Title: No Higher Ideal
Disclaimer: I may like to write 'em, but I sure don't own 'em.
Summary: "One must desire something to be alive." - Margaret Deland
Notes: An exploration of what various characters want, ranging from superficial/material to something deeper. No timeline. Ultimately I think I liked the idea more than I liked the result. Unbeta'd.
No Higher Ideal
Mojo stares out the window of his observatory at the city that slumbers below him, his hands tightening around his laser gun.
One of these days.
A freckled face framed by immense red curls adorns every photo of the Powerpuff Girls pinned to her wall. Princess sneers proudly at her handiwork.
"One of these days!" she cackles, stomping on the cutouts of the Girls' heads.
Ace and his gang linger in the shadows, observing the glossy black limousines of the crime bosses that pass by.
"One of these days, boys," he says to them, and they all snicker when Grubber raspberries in response.
Brick nods at Him's orders, grimacing as soon as his back is turned.
One of these days, he thinks fervently to himself, relishing the way the wind rushes past him as he takes flight.
Buttercup passes the dealership during patrol, only to eye the sleek, silver convertible on display with want and hunger. It may not compare to flying, but even so.
One of these days.
Fuzzy reloads his boomstick, longing for absolute peace, quiet, and utter solitude.
One of these dang ol' days, he thinks, and fires at the rustling bushes near his cabin.
Blossom sits back on her heels and stares at the university brochures that litter the carpet of their room.
"One of these days," she determines, her heart swelling in anticipation.
Butch stares at his arm, sheathed in skin that barely scratches or bleeds or gives at the pressure of something sharp.
One of these days, he thinks, and clenches his fists.
The nightly news is nothing but bad—kidnappings, gang wars, murders, rapes. Professor Utonium turns off the TV and thinks of his girls, sleeping upstairs.
"One of these days," he whispers resolutely, and shuts himself into his lab.
Boomer lingers in the playground, waiting for the moment when her blue streak zips across the sky and lands at the school's front door.
One of these days, he thinks, and stops. He doesn't know where to go from there.
Bubbles hums as she colors in her drawing, her crayons long-since reduced to unidentifiable colored nubs. She blows away the waxy shavings, smoothing her hand over a world covered in little red hearts.
ONE OF THESE DAYS, she writes at the bottom in her last blue crayon. She hugs her work to her chest and drifts to the windows, smiling as she takes in the sunshine that blankets Townsville.