Author's Note: I have always been a fan of detective and super hero style filmography, and the Mysterion episode from ages ago demanded that I put this story in the works. I was going to delay posting the opening to the story until a few other works were finished, but in honor of Clyde's birthday, I have to submit it ahead of schedule. If you enjoy alert so you'll get the email heads up when it goes into full production.

Warnings: Violence, mild-Strong language at times. Those who cannot stomach multi-faceted romantic conflux, (love triangles, quadrangles, and more) might not enjoy this story quite so much, as I strongly prefer romantic conflict in a hero/villain story. Expect a mix of Het, Slash, Femslash, in both outright and implied forms. Couples will come as they will and I'll try to keep some of the more interesting ones as a surprise. You should get a fairly good idea of the most commonplace pairings present just by reading this intro.

Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any of its charismatic characters; they belong to Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Likewise I own nothing or Marvel, though some of the South Park kids will have based their characters off of them

The first chapter of this story is written not as a prologue, but more as a movie trailer offering you small excerpts from later chapters to give you a sample of the writing and plot to come. They aren't chronological, but arranged to highlight the build up of the story without giving away the good parts.

To maximize your experience, turn the lights out, grab some popcorn, put on your favorite scary or action movie soundtrack, and imagine the italic parts are being spoken by a deep voiced movie announcer. And without further adieu, Sky Studios presents...

The following preview has been rated M for Mature audiences only…

Mysterion Masquerade

Chapter X: Story Trailer

South Park, Colorado. Just another quiet mountain town. A smooth pond, peaceful on top, murky below. But over the past decade something more has been stirring, disturbing the still surface. South Park has become home to a shadowy game, a secret war. A war that started ten years ago, by the rise and fall of a simple boy, an untested Hero.

The frigid wind tugged at my hair, groped at my face with frosty claws, and turned every patch of exposed skin red. It wound its invisible way around me, threading through my jacket to drain the warmth from my body. The howling gusts drowned out all other sounds, a fact that troubled me far more than the chilling numbness setting in. The crescendo of sound had was too loud. I was deaf to whoever was shadowing me. I'd have precious little warning if my stalker got the nerve to take me on the open streets.

And yet, I couldn't stop. Couldn't let on that I knew I was being followed. Instead I forced my way against the wind, ducking my head into my jacket collar and straining to make out the sounds of something other than the incessant roar. I was failing, miserably. I couldn't even make out the conversation of the couple walking past me. A car zipping by on the road produced a faint rumble at best and even the sound of myself thinking was being subdued by the incessant whistling of the gale force winds.

Ah thinking. There seemed to be an awful lot of thinking lately and not nearly enough doing. I don't like it when things are this way. Careful plans and cautious investigation wasn't really my style. I was as about as cautious as a lemming, and subtle as a sledgehammer at a watermelon stand. But what to do? And to who? With this disaster Stan had handed me, I had a hundred suspects and not a single lead. I couldn't rough 'em all up till someone squealed. I mean...I could do it... Fuck it, in my current mood I'd love to start with Abigail Adams and bully my way through to Zachary Zoolander, one whiny dip-shit at a time. But the window of opportunity wasn't large enough for such a thorough approach, not with that damned bomb ticking away at Hell's Pass on an unknown timer.

I needed a lead. I needed answers. I needed needed to get out of this fucking weather. I needed…a smoke.

'Finally something I can fix.'

I turned into the next alleyway to get out of the direct path of the wind, feeling better the second I was free of it's unending assault. The sound dropped by decibels, the alley sheltering me from the worst of the noise. Already I was feeling relief at the quietude. My body relaxed even more when my fumbling fingers hit smooth metal in my pockets. My lips were tingling in anticipation when I pulled out the silvery lighter and matching cigarette case, both with a fancy C etched in their side from my pocket. A bit fancy for my taste, but its hard to down a gift. Especially when that gift is from a sexy blond seductress who was almost as addictive as the heady tobacco scent that greeted my raw and sniffling nose when the tin popped open.

My much needed puff was denied. Before I managed to touch the twisting flame to the cancer stick dangling from my lips, a crash erupted from deeper in the alley. I entered a defensive stance lighter and fancy tin dropped as both hands raised, curling into fists. The cigarette dropped to the filthy ground as my lips pulled back to reveal a menacing snarl. The trick to a fight is to scare them early, let 'em know how eager you are. If they aren't equally pumped, they'll start getting second thoughts. Unable to see farther into the dark alley, I settled for peering into the shadows with my best imitation of a murderous glare.

I took a step forward, crushing my cigarette into the filth of the alley without a second thought. My blood was about to get a rush that even nicotine couldn't match. Action. It seemed that in the seclusion of this little side street, my shadow had finally grown bolder.

'About damn time.'

An empty trashcan rolled past me, one side dented awkwardly. My opinion of my opponent dropped a notch. Such a rookie trick. Most basic rule of street fighting, try to distract your opponent, pull his eyes away from where the first punch is going to fall. Every tough whose lasted a week on these streets knows not to fall for that one. I wasn't some snot nosed kid trying out his first leotard jumpsuit and mask. No one was gonna pull a fast one over on this snoop that easily. I may not be running around in costume under some retarded name like Supertwat or whatever the idiots of this town were using these days, but my real name was more imposing than anything a kid with underwear on his head was going to invent. Donovan, the only guy Christophe trusted to operate independently of his good squad. Clyde, one of the closest friends to the most powerful girl in South Park. And let's not forget, Mysterion un-masked, the 'first Hero of South Park.'

Whoever was in this alley with me was sporting a pair of brass balls that I'd be more than happy to remove for them. By the time I was done this guy was gonna wish he'd been a shadow in truth. Almost ten years ago I'd started this mess, and I may not be out there playing in the spotlight playing capes and masks anymore, but Clyde Donovan wasn't done playing hero just yet...

Inspired by Mysterion, South Park has changed. Children by day, by night they have become something more. Across dark streets and moonlit rooftops they battle, caped crusaders and cloaked criminals, locked in a desperate masquerade, a costumed dance of heroes and villains. Each night they clash, seeking an outlet for the frustrations inflicted on them by the idiotic adults and constant disasters that disrupt their lives. Each morning they return to school, everything forgotten, everything forgiven, everyone a little better for the release.

Below me I saw two figures move towards each other, a boy and a girl, one in black, the other gold. They squared off silently on opposite sidewalks, the empty street separating them, a neutral line in the asphalt that the combatants had drawn up across.

The boy I identified first. Poor Token, he never really had a chance at anonymity no matter what costume he picked. So instead he'd gone for imposing, donning a costume of molded midnight black rubber. His entire outfit was a mash of shadowy blue accents on Sable, equally useful for stealth or striking fear into whatever unlucky twerp had the misfortune of seeing him emerge from the shadows. The design was fucking wicked, with sharpened edges at all the joints, and a helmet that looked like a cross between what you'd find on an X-games cyclist and a jouster at a renaissance fair.

The whole thing looked sweet as hell, yet it was also tighter than a fucking skin-suit and about five times as hot. He offered to let me try it on once, but about five minutes into the process I'd only managed the bottom half and was already sweatier than a fat man doing push ups in a sauna.

With that kind of menacing outfit, it should come as no surprise to anyone that he was known throughout South Park as the Black Knight. An interesting bit of trivia though, Token had hated that name at first, his first name being an unoriginal homage to his favorite comic book hero, Bat Knight. Unfortunately the first time he'd gone in costume, Cartman had tried to get everyone to call him the Black Asshole instead. Somehow both names had merged into what Token was known by today.

As remarkable a figure as my old buddy cut, it was hard to focus on him once my eyes had settled on his opponent across the street. She was dressed to kill, her impressively curved figure barely contained in a golden sequined majorette costume. Tantalizing flashes of pale creamy skin peeked through slits in the side, placed to distract any male opponent lucky enough or stupid enough to face off against her. Arms and legs were perfectly defined by tight yellow fabric that I assume was lightly padded underneath. After all, she'd hate to get a bruise on her perfect body. Her face was covered only by a tiny glitter and feather mask that shielded her eyes and nose. Springing forth from above that mask was a giant mass of curls that rendered any other head cover impossible. She'd made that impressive hair style her calling card, her identity, Goldy-Locks. Or Goldy for short. Or just Bebe during the day. Like Token her identity was no secret. With her figure and signature curls, there was precious little chance at anonymity even if she wanted it. Considering her costume, I kinda doubted she wanted it. Not dolled up in something that guaranteed she'd be the center of attention in any teenage male audience or fantasy.

From first glance it seemed to be an unfair match. He looked stronger, bigger, and better equipped. If you went by reputation he was a monster in a fight, very few stood a chance against the Black Knight. His only weakness was that he was a loner. Never asked for backup and never wanted a partner. Not that he needed it. In a one-on-one fight the top school athlete was almost unstoppable. Most kids didn't even bother going up against him with anything less than three-to-one odds when he hit the street. But his current opponent also preferred to fly solo. In spite of what seemed to be a foolish move on her part, I had a feeling she wouldn't be going down easy. Well, considering Goldy was Bebe, I guess she could and did go down easy, if the bathroom stall was to be believed.

But in a fight? I hadn't had the pleasure of seeing Goldy in one yet, but stories say she was one fast, mean bitch. A blur of boobs, baton, and high heels as one battered but smiling sophomore had described to me a year back. Why she insisted on high heels I don't know, it seemed a poor choice for combat, stealth, or pulling a heist. Still style over substance for some I guess, and it didn't seem to hamper her ability to fight. If anything they probably gave her kicks an extra 'stab.' I'd seen more than one, 'hero' limping in school the day after, scarred from battle but bearing the wound with an insane grin of pride, proof that he'd dueled with the villainous vixen of South Park. Meanwhile said vixen always seemed to sashay her way down the halls every morning without a scratch.

I knew I had other things to worry about tonight, bigger things, but there was little chance of catching anyone up to something underhanded now. No one who was in the know in South Park was going to miss this match. Already the nearly barren street was filling as kids in and out of costume gathered on fire escapes and peered over other rooftops. The news would have spread fast about this one; the whole place would be filled soon.

Keep everything under the mask, separate from real life, it was one of the little rules we were all supposed to live by. No one was supposed to carry grudges from school to the streets and back. Still, who could blame these two for wanting to take a piece out of each other? Ever since that break up the year before, the school had been holding its breath and hoping Token and Bebe's alter ego's would clash.

From my vantage point above them, I felt the same apprehension and eagerness. I leaned over the brick railing, my fingers scraping against the rough material as I watched them both step onto the street, closer to that dividing yellow line. A soft murmur of voices and whispers picked up around the scene, before dying into silence as Bebe menacingly reached for the golden baton at her side, the foot and a half of steel and rubber that it was rumored, was one hell of a vicious weapon in her hands.

For ten years the children of South Park have played the game perfectly. Letting out just enough to stay sane, holding back just enough to stay safe. Treading a thin dangerous line. Always held in check by her Rules. Always playing by the Book.

I couldn't help but feel a little nervous walking into her 'mayor's office.' This was an old feeling, one that had nothing to do with the size and impressiveness of the room. I felt the trickle of awe and nervousness years ago when her office had consisted of a rundown tree house. Those same feelings were there now just as strong even after years of working closely with her. Even if I was one of the closest things she had left to a real friend. The reaction was all for her, not the surroundings. Her presence at times was almost inhumanly focused. She was an iron will, a razor sharp mind, an unflinching heart; all wrapped up in a stylish purple pant suit and topped by a fall of midnight black hair, tightly restrained into a prim ponytail.

Wendy Testaburger, so imposing, so serious, so alone, so grown up in a world where almost every other kid around her was running to and fro still playing dress up. She never looked for a second like a girl pretending to be a business woman; she lived and breathed the image of a cold calculating CEO determined to keep everything in our little world running smoothly. It was Wendy that so long ago had made that tree house feel like the center of something important, something serious. She was the one who worked her magic on that silly little game started by the boys at school to get back at Eric for convincing me to un-mask myself. She turned it into what it was today, the stable, ordered game that kept countless kids across several grades from depression and worse. She was the mother of the brainchild that occupied our teenage thoughts more completely than any football game, any dance, any school play. She was also the one that kept it from falling apart.

Sure, technically Christophe and his goons were the iron gauntlet that kept everyone good and bad following the Rules. But Wendy, was the reason those Rules existed. She was the velvet glove inside that gauntlet, the one that told it where to punch, when, and who.

She was the keeper of the Book. The list of every hero and villain, with their real identities and alter ego's contained within. Everyone registered with her and she tracked everything they did. Every good thing, but more importantly every transgression, against our rules and the real laws. Every stolen thing, every vandalized store, every item broken in a fight or escape. Even the best of heroes had something to fear in that book. Even if they'd never accidentally broken something or hurt another kid. Even if they'd been model heroes, that book could still undo them. I should know, I was the model most of them based off of, and also the only one who'd ever spent time in a real cell for being a vigilante. I'd hated every minute of it, suffered the months of 'probationary' community service, all to pay my dues for my brief time as Mysterion. And through it all I'd at least had an advantage over anyone named in that Book; the cops had liked me. They had no love for the kids that had been making a mockery of them for years now; kids who weren't even all minors anymore and all of whom would be facing plenty of real jail time if they were ever caught.

Fortunately the cops of South Park were imbeciles, they'd never catch anyone, especially not with how well organized we were. With Wendy and Christophe watching over everything, the cops stood no chance. But cross her too far and you might lose that protection. Worse there was the chance a little slip of paper might find its way into an incompetent cop's hands, listing your names, both costumed and real, and all those things you'd done. Not that she'd ever used that threat. It was a dangerous ace up her sleeve, there was always the risk that if the cops caught one kid they might get them to name others. Play that one trump it might bring everything down like a house of cards.

Of course Wendy had thought of that. She seemed to think of everything. That was why she'd gotten Christophe involved. That's why we had the 'cells,' the 'snoops' like myself, and of course so many extra 'rules.' Sure people broke one here or there, but even that was all part of her plan. She confided it to Kyle and myself when we were helping her set it all up. 'No system is perfect. They do this because they need an outlet, they need to push, they need to rebel. I have to expect them to go against this authority too, so I need leave in some give, some bendable rules, so they never try to test the ones we can't risk being broken.'

In spite of the awe she evoked, I also felt relief walking into her room. In all the time since I'd worked with her she'd never once let her calm front slip. Never faltered in the face she put up for everyone who depended on her. I'd never seen her daunted or distraught. She hadn't broken down when Stan left her, tired of being less important than her work. She hadn't shown anger or frustration when Stan had fallen into Kyle's arms a few months later, though it must have stung that he was willing to overlook Kyle's own involvement in the game though he'd never forgiven her for hers.

She'd stood unflinching when Bebe had snapped at school, ending their friendship and diving in to villainy because she was tired of Wendy trying to put the needs of everyone else first. She never showed the frustration that she must feel, especially as she was one of the few people who couldn't even use the system she'd created to offer release. She never cried about her inability to find even a hint of privacy in her life to deal with relationships, either platonic or romantic. Everyone knew what happened to Wendy, they all watched her every move, needing the reassurance that the one we all trusted wasn't going to crack. Nothing in her life escaped scrutiny.

Even her newest affair was common knowledge; it had been several days before she'd even asked Gregory out. Long before she'd made the decision and they'd become a couple, people were already talking about 'the new one,' about Gregory, that neat freak little golden boy who doted on her every order. I'd seen how he jumped when she gave a command, how his eyes lit when she told him what to do. Honestly I think he's one of those kids that gets off on being dominated. I'd seen him toss a few similar looks at Christophe when the captain was ordering around his little goon squad. For Wendy's sake I hope she kept them far apart, her life didn't need any more heartache.

It was always supposed to be for the best. And it had been for so long. But it was all balanced so very carefully, and when that dreadful balance slipped…all that was left was a bunch of scared kids trying to keep their world from crashing down...

Stan burst through my door without bothering to knock. My reflexes had me reaching for the second drawer on the right side of my desk, before I recognized him. As soon as I did make the connection my hand stopped, I had no need for my little 'insurance policy' with Stan. First, he was a friend; second, with the state he was in I could have handled him without help. He tottered unsteadily into my office, his face red with exertion as he struggled to catch his breath. My eyebrows remained raised in shock even as my hand moved away from the drawer.

'How fast was he running to get like this?'

Whatever had driven him was gone now, because all at once he began a stumble that seemed destined to end with him crashing on my floor. I stood up, pushing my chair back so I could swing around my desk and grab his elbow, steadying him. Awkwardly I lead him to a chair across from my own. He took it gratefully, falling into it in a boneless heap. That was when I really started to worry. When one of the school track stars collapses exhausted into a chair you stop wondering how fast he was running, and start to think about why he was running.

After a quick and nervous glance at the door he'd just come through, I returned to my own seat, leaning forward across the desk while I waited. I was burning to ask questions, but it was obvious he wasn't in a state to answer just yet. Even around the gasping there was something unstable, something raw in his face. I was taken aback when I recognized it, terror. He was terrified about something and a terrified Stan Marsh meant a whole mess of fucking scary for everyone else. I'd personally seen this kid stand up to a succubus from Hell, a horde of zombies, even blood thirsty killer pets.

For a second I checked my calendar, just to make sure Halloween hadn't snuck up on me. That was usually when South Park was at its worst and poor Stan and Kyle had to deal with the most messed up crap. Nope, perfectly ordinary September. And a Thursday night at that. Usually things only went to Hell on a Wednesday night around here.

Come to think of it… they had already gone to crazy yesterday, a secret twenty-something female actress cult had tried to take over the country, lead by the Olsen twins. Stan, Kyle, and Kenny had dealt with the mess, jailed the girls, and convinced the president that perfect teeth, good boobs, and a bit of acting fame was not a good enough reason to give over control of the country. They'd been back to South Park before midnight. A rather easy problem as things in this town went. Sometimes it took an entire week to fix everything that could go wrong on a Wednesday night. Now I was more confused than before. We'd had our one shitty problem for the week. Everything should have been fine, but clearly it from Stan's state it wasn't. Not with the poor guy sitting across from me, dark blue eyes wide, pupils dilated, sweaty raven black bangs sticking in every direction. I waited until I could slowly count out five seconds between his gasping breaths before I was unable to restrain my curiosity any longer.

"Stan, you look like shit. What the fuck is wrong dude?" I asked as tactfully as I could manage.

"Clyde, it's Cartman," he managed weakly before falling into a fit of coughs.

At least that made some sense. If there was one person who could scare Stan that badly it'd be Cartman. Strangely I felt safer. Sure Cartman was bad news, but we'd survived his worst before. At least it was familiar, if fat and evil territory.

"What'd the fat-ass do now? How bad is it?" A touch of cynicism and disgust crept in my voice out at the thought of the trouble that the fat fuck might have heaped on us now.

"He didn't do..." anther cough halted Stan for a second before he plowed on forcing his way through in one breath as if afraid of his lungs failing. "It's not what he did. It was done to him. He's at the hospital. Coma." His voice petered out at the end from lack of oxygen and he coughed as he sucked air back into his lungs greedily.

I watched him cough out about half a lung, still confused. Unlike Stan I didn't find that news any cause for terror. I'm willing to admit I actually enjoyed hearing it. I had plenty of reasons to hate Cartman, the first and foremost being what he'd done to me as Mysterion. I almost smirked as I replied, "So…the fat ass try to fly with cardboard wings again? Or some new stupid scheme?"

Stan just shook his head solemnly his eyes flickering with fear and caution as they swept the room. He leaned across the desk and his voice dropped to a serious whisper.

"I don't think he did it to himself. Not this time."

My eyes arched a bit. This was serious, then. Sure Eric deserved a lot of bad things to happen to him, but if it wasn't self-inflicted or bad karma, it had very bad connotations for the rest of us. Not enough to get Stan this worked up though…unless.

'Oh fuck, no.'

"He," it was my turn to choke off my reply before letting my voice drop; "He wasn't masked was he?"

Stan nodded slowly, "Kyle saw it all. He was at the hospital taking Ike to get his tetanus shot. The ambulance wheeled in with Cartman on the stretcher. He was still in his Coon costume."

I shivered worriedly. "Thank god he's in that coma," I said with relief in my voice. Because it was Cartman I felt no guilt saying it. Him being in a coma was a hell of a lot better for the rest of us than him being conscious when the cops came to unmask him. It gave us time. Not a lot, comas weren't notoriously short lived in this town. Still we had time to do...something.

"What…what are we going to do," Stan echoed my own thoughts as he turned worried blue eyes my way. "If Cartman wakes up and finds the cops ready to take him down as the Coon, he's going to squeal. He'd never go down alone. They'll come after everyone, especially Wendy and Kyle."

Ah. At least that solved one mystery. I knew why Stan was so terrified. Of all of us he was one of the safest, one of the ones who'd stayed relatively clear of the little illegal game we'd all been playing. Said he got enough adventure every week without dressing up and chasing more. Only Kenny was less involved. But Kyle and Wendy, oh they were in about as deep as you could get and between them they made up the entirety of Stan's world. Even after their rocky past he still obsessed over Wendy, still felt the guilt. As for Kyle, Stan would kill himself if Kyle batted his eyes and asked him too. From the ragged sound of his breathing he'd probably almost killed himself at the 'thought' of Kyle needing him. Racing from his house to my office on foot in this shitty weather, trying to get here to warn me.

But why me? What in god's name could I do? Nothing would satisfy Cartman when he came to. He was almost elemental in his selfishness. The only things that Cartman understood were greed, hate, and…revenge.

A light bulb clicked in my head, a desperate hope. My shoulders sagged with relief. I had my answer. Find out who did this to Cartman. Unleash Wendy and Christophe on them. If we were lucky, some smooth talking might convince the cops to let the Coon off easy, and as long as whoever did it was suffering, Cartman might be appeased. Might keep his mouth shut. Offer up the sacrificial lamb and hope to gods it'd be enough to save us all.

There was only one problem. If you asked me to make a list of people who wanted Cartman beaten to within an inch of his life, and a list of all the people who lived in South Park, the first list would be longer. Much longer. Fucking NY City Phone book size. People who didn't even know Cartman hated his fat guts.

With a shudder I felt my own spirits sink back down at the enormity of the task ahead of me. Across from me Stan looked as bad as I felt. Out of sympathy I decided we could both use some help right now. My right hand slid down the handles for my desk drawers, slipping past the one with my 'policy' for the next one down. I needed a friend that was more useful right now than my little safety measure.

Stan looked up in surprise at the two dirty shot glasses that landed on my desk with a hard clink. His eyes widened further at the handle of cheap vodka that came out next. Amazing what an eighteen year old can get his hands on when he knows the right people. And I know all the right people in this town. And all the wrong people, too; not surprisingly, both groups were full of potential Cartman bashers. The stink of cheap alcohol hit Stan's nostrils and the surprise faded to longing as he stared at the filling glasses. My unsteady hand ended up spilling more on the desk than in each glass, but I wasn't really worried right now about wasting the stuff, no matter how hard it was to come by. Once they were to the brim, I capped the bottle, slipping it back into the desk before grabbing one glass. Across from me Stan reached for the other. Clear liquid sloshed over both rims, as our shaky hands brought them to trembling lips.

My eyes turned skyward as I tossed back a shot of liquid courage. Across the desk Stan followed suit, coughing harshly when the drink hit his already sore throat. I handled it a little better, but it still burned its way down. I could almost imagine that I heard a splash as it hit my gut. My empty stomach roiled angrily in response to the intrusion. Still it did the trick for both of us. The discomfort gave us something else to think about for a second besides how much deep, deep shit everyone we cared about was in.

This is their story, a tale of love and lust…

My face still stung, a hand print revealing where my cheek had been struck, but the sensation was fading fast when compared to the feel of those soft lips crashing against mine. It was hard to focus on anything but that blond goddess grinding and twisting against me, a writhing body wrestling with mine in lewd imitation of the tangle our tongues were making in my mouth. I knew I should resist this. There were so many things wrong with what we had, not the least being that this angel belonged to another guy. One whom I respected and admired, even if we weren't friends and never could be with this dirty little secret resting between my angel and I. My resolve tried to stand firm, reminding me there more important things to do right now than renew our intimate acquaintance, but business before pleasure was never our way. At least it seemed I was forgiven for whatever had inspired that slap.

My hand ignored my decision to stand firm , sliding down a slim back to cup a firm perfect little ass. My goddess wiggled closer, pressing against my chest, while desperately tugging hands pulled against my shoulders to bring our lips closer, drive our tongues deeper.

Finally there was a pause as we pulled back and gasped for air. It was my one chance to get a question in before it started up again and made me forgot everything but this sexy creature. I looked into that soft beautiful face, trying to ignore the perfect tiny lips in the midst of forming a pout that illustrated why this kid was the most wanted 'girl,' in the school. The animal-like relationship we shared was rearing its ugly head, and before I lost it as I had countless times before, I closed my eyes against the temptation. I raised my free hand to block the space between us when I felt the shift in the other body warning me it was moving closer for another round. Hypocritically my other hand refused to let go of its rigid grip on that sweet ass.

"Clyde?" it was spoken softly, with a tremulous touch of vulnerability. I opened my eyes in response, knowing I shouldn't, but unwilling to resist that tremble of worry in 'her' voice. Staring into those blue eyes, so pale they were almost gray, I felt the last restraint slipping away as it had so many times before.

I released the breath I was holding, a name escaping in a soft sigh jumbled up with hints of regret, guilt, self-deception, and desire; the cornerstones of our forbidden love, "Marjorine…"

A tale of hope and fear…

The roar of angry voices surged louder outside. The swell of sound carried easily up to the window where I stood watch. Below me the mob pushed closer towards the podium that had been set up before the front door. The only barricade was a ring of Christophe's goon squad, all linebackers from the varsity team. They were a wall of muscle between the building and the dissenting crowd. In most places the mob surged close, up in the faces of his squad, but there was a healthy space at the most forward arc of that ring. There stood Christophe himself, never one to leave all the fun to his insubordinates. He stood at the front, shovel still sheathed across his back, his arms crossed mockingly as he blew smoke at the indignant mob. He might be smaller and slimmer than his goons, but the space in front of his cold green eyes was empty of any challengers. They were moved to anger, but not stupidity. Not yet.

Behind me a door opened as Wendy left her office heading towards the stairs down. Gregory looked up from his desk, standing at her appearance. She quelled his worries with a stiff smile and kept on walking, only the shaking paper in her hands revealed the tremor she was hiding. Not that I needed the tremor to know she was nervous, the paper alone was proof enough. I cannot remember the last time she read a speech; she always told me the best speakers didn't read a paper, they read the crowd. Clearly she'd seen enough looking out her window to get the measure of this audience already.

Gregory made to follow but she stopped him with a look. Wendy would not risk someone she cared about down there. Worse she would not drag her personal life out on display while the kids were acting so wildly. Judging by the hurt look he threw her, he didn't realize she was doing it for him. Not with his wounded pride to nurse.

'Fucking idiot.'

I coughed once before she went out the door. With a start she turned to my lookout post, surprised surprised to see me there. She must have been really out of it not to notice. More proof of how nervous this crowd had wound her. I offered her a respectful nod, before pointing to my eyes and then out the window. She understood the gesture. Christophe wasn't the only one watching out for her today; no one in that crowd would make a move that I didn't see first.

With a warm look of gratitude she nodded before turning and leaving the room for the stairwell. Behind her back Gregory glared at me a moment, perhaps irritated that I'd offered her some comfort where he'd failed. I could have told him not to bother feeling jealous. Wendy and I were something that would never happen; she was in more danger of seduction from her homosexual ex-lover Stan, than this ex-hero. Respect her, yes. Love her, never. Some things a man knows are beyond his reach and in her case I think I'm grateful that we both accept that. I don't mind an intimidating woman, but I doubt I could ever truly be relaxed around someone as imposing as Wendy Testaburger.

There was an awkward silence between Gregory and myself where I debated telling him all of that. In the end I didn't bother. I didn't like the little prick and could care less if he wanted to make himself miserable worrying about the impossible. We shared a blank stare, not hostile, but definitely not friendly, before he walked to another open window, determined to keep his own watch. His hands gripped the sill tightly for a moment and I looked out thinking Wendy had reached the podium already, but no. His gaze was locked on Christophe while the Frenchman alternated between swearing at his goons and swearing at the mob members that came to close, his body tense with eagerness for a fight. I re-examined the blond tightwad, not surprised to see him almost unconsciously biting his lower lip.

'And he's jealous of a look between Wendy and I? Hypocritical little prick. If I didn't have bigger fish to fry, I'd try and open Wendy's eyes to the problem she's got brewing there.'

The thought died when I heard a change come over the crowed. Wendy had come out at last and with her arrival the noise level had dropped, not to a respectful silence but rather a tense, low rumble. She approached the podium, rising above the level of the goon's to look out at the crowd. She shuffled the paper a moment, another sign of her nerves, before leveling her most determined expression at the crowd.

I ignored the speech she was giving. Stirring words I'm sure, calming ones perhaps. It didn't matter what she said, only how she said it and how they reacted. Mostly how they reacted. I saw the tension slipping here and there; already people were backing away from the goons. With a few calm words she was having a better affect on restraining the crowd than all of Christophe's glaring. I hoped Gregory noticed, if power was his aphrodisiac let him at least see that she could wield it less openly but to greater affect than the French mercenary.

If things had gone on from there, I have no doubts she could have sternly talked them all down, and then sent them to their homes. Sure they might not be completely reassured, but at least they'd be less hysterical, less prone to doing something stupid. But Lady Luck was not done being a bitch to us just yet.

I saw the motion, or lack there of. On the far right side of the crowd the people were too quiet, to still. Three kids had formed a tighter group, staying close to the goons even as the rest of the mob was backing away. I tried to make out faces but like so many kids in this damn town their faces were obscured by hats from this angle. The two in front broke the calm, suddenly pushing each other, drawing the attention of the nearest goon who stepped way from his post to interfere. Just as he did, I saw the third lean down, picking something off the ground. I saw everything easily, but there was no way I could get down and stop it in time. I had one chance.

"Christophe!" I shouted to capture the mercenary's attention. I cursed inwardly that we hadn't thought to arrange a signal, as he turned to stare at me in confusion, his back to the crowd. Futilely I pointed towards the assailant, but his eyes caught on the two fighting in front, unable to see the third kid from his angle. He left his place, heading over to intervene and get his goon back in line, but with his focus also on the two he never saw the danger. The rock flew right over the head of the goon who was stuck in the middle of the staged fight. It flew on a high arc over the heads of almost everyone, unnoticed by all but my own worried eyes. I doubt Wendy even knew what happened. Her face was still locked in a mask of calming reassurance and the next word to her speech was still on her lips when the rock collided with the side of her head. She fell to the ground almost lifelessly, strands of long black hair flailing into the air as she descended. I saw the silken strands billow softly before falling over her, shielding her face from view.

It only took seconds for the careful order she'd won to turn into utter chaos. Christophe turned mid stride frantic to get back to her side, but dozens of worried kids had the same idea. Not sure if they were rushing to aid her or hurt her, he threw about himself with his fists, clearing a path through the mob. Behind him, he left a trail of bruises and black eyes. Much worse was the wave of violence that was spreading outward, those injured flailing about as well. While half of Christophe's men fell back to Wendy and the other half surged towards their surrounded leader. I wanted to rush to Wendy myself, but I had to trust Christophe to see to her safety.

As far as I knew I was the only one to see the assailant and I struggled to keep my gaze on him in the tangle of the mob. I saw him break from the back, his two friends limping behind as they turned around the edge of the building. I raced to that side, praying the fire escape window in the next room wasn't blocked. The blood was pounding in my ears, or perhaps it was the roar of the mob and the pounding of their fists. I tried to stay focused but I couldn't keep the image of Wendy from my mind. The best hope for us all, stretched out on the cold pavement, motionless save for a few strands of silky black hair fluttering weakly in the wind.

A tale of trust and betrayal…

Nervously, I reached out to the still figure on the hospital bed. I ran a testing hand through Butters hair, the short spikes textured so differently from what I was used to. Far too different from the luxuriant soft strands that he wore as Marjorine. It was to surreal for me. Some otherworldly sleeping doppelganger of my Marjorine, like her but not. I spent so much time avoiding him during the day, that I rarely saw him when he wasn't being...her. But now, in the hospital room, I had to face the fact that this was him, not her. That the girl I loved was one and the same as this broken boy. It raised a lot of questions in me, questions I'd avoided thinking about all the fucking time. Big questions like, if I like a girl, whose really a boy, what the fuck does that make me? Do I still like her when she's him?

I didn't have time for a personal crisis of identity. With a shudder of unease I turned away from that too still body. That too flat chest. That face that sported the barest hint of pale downy soft hair that Marjorine would never have allowed to grow on her face if she'd been conscious. I turned away from the questions and looked to the door. And realized I was not alone.

'FUCK,' the question of what I was, or how I felt suddenly mattered a lot less when I recognized the red rimmed eyes of the boy blocking the door out of Butters hospital room.

I was trapped by the one person I would never want to meet alone, especially after having just shared an intimate moment of tenderness with our mutual lover. A quick scan of the room revealed that no, there where no exits save the one. And standing in that doorway was the man I'd been dreading since Marjorine and I shared our first sinful kiss months ago. It was a scene from one of my worst nightmares, trapped here with this demon, this orange clad monster. And there was no doubt in my mind Kenny knew. He knew everything. How could he not when his face was rigid with fury and those icy blue eyes were frozen in cold rage. Still in this place there was some safety. Even he wouldn't make a move with nurses and doctors nearby. They might slow him down and allow me to escape.

"So…you're here. I don't know why I'm surprised, it should be obvious you have no sense of fuckin' decency," Kenny spoke in clipped words.

"I had to come see for myself. I just wanted to see if she, I mean, he was ok." It was a weak explanation but the truth was all I had to offer.

"Admiring your handiwork?" He all but spat the question out at me.

"I didn't, we didn't…well we did…but not," I broke off mid sentence, unsure of a safe way to finish. Normally I'm plain spoken. Normally I'm fearless. I've come along way from the scared, crybaby of grade school. But now? With all the worries both for friends and lovers weighing down on me. With all the shit I'd faced over the past few days. And with this guy? The scariest fuck this side of the long white tunnel to Heaven and Hell?

Kenny and I hadn't spoken in years, long before I had a definite reason to avoid him. There certainly wasn't anything good we had to talk about now. Granted Kenny avoided us all, wanting nothing to do with anyone involved in our little game. There were only a few exceptions, most obviously Kyle and Stan. And Butters, of course. That last was the very dangerous topic that kept my tongue tied up in my mouth. I doubt Kenny was going to respect the little separation of school and street rule.

His expression remained unmoved, until he looked past me. I was forgotten for a moment as his face was softened by raw pain. Like a puppet on strings he woodenly stepped into the room. I am not ashamed to admit I intended to use his pain as the distraction to make my escape. I'd inched past, moving as softly as I could until I was outside. From there I moved down the hallway as quickly as I could without drawing attention. To be extra safe I took the back exit, stepping out to the side of Hell's Pass Hospital.

Soon as I left the warmth of the hallway I felt my tension ease, moving a few steps away from the door before leaning against the wall and ruffling through my pockets for my cigarette tin and lighter. I took an unsteady drag. I was still savoring the sensation of the nicotine burning through my lungs, when the metal door slammed open, the handle striking the brick wall with devastating force.

"We weren't finished Donovan," his cold voice rang out, "I want answers."

My response was released in a stunned cough, the smoke escaping in a cloud. I dropped the cigarette and moved into a defensive crouch as Kenny stepped out of the building. His eyes radiated murderous intent and his fists clenched and unclenched in open rage. He moved towards me with slow purposeful strides.

I'm not a coward, I've been in my share of fights and I'm proud to say I've won more than I've lost. I've never backed down from a challenge, but this wasn't just anyone bearing down on me. This was a guy who had real reason to hate me and nothing to lose. Not anymore at least. What did he have left to worry about? His life? Yeah, cause that's a big worry to Kenny McCormick. Even if I could manage to kill him in this fight without injury, he would just walk into my office tomorrow ready to pick the fight right back up where it left off. I could fight him every day of my life and it might not be enough. One day he'd win, and when he did he'd fucking end me. And what kind of escape could there be. Even death wouldn't help, he'd slit his own wrists and follow me to Heaven and Hell to finish this to his satisfaction.

"What do you want from me? I didn't do this Kenny, this isn't my fault …" words were never my strong point and they certainly weren't coming easier with the looming madman in front of me.

My back came to rest against the filthy metal of a dumpster and suddenly I was out of words, out of escapes, and out of options.

A tale of shattered dreams and breaking hearts

I saw the look in Kyle's eyes when he left Wendy's office. It was pained and haunted. A wound bleeding out internally, a throbbing scar on his heart. I wondered for a moment if it was Wendy's doing, god knows there was little reason for tenderness between them. But the hurt was deep, at levels beyond even Wendy's reach. Only one person could get at him that deeply, Stanley Marsh.

I shook my head with remorse as he passed but didn't bother saying a word. I was in the middle of enough trouble without stepping into that mess. As soon as he was by I dashed for the open door, taking the opportunity to go in now rather than wait for Gregory's permission. The aide's protest sounded behind me, but it was cut off by the door I shut in his face. Wendy was at her desk, seated for once.

Two days ago I'd entered her office with the worst news ever and the changes it had wrought were shocking. Her assured facade was fading, there were wrinkles in her outfit and her hair was disheveled, while dark rings hung low under her amber eyes. She didn't immediately respond to my abrupt appearance, staring right through me, undoubtedly still seeing Kyle's back.

"They've been fighting…" her voice was detached, as if she was stating an uninteresting bit of trivia. Some useless fact. Her eyes told a different story. She was fighting to keep her voice steady, struggling to keep that piece of information at a safe distance from her own emotions. For good reason too, she'd been where Kyle was now, the pain was still fresh even after three years. Even if she could hate him for what he had that she had lost, even if she was as cold-hearted a bitch as some claimed, still she'd have to feel some echo of her own loss in what she saw. And she was neither of those things. I almost wished she was. I needed a strong Wendy right now, not one reliving the pain of her own loss in another kid's eyes. I could kill Stan for choosing now to fight with Kyle, to bring up that old argument again. We needed to stand together, or we'd all fall apart.

See what has truly been hiding behind the costumes and disguises they've clung to. Learn what happens when the line between good and bad is irrevocably blurred. A sinister hand moves in the shadows of South Park and only one hero can save them now, the one who started it all.

While all around him the masquerade is falling apart…

I reached back, deep into the darkest recess of my closet. At last my hand closed on a taped and sealed box at the very back. The one I'd promised the cops and my parents didn't exist. The one I told my friends I'd burned when they asked to see. The one I told myself I'd never risk opening again.

Never before has the need for a real hero been this great…

No one in the crowd looked up at the flash of dark cloak on the roof above. Even if they had most wouldn't have cared. What was one more kid in disguise on a night like this? Some hadn't bothered taking them off all weekend, not with all the terror and fear driving them to heights of stupidity. Not when so many of these sheep were blind to everything but nursing their secret passions for perhaps the last time. If they were not so self involved they might have noticed that the figure moving above them did not move like the rest, not with desperation or abandon.

It moved with a dreadful and certain purpose. This was no light hearted romp, but a decision made with heavy heart. This was a cloak that hadn't stirred in the wind for ten years. A hood that had been folded in shadows far deeper than the ones it created on its wearers face. A costume that had been folded and locked behind years of lies and a desperate need to forget. A mask that had run through the dreams of countless kids on many a night, but not seen the actual light of the moon in so very long.

This was a ghost thought long dead, drifting almost silently on its path, moving with a stealth and grace that would have been envied by the best of the impostors below. There would be hell to pay when the news got out but it would be nothing compared to what he'd do to those responsible for hurting everything he cared about. Everyone he loved. Though his decision might be condemned, it was his one last chance to set all of his wrongs right. This was his time. This was his city…

…and his city cried out for…Mysterion.