Townsville — 4:23 PM
Ben barely held his flight together as he veered off course, crashing straight into the outskirts of town. His barrier tore through trees, bark splintering around him as he rolled across the ground, the cube shattering apart mid-impact.
His body slammed into multiple surfaces.
Tumble. Tumble—! Argh!
He grunted, red and gold beams spilling from his eyes as he tore into Fuzzy Lumpkins' property.
HIIISSSSS!!!
His lasers carved through obstacles, dismantling anything that slowed his momentum.
His vision blurred.
Cough! Cough!
Power drained from his body as darkness crept in.
[Temporary Power Boost is Now Expired]
Remaining Duration: 0 minutes
Output Decline:
7% → 4% → 0%
Bloodline Aspect → Anodite (Amateur)
Ding!
[Due to the absence of your Lucky Lucky Draw: Aspect Boost, the secondary Bloodline Aspect you injected while its effects were active has now decreased from Master to Amateur as well.]
Bloodline Aspect:
Genetic Mutant (Chemical X) (Master) → Genetic Mutant (Chemical X) (Amateur)
…Was that what the undesired consequences were?
He thought as he finally dropped back to street level.
"I was hoping the side effects would've been permanent blonde hair… or uncontrollable lasers, even."
Ben struggled to stay oriented, using his elbow to prop himself up after the crash.
He didn't know where he was—only hoping he had landed somewhere safe. With what little strength remained, he scanned the area.
Through the haze, he spotted what looked like an abandoned cabin in the woods, covered in dust, riddled with holes, and patched with metal sheets that barely held the structure together.
He groaned, trying to push himself up and crawl toward the porch.
Maybe I hit the jackpot.
Maybe I can rest inside… if I can reach it.
Bang!
The door suddenly swung open.
"WHO'S ON MY PROPERTY?!" a snarling pink bear yelled, storming out with a banjo in hand and murder in his eyes—ready to chase off another trespasser.
For a second, Ben forgot what kind of world he had been thrown into, completely forgetting about the bear-like hillbilly lurking in Townsville's outskirts.
Fuck…
He didn't have the willpower to deal with another Powerpuff villain.
But the moment Fuzzy reached him, something strange happened.
In a flash of magic, the necklace around Ben's neck shone, startling the raging hillbilly as the small lamp hanging from it began to grow.
Ben's skin dissolved into confused wisps of smoke, his focus shifting from the potential threat to overwhelming exhaustion.
His mist-like form spiraled inward, slipping into the lamp as it pulled him to safety within its confines.
"...Huh?"
Fuzzy Lumpkins scratched his head, staring down at the lamp lying in the dirt where Ben had vanished.
The forest went quiet again—no smoke, no chirping birds, no crashing trees. Just the soft hum of insects and the distant creak of wood from his crooked cabin.
"…Well now," he muttered, crouching to poke the lamp with the end of his banjo. "That ain't normal."
The metal gave a dull clink as it rolled slightly in the mud.
Fuzzy narrowed his eyes.
"That boy turned into smoke… an' got sucked right inside this here thing."
He leaned closer, turning it over in his rough hands. It wasn't fancy—just a small, slightly dented lamp with a thin chain where it had hung like a necklace. But it felt warm.
Not fire-warm.
Alive warm.
Fuzzy frowned.
"What kinda contraption traps a fella in a teapot-lookin' thing…"
He paused.
A distant memory tugged at the back of his mind—something dusty, old, and half-forgotten.
His eyes widened slightly.
"…Hold on."
He'd seen somethin' like this before.
Years back, while rummaging through junk piles he'd dragged home, there'd been a torn-up storybook. Pictures inside. Bright colors. Fancy folk in funny clothes.
And a lamp.
A man comin' outta it like smoke.
Fuzzy slowly looked back down at the object in his hands.
"…No way."
His grip tightened as curiosity replaced irritation.
"Well I'll be…"
He stood, tucking the lamp under one arm as he stomped toward his cabin.
The porch creaked beneath his weight. The door groaned open with a familiar screech as he stepped inside, kicking aside loose tools, broken banjo strings, and scattered scrap metal.
"Now where'd I toss that dumb ol' book…"
The inside of the cabin was a chaotic museum of Fuzzy's life—piles of junk, half-finished inventions, jars of mysterious liquids, and towers of things he swore he'd organize someday.
He shoved aside a crate with his foot, sending a stack of papers sliding to the floor.
"C'mon now… picture book with the smoke fella…"
He rummaged through a heap of magazines, then a wooden chest, then a dusty shelf leaning dangerously against the wall.
Nothing.
Fuzzy grumbled, scratching his beard.
"…Maybe I burnt it."
He turned toward the fireplace—then froze.
A crooked stack of old books sat beside it, tied together with fraying rope.
His eyes lit up.
"Well I'll be hog-tied…"
He dropped to his knees, setting the lamp carefully beside him before tugging the bundle loose. Dust puffed into the air as he flipped through warped covers and faded pages.
Then—
There it was.
A tattered children's book with a bright illustration of a golden lamp and a smiling man made of swirling smoke.
Fuzzy blinked.
"…Huh."
He picked it up slowly, glancing between the picture and the real lamp resting on the floor.
"…Don't tell me I got myself a wish-grantin' smoke fella."
Fuzzy plopped down on the creaky floorboards, the book cracking open in his hands. Dust drifted into the air as he flipped through the brittle pages, his brow furrowed in concentration.
The drawings were simple but clear—a wide-eyed man holding the lamp, a swirl of smoke rising from its spout, and a tall, smiling figure made of mist bowing dramatically before him.
Fuzzy scratched his head.
"Well I'll be…"
He leaned closer, squinting as he slowly sounded out the words beneath the pictures, mumbling them under his breath like a kid relearning how to read.
The next page showed the man grinning ear to ear, arms stretched wide as piles of treasure appeared around him.
"Aha! That's the wish part," Fuzzy muttered. "Knew it. Smoke fella gives stuff."
He turned the page again, expecting to see how the man had called the genie out in the first place.
But the story jumped ahead.
Now the man was riding a flying carpet.
Fuzzy blinked.
"…Hold up."
He flipped back a page.
Treasure.
Forward again.
Flying carpet.
His eyes narrowed.
"…That ain't right."
Fuzzy licked his thumb and shuffled through the book faster. The pages grew looser toward the middle, the spine barely holding together.
Then he found it.
A jagged tear.
Several pages had been ripped clean out.
"Well dang it!"
He slapped the book shut in frustration, sending another puff of dust into the air.
"How'm I supposed to get the smoke fella out if the important part's gone?"
Fuzzy stared at the lamp sitting beside him. It looked harmless. Quiet. Like it didn't have a world-shaking secret trapped inside.
He poked it again.
Nothing.
"…Great."
He sighed, scratching his head harder this time.
"Ain't got instructions, ain't got clues, an' I ain't about to sit here talkin' to a teapot hopin' it answers back."
Fuzzy stood with a grunt, tossing the book onto a nearby pile.
"Guess I gotta get me another one."
His gaze drifted toward the door—and beyond that, toward Townsville.
Libraries. Bookstores. Places with more of these picture stories that actually kept all their pages.
Decision made, he stomped across the cabin.
Fuzzy reached for the rack beside the door and grabbed his old shotgun, slinging it over his shoulder like it was part of his daily outfit. Then he scooped up the lamp, turning it over once more before tucking it carefully into a sack at his side.
"Alright, smoke fella," he muttered. "We're takin' a little trip."
The cabin door creaked open as he stepped out onto the porch, the late afternoon sun filtering through the trees.
Fuzzy adjusted his grip on the gun and started down the dirt path leading away from his property.
"Townsville's bound to have a book that tells me how to wake ya up," he grumbled. "An' when I do… we're gonna see what kinda wishes you got in ya."
"Boy, oh boy, I can't wait," he hummed with a smile. "I'll wish for more property, an apple tree, a roast… and an endless pie."
He nodded, fixing his overalls, already forming a tune.
"My, oh my, on my way for a picture book—an apple, a roast, and did I mention pie~"
Fuzzy sang, shotgun slung over his shoulder, bushes rustling in his wake.
And with that, the hillbilly lumbered off toward town, boots crunching against gravel.