one. Have they really changed you that much? Into some ridiculous father cliché?"

"Farfield."

"Isaac?"

"Shut up."

"Did I make you mad?" asked Farfield. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize reality upset you so much. How's this for a reality: Institute's pouring taxdollars into your back account, and all you've got to show for your research is stupid, impractical crap. A giant robot shaped like a little girl. A super-suit. A time machine that can't actually change anything. They're toys for your little girls, nothing more. Except that they aren't little girls. They're something else."

"Farfield, so help me, if you don't shut up I will make you shut up."

"Get mad as you want at the messenger," said Farfield with a shrug. He stood up and yawned. "They sent me because I'm your friend. So let me give you the message, in a nutshell: get some actual god damn research done on Chemical X. Find out what it does. Find out why it does it. Or they cut off your funding cold turkey." He stood by the door now. "How're you going to take care of your 'girls' without any money?"

"They've saved the world more times than I can count," said Utonium. "Isn't that enough? Besides, Townsville loves us. Even if the Institute stops paying, the good people of Townsville will donate."

Farfield sighed heavily. "Isaac. You're blind. I wish I could show you just how blind you are. You'll just have to see for yourself." He opened the door, spilling blue afternoon light into the empty house.

"Is that a threat?"

"God no. I'm not interested in hurting you or your overgrown science project. It's just that…well, maybe I'm superstitious, but can't you feel it?"

Utonium felt another wave of nausea, half-remembered the nightmares again.

"Something's in the air," said Farfield simply, and walked off into the hot autumn afternoon.

The pickup truck flew through the window, shattering glass and wood, and Buttercup rammed straight into it as hard as she could. Kept it back from the students. The metal, glass and plastic rippled from the force, and Buttercup pushed it right on back through the window where it skidded into the street, twisted metal shooting sparks.

In any other town, the students would be screaming, crying and panicking. In Townsville, this was an unfortunate Thursday: they simply walked out the room, ducked and covered. Superhero Fight Drills did wonders.

"I knew it," said Buttercup. She rubbed her aching arm from the catch. "See? They didn't change. They can't change."

Blossom nodded at Buttercup, reluctantly. "What was that about, boys? You think you can just try to, what, crush anybody who annoys you?"

"We were getting bored," said Brick. "What did you expect us to do?"

"Not throw a truck at us?" asked Bubbles meekly. "That would've been nice."

"What the day needed was a good superhero fight to break up the boredom. And that's what I gave y'all," said Brick.

Butch grinned viciously and pounded his fist into his palm. "Oh, I've been itching for another one of these."

"I don't know, you guys," said Boomer. "I mean, we were all set to do the right thing and all, and now we're gonna fight again?"

"Think of it like those samurai movies you like so much," said Brick. "It's, I don't know, about honor or something."

That seemed good enough for Boomer. He smiled vacantly. "Honor! Sounds good to me!"

"Enough about samurai!" Blossom snapped. "You really wanna do this? You really wanna fight again, just like always?"

"Oh, come on," said Brick. "What else is there to do, huh?" He ripped a streetlamp from the ground and weighed it in his hands, hefted it a bit like a baseball bat. "You know what?" he said after a moment. He dropped the streetlamp, and it left deep, spiderweb cracks on the concrete. "I think the simplest ways are the most fun." He chuckled. "Hey, Blossom! Think fast!"

Brick took a deep breath. Held it. And then a stream fire flooded from his mouth, straight at Blossom. Think fast. The words jumbled in Blossom's head, gave her just enough warning to dodge the flames. They left a smoking smear on the sidewalk.

Brick howled with laughter. "Now this is what I call fun. Get 'em, boys!"

Boomer and Butch shot forward. Buttercup, already red-faced with rage, saw it coming: she met Boomer with a lightning weave. A nasty punch to the gut. Follow it up with a judo chop to the back and you've got a Rowdyruff Boy twitching on the ground.

Bubbles wasn't so lucky. Her deer-in-the-headlights look was shattered by a full-force smash from Butch, straight through a solid concrete wall, another concrete wall, and a performance art exhibit (nothing of value was lost) before her head smacked against a fire hydrant like a gong.

"One down," said Butch.

"Two to go," said Buttercup, from right behind him.

"Well, duh," said Butch, right before Buttercup smashed his head into the same fire hydrant.

"You alright, Bubbles?"

Bubbles nodded, rubbing her head.

"For once that thick skull comes in handy."

"Yup. By the way…"

"Yeah?"

Bubbles ripped the hydrant from the ground and hurled it. Buttercup winced, ducked, and watched it ram straight into a surprised Boomer lurking right behind. Boomer flashed a dazed grin, wobbled and collapsed.

"Now we're even," said Bubbles, folding her arms and smirking. "Now, let's go find Blossom."

Wild gusts slashed through the air above Townsville Park as above it, two children weaved back and forth, trading punches, dodging, kicking, blasting beams from their eyes.

"You know what the funny part is?" said Blossom, dodging Brick's elbow. She launched a kick and hit nothing but air. "I almost thought you guys would change."

"Change?" Brick laughed. He swooped down to the street and snatched up a park bench. "Why change? Aren't you having fun?" Grinning, he tossed it through the air, Blossom dodged, and it flew a few hundred feet before slamming into a convertible.

Blossom gaped. He really doesn't get it, does he? He doesn't understand at all.

Brick paused. Frowned. "I mean, this is what we always used to do, right? Fight and stuff?"

"I'm trying to stop you before you break anything else, or hurt anybody. You know that, right?"

"Psht. Nobody's gonna get hurt," said Brick. "Now c'mon, I dare ya—just try and take me down!"

Blossom took a long look at the park below. Broken tables. Shattered concrete. A few people below, unhurt but shivering with terror. "What is wrong with you?" she said. "You guys are sick."

Brick winced. "I'm not sick. I just…I'm just playing around!"

He's distracted. Maybe if I can keep him that way, the others can get here. "This is playing to you? You're…you really are nothing more than just another villain, aren't you? Just like I thought when I saw you and your brothers sitting down, trying to pretend to be one of us. You're disgusting," she said. "All three of you."

All around Townsville, the people could feel it: something in the air. Something subtle as static, something as incomplete and uncertain as a half-remembered song. Somewhere in the slums of Townsville, a boy woke up with nightmares of snarling dogs in the desert with human faces. At the Townsville Lagoon, a sudden tide of virulent seaweed dyed the sand a deep, toxic red.

High in the mountains to the south, a circle of skeleton-thin men and women kissed a barbed mockery of a rosary. Blood rolled down from lips onto the dirt floor. The earth—and something beneath it—drank.

In Townsville Park, Brick's face flushed. He stammered. "You. You don't even…I've tried to…" He took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. Blossom watched him open them, saw the wetness of tears and wondered for a moment: Did I go too far?

Time slowed, then, and Blossom would always hate that: how slow she'd been, how the blast of fire from Brick's mouth was slow enough to see coming, how she somehow hadn't moved away in time. But how could she know? It made sense, that she'd have ice breath and he'd have fire, but why now?

Bubbles and Buttercup on the sides, shouting something at her. A crawling cone of fire. Closer, now. Close enough to sear, and no, I can't believe that sound, that crackling sound, it can't be coming from me, no, I can't believe it, no.

Time rubber-banded. Everything happened at once: Blossom moved on reflex at the last second, inches away from the brunt of the blast (so golden burning close can't believe it so close) and then they were there, thank God, her sisters. Buttercup pulled Brick into a hold, kicking and cussing, and Bubbles rushed to her.

"Blossom!" she shrieked. "You're hurt!"

Blossom shook her head. "I'm okay," she said. "Just a little burn." The crawling fire, she thought. The negative of the fireblast burned bright green when she blinked. She rubbed the side of her face on reflex and winced. "I'm okay," she repeated, sounding as confident as she could.

"Oh, you little punk," said Buttercup. She slammed her fist into Brick's stomach.

Blossom glared. "Buttercup! I'm fine, okay? You've already got 'im. No need to keep fighting."

"But this guy—"

"We won," said Blossom.

"Blossom," said Bubbles quietly. "Your face. It's burned."

And as the words left Bubbles's lips, Blossom could feel her cheek starting to throb with a dull pain. She touched it—the skin was rough and clammy.

Which was impossible. Because fire couldn't do that to her. Couldn't do that to any of them.

"What did you do?" Buttercup snarled. Shoved Brick to the ground. Kicked him.

"I didn't…I didn't mean to do anything," he stammered. Bubbles flew behind Buttercup and got her into a hold before she could kick the crumpled Rowdyruff any more times. Blossom simply floated there, feeling as though she were dreaming.

I got hurt, she thought. I actually got hurt. It didn't seem possible. Not in any real way, not like a normal person. Get knocked halfway across the city and she'd be feeling it in the morning, but there'd never be more than a bruise.

"The Max," said Blossom suddenly, trying to shake off the thoughts. "We've gotta take them to the Max."

"Really think they can hold these punks?" said Buttercup. She glared down at Brick.

"The Professor designed it himself," said Blossom. "It can hold anything. Bubbles, Buttercup—you guys took care of Butch and Boomer?" They nodded. "Then grab 'em before they wake up."

They took off, trailing green and blue behind them. Leaving Blossom hovering over the beaten Brick.

"I didn't mean to do it," said Brick quietly. "I was just playing around. I didn't think you'd actually get hurt. I don't even know how it happened. I mean, the fire is usually…well, we were playing."

Blossom said nothing.

"You're really going to send us to the Max, then? I mean, what'll Mojo say about this, huh? He'll get mad. Probably sue you. He's rich enough now."

Nothing.

"I'm sorry," said Brick. "I really am, okay?"

Blossom looked him right in the eye. "You're a supervillain. Why should I care?"

He opened his mouth to speak. Closed it. Bowed his head and, stonelike, was silent.

The City of Townsville smoldered in the fall, and something was in the air. Professor Utonium could feel it now, stronger than ever, as he waited for his girls to come home. The house seemed large and empty without them today. Their toys and books laying around the house seemed less like a sign of life and more like something abandoned.

They're not human, Farfield had said. Not really. Utonium clenched his fist. Dug his nails into his palm. Farfield was right, in a literal sense—that was the part that stung. They weren't human. They were better than human, in many ways. How many kids would go out and save the world if they had those kinds of powers? How many would steal all the world's toys, throw the greatest temper tantrum of all time, become the biggest bullies on earth?

Or maybe I'm just getting cynical in my old age, thought the Professor, sighing. He sat down on the couch and rested his head for a moment. Spied the book of poetry that Farfield had picked up, still open.

(And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?)

The doorbell rang, startling him. He came to the door, opened it…and froze.

"I, uh, guess we had kind of a rough first day of school," said Blossom. She chuckled weakly.

The Professor stared at the shining, bright pink burn on her face.

"Rowdyruff Boys," said Buttercup.

"You can fix this, right?" said Bubbles.

The Professor nodded uncertainly. "You three come on inside. I'll…I'll figure something out."

He shut the door. Outside, a hot gust swept down the street. It cast gold, red, orange leaves in the air like whirlwinds of fire.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Author's Note: I've been bouncing ideas for this back and forth for the better part of a decade, working on other projects with this always boiling in the back of my mind: a rewrite of the very first thing I published online that truly meant something to me, a story called FlameX. And would ya look at that, the darn thing's already longer than the original. Um. Yay for me?

Anyway, it's been a hard journey, but here it is: uploaded ten years later to the day. And if this chapter has meant anything to you, I can guarantee that it meant even more to me. Just writing this and publishing it has felt wonderful, like coming home again after spending years away. But any and all reviews or comments would still be appreciated—I love knowing that I entertained you. Or pissed you off. Or confused you.

And one last thing: before we continue any further, I'd like to thank every single person who reviewed the original FlameX. Your kind words—or sometimes less kind but more honest words—spurred on a troubled teen who needed an outlet for his anxiety, his confusion, his pain. They were some of the first things to drive him to improve, to see his writing as less of a hobby and more of a craft, and to spend years steadily improving. I hope, if any of you are reading this, that you can see how much you've helped me improve.

This story is as much for you as it is for me…for you, the new reader or the old reader. For you, the old veteran reader or the person just logging on for the first time. You, whether you prefer just to read or have given writing a shot. And maybe I could even inspire you to write, if that's not too much to hope.

You are the fire that fuels me.

-Agent S7, March 27, 2014.