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The low, guttural hum of the television sets drones on, a dozen screens flickering on rickety metal stands in the asphalt expanse of the Malph's parking lot. The fluorescent glow from the store’s signage above casts an unnatural pallor over the scene, illuminating three tiny figures. Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup stand perfectly still, their diminutive forms dwarfed by the towering collection of monitors. Each screen projects a different face, a different voice, and a unified message of betrayal.
A woman with a pinched mouth and a head full of curlers snarls, “They’re freaks! Bug-eyed freaks!” The static between channels crackles with contempt.
Buttercup’s emerald eyes, large and expressive, narrow into slits. Her small fists clench at her sides, but she says nothing. The hurt is too profound for a defiant quip. Bubbles's head hangs low, her hair-clips glinting in the harsh light. Her bangs, a perfectly straight curtain of blonde, obscure her brow, so no one can see the furrowed lines that match her sisters’. She is the one who wanted to make friends, who wanted to be liked, and her small, heart-shaped face is now a mask of utter despair. Blossom’s crimson bow droops, and her arms, usually akimbo with a can-do attitude, hang limp.
She watches a man in a business suit drone on about property damage, her gaze fixed on the endless stream of accusations. They gave the city their best—all their powers, all their heart—and the city gives them this.
A breeze, cold and biting for late March, rustles a discarded newspaper across the tarmac. The three girls turn, not a word exchanged, and begin to shuffle away. They walk with the heavy, uneven gait of children burdened with the weight of the world, their tiny footsteps echoing on the cold concrete. They have no home to run to, no father waiting with open arms. They don't know the truth, that Professor Utonium is behind bars, arrested for the chaos they caused. All they know is that he isn't here, and they believe he doesn't love them anymore.
The pavement beneath their feet is a jagged, broken mess, a testament to the raw, untamed power they unleashed just yesterday. They follow the street, now a series of dips and peaks, the aftermath of Bubbles’ concrete tsunami. The buildings on either side are a mess of splintered wood and exposed rebar. A deep trench, a scar of their own making, runs parallel to their path, a constant, visual reminder of the destruction they wrought.
Blossom looks at her sisters. Buttercup, head down, kicks a stray rock into the trench. Her jaw is set, her anger a silent, simmering volcano. Bubbles’s lower lip trembles, and she keeps her eyes fixed on the ground, a little lost shadow trailing behind. Professor Utonium told them not to use their powers. Not to cause any damage. Now they know why. They round a corner, still following the deep, cavernous trench. The world feels alien, distorted, a funhouse mirror of the town they once called home. They’re cold, the air biting at their bare arms. They’re scared, each creak of a distant sign and whistle of the wind a new terror. And most of all, they’re lost.
They eventually arrive at the entrance to another Malph's parking lot. The asphalt is pristine here, a startling contrast to the war-torn landscape behind them.
Buttercup finally breaks the silence, her voice a low grumble. “Well, it’s official. I have no idea where we are.”
Blossom shuffles forward, her hands tucked into the pockets of her dress. “Well, I can’t say it’s been the best day.”
Bubbles looks up, her huge, innocent blue eyes pleading with the universe. “But it probably couldn’t get much worse.”
As if on cue, a sudden, piercing crack of thunder splits the sky. A gust of wind whips through the lot, sending loose papers and empty cans skittering. The sky, a moment ago a dull grey, turns a bruised purple-black. Fat drops of rain begin to fall, splattering on the pavement like bullets. Bubbles wails, a high-pitched sound of pure terror, and buries her face in her hands. Buttercup throws her head back and screams in pure, unadulterated frustration, the sound swallowed by the rumbling thunder. Blossom waits, her body trembling slightly, until both have calmed down. She forces a small, strained smile.
“Hey, it’s okay. Uh… Maybe there’s a box we can get in around back. Come on!” She leads them around the building toward the back. A brilliant flash of lightning illuminates the alleyway, revealing a dark, shadowy area littered with cardboard boxes. They are there.
“See,” Blossom says, her voice a little too high, a little too hopeful. “There’s a whole bunch of boxes.”
She points to a massive pile of cartons stacked against the brick wall. Just as she reaches them, a small, menacing form pops out from behind the top box. It is Little Arturo, his raven hair combed sideways like a Picasso painting, his pearly white teeth forming a piranha-like grin. He snarls at her, a deep, inhuman sound. The girls cry out in fear and stumble back. Their retreat is cut off by two new shadows. On their left stands Snake, his long, skinny body curved at the back, his pink eyes slanted and cunning. He wears a brown Kangol hat backwards over his messy black hair. He gives them a wide, menacing grin, his tongue flicking out like a serpent’s. Next to him is Big Billy, a massive, round figure with a single blue eye under his bangs and a stray tooth hanging from his lip. He stands like a friendly, oblivious colossus, his large elliptic arms hanging at his sides, though his presence is anything but comforting.
A new, sinister shadow, long and lean, falls over them. The girls are stunned into silence by its appearance. The outline of two skinny, bell-bottomed legs is cast onto the asphalt by a figure just beyond the beam of the streetlights. The shadows slowly part, and the outline of a figure is seen in the rear of a tractor-trailer. Inside of the truck, revealing Ace, the gang's leader, as he opens the back door and jumps down. He straightens up, his long, greasy hair falling over his purple neck collar. His pointed shades reflect the dim light of the alley as he regards the girls with a malicious, fanged grin. Big Billy and Snake step in behind him, sealing off the girls’ escape.
Ace’s voice is a nasally, high-pitched sing-song. “Aww. What’s the matta? Did somebody get wost?”
The three of them start to laugh wickedly, their faces stretching into terrifying slasher smiles. The girls, backed up against a chain-link fence, look back toward the boxes, but Arturo is there, his tiny form shaking with laughter as he joins in the torment. They look the other way, toward a clear path between two trucks—but the path does not stay clear for long. Grubber, with his green skin, bulgy eyes, and a pink tongue always sticking out, jumps down and lands in their path. He blows a healthy, wet raspberry at them.
The girls scream in terror, their faces painted with fear. Grubber’s foot plants itself near the girls, his deranged grin a final, twisted image as his arms reach out to seize them.