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Boots scraped against simulated gravel. A blast of fire lit the cracked, digital skyline, casting jagged shadows against glitching skyscrapers. The air shimmered from residual heat, and the scent of ozone lingered in the training simulation lab. Blossom darted left, hair slicing the air in a crimson arc as she spun on her heel and launched a force-propelled kick toward her opponent’s midsection. It missed by a hair’s breadth—but it was enough. Brick leaned back just in time, a curl of flame still licking around his fingertips. He exhaled sharply through his nose, not in surprise but in acknowledgment. His hoodie sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms dusted with soot and peppered with faint scars—trophies of past missions.
“Close,” he said, circling her, voice relaxed but observant. His crimson eyes glinted with the thrill of the moment. “You’re off by a microsecond.”
“I’ll compensate on the next one,” Blossom replied coolly, adjusting her stance with military precision. The light bounced off her sweat-glistened brow, highlighting the sharp cut of her cheekbones and the flicker of resolve in her eyes. Her gloved fingers flexed slightly at her sides.
Their sessions weren’t about winning. Not strictly. It was about sharpening edges: mental, physical. Matching each other punch for punch—okay and maybe a bit of pride, but that was always a given between the two. Neither of them had spoken much before the match began. They hadn’t needed to. Blossom had arrived early, as always, calibrating her side of the control panel. Brick had shown up exactly on time—shoulder relaxed, hoodie tucked into his gym bag, confident in that unshakable, quiet way. He wasn’t cocky, he never needed to be. That was Butch’s thing. But Brick? Brick’s confidence was built on precision, skill, control. He didn’t need to brag, and didn’t need to show off because Brick was good and he knew it.
Blossom respected that. Hated it sometimes. But mostly respected it.
Craters marked the cracked sidewalks. Light poles sparked, and phantom fires glowed behind collapsing facades. It was messy. Chaotic. But so was good training. Now, they moved like mirrored pieces—an ebb and flow of styles honed by years of rivalry and reluctant teamwork.
“You’ve been practicing,” the red-eyed super noted, dashing sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The corner of his mouth quirked.
“Shocked?” Blossom taunted, sweeping a leg low and sharp. He vaulted over it and answered with a jab that she blocked. “Mildly impressed.”
“Try wildly impressed,” she countered with a flick of her wrist, a sudden swirl of chilled air rushing toward his feet, laced with frost.
A smirk tugged at his lips as he steadied himself. “Let’s not get carried away.”
She lunged. He caught her wrist, but she twisted out of it like water, flipping over his shoulder. Her palm connected solidly with his back. He skidded forward with a low grunt, boots sparking. Turning quickly, he flared his hands to life. “You always this showy?”
“Only when you’re watching,” Blossom replied, breath catching slightly as she straightened.
Brick opened his mouth, paused, then laughed softly. “You know, I don’t have a comeback for that.”
The leader of the Powerpuffs smirked, brushing a lock of hair from her temple. “First time for everything.”
They met again—brief contact, fists and feet, short blasts of heat and icy bursts of breath. Brick ducked low, Blossom pivoted high. Their footwork was precise, relentless.
Their powers flared in bursts. Fire licked around Brick’s knuckles as he blocked a direct punch. Blossom, with a sharp inhale, blew a concentrated stream of ice-cold breath at his ankles, sending him sliding slightly to regain footing. They limited themselves. No need to go full throttle. This was sparring, not war.
“You’ve stopped overthinking your footing,” Brick said, sliding under her elbow and countering with a feint.
“Credit to Butch,” she grunted, catching his wrist and nearly twisting him off-balance. “He trains like a lunatic.”
Brick, knowing his brother, knew exactly what she meant. Then, he found himself grinning. Not out of cockiness, but pure exhilaration.
She wasn’t just good. She was stunning in motion—analytical, adaptive, graceful in a way that demanded attention. Her tactical mind fused seamlessly with her physical power, and something about that combination burned its way into his senses. The sway of her hair. The sharp curve of her focus. The way her lips pressed into a determined line when he blocked one of her better hits and—what..?
Okay.
That was... new.
He blinked.
Focus.
Unfortunately for Brick, Blossom noticed the lag and clocked it
“Slipping?” she teased, raising a brow as she delivered a quick backhand he barely ducked. She sidestepped with practiced ease, circling him like a predator who already knew she’d won. “Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one? Calculated. Strategic. All that broody genius stuff?”
Brick huffed, dodging a jab with just a little less finesse than usual. “I am strategic.”
She grinned, almost chesire-like. “Right. And I’m guessing letting your guard down mid-spar was part of the grand plan?”
“I was... analyzing your technique,” he offered, though it sounded weak even to him.
“Oh, sure,” Blossom said with a laugh, eyes twinkling. “You were definitely analyzing something.”
He opened his mouth to deny it—then shut it again, jaw clenching.
She was joking, obviously. Didn't mean she was wrong though.
And that might’ve been the most frustrating part.
Blossom now feinting a left hook before throwing a low, sweeping kick that forced him to leap back again—this time narrowly avoiding a burst of laser vision she added mid-spin.
"Let’s just say your form’s evolved," he tried to explain himself again, grounding himself with a palm to the floor before springing upright again.
"You say that like it’s a bad thing," she said, pivoting sharply and exhaling a gust of freezing breath his way. It crackled as it hit his fire shield, steaming in midair.
He slid back, heels skidding over the concrete. "I’m saying it’s... a lot to process at once."
"Oh no," she gasped dramatically, fanning her fingers in mock horror while still throwing a quick jab he narrowly dodged. "Am I actually challenging you?"
Brick snorted, sidestepping with ease and brushing ash from his sleeve. "Don’t flatter yourself too fast, Pinky."
Their fists collided again, and Brick felt it—the strength behind her blow, the exact calculation of her angle. And maybe something deeper. The realization crept in, low and steady. She wasn’t just talented. She was commanding. Composed. Intense.
And kind of—no, definitely—gorgeous.
His brain stuttered.
Blossom’s next punch landed causing Brick to grunt at the impact.
The pink Powerpuff tilted her head. “Distracted?”
“Momentarily.” he said, catching himself.
“You’re not usually this easy to corner.”
“Didn’t think I was being cornered.”
She advanced, voice smooth as silk. “That’s how it starts.”
He countered with a blast of fire, just enough to cut off her angle. She leapt above it, breath swirling behind her, and shot forward.
Brick meant to dodge. Really, he did.
But something in her expression—fierce, focused, bright—froze his brain for a fraction too long—
Her weight hit his chest. Down he went.
Pinned.
She hovered over him, knee on his chest, hair falling over one shoulder.
“Gotcha,” she said, smug and breathless.
“Not fair,” he panted. “You cheated.”
“It’s called strategy.”
“Semantics.”
She raised a brow, then offered a hand. He took it, and the heat of her palm lingered longer than he meant to allow. Back on their feet, neither spoke right away. Brick wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, stealing a glance. Blossom. With her wind-blown hair, flushed skin, and that expression of focused satisfaction. Strong. Unapologetic. Electric.
He always knew his counterpart was attractive—no doubt about it, and he would never deny it. However, this was the first time he'd let himself be attracted to her, first time he’d let himself really notice it. The way her breath had chilled the air still hung faintly around them, sharp and cool, like a warning or a challenge. The heat still clinging to his skin wasn’t just from the exertion.
He let the magnetic force of her pull him in.
And for once, Brick couldn't decided whether that was a bad thing—somehow, that thought didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should’ve and that meant something.
Yeah.
He was in trouble.
She brushed a strand of hair back. “You’re off today.” the pink-eyed super commented with raised suspicion.
Brick shrugged, “Maybe I’m just running at 80% to give you a fighting chance.”
And the girl just laughed, rolling her eyes at her counterpart, "Right," she says with this lilt in her voice, obviously not believing him, but didn't push it any further, "Round two?".
Brick nodded, and she gave him a sideways look as she walked to the console, her form outlined by the ambient simulation light, "Try not to get too distracted this time" she comments with a smirk he's seen enough times to know she was enjoying this—riling him up and teasing him
Oh, she definitely knew something was up.
And damn was that attractive.
He watched her go, jaw tight with some unspoken admission.
Yeah. Screwed. Definitely screwed.