This is a call to arms. Gather soldiers.
They came back when he was sixteen.
He hadn't believed it at first, of course; he figured that Butters, who was just as naive as he had been when they were kids, had been lied to and was freaking out over nothing. But they couldn't brush the boy off, and he finally got them to look outside—and there they were, up in the sky. There was a difference this time though, an obvious one that he noticed right off—there were a lot more of them. The sky was covered; even out in the distance, they were filling it, hiding the clouds. He was too shocked to be amazed that they hadn't heard the 'hum' coming from the ships, but if he hadn't been, he would have rationalized that it had been because Cartman's television had been turned up loudly. It would be Stan to point out later that their spaceships weren't making any sound.
They had snuck up on the boys—on the whole town—and they were taking over.
"Kyle, they h-hit your house."
Time to go to war.
The house wasn't demolished when he reached it, wasn't a pile of rubble—it was on fire. The sight of it stopped him in his tracks, his friends stopping behind him, but when he saw his father, he took off again.
"Dad!"
Gerald, who had been watching his house burn to the ground, turned at the sound of his oldest son's voice. Relief flooded through him; he was sure Kyle had been at a friend's house, but when his son didn't show up after the attacks started, he was sure something had happened. He had been too shocked, too stuck in grief, to move from his position though, thoughts of his child leaving his mind when he realized. . . . when he realized. . .
She was gone.
Gerald himself was physically fine. He had been working on a case, blocks away from his home, when the attacks had started. He had ran through the streets, passing people with limbs missing, people on fire, trying to get back to his family. He made it home without being hit, but by the time he finally got there, it was too late.
"Kyle!"
Arms went around his son's shoulders; Kyle's went around his back. His son was fine. His son was. . . His son needed to know. But how do you tell a child that he'd never see his mother again? How was he supposed to—how was he supposed to live without his wife?
"Dad, where's Mom? Where's Ike?"
He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't. He wouldn't let his son see him crying. He needed to be strong. He needed to. He needed . . . He needed. . .
"Mom didn't make it, Kyle. She was—she was in the house when it happened. I tried—I tried to get her out, but she was already—it was too late, Kyle."
He shook.
He had trouble breathing.
He broke.
"Oh, Kyle, your mother is. . . She's gone, Kyle. She's gone."
Kyle could feel his father's uneven breaths against his neck, could feel the tears hitting his skin. He could also feel a stab of grief hitting him in the heart, in the stomach. His eyes were wide, and he quickly wiped away the tears pooling in them; he would deal with his mother's death later. Like so many times in the past, he would have to be the strong one. He needed to worry about the remaining members of the family.
"Dad, what about Ike? Where's Ike?"
Kyle could see his house, still burning, over his dad's shoulder, but he couldn't focus on it. He pulled back and began to shake Gerald, repeating the question until he got an answer.
"He's fine, Kyle. He wasn't in the house. He was at—"
There was a pause as he tried to remember. Where had his youngest son been? At someone's house. The roar of the fire and his grief were making it hard to focus though, and he couldn't remember—
"Dad, where?"
"—Filmore's house. He was at his friend Filmore's house."
He became rigid.
"Dad, we passed that house. It had been hit."
This is a battle song, brothers and sisters.
The house was still on fire when they reached it. Kyle started to run at it, all thoughts of his own safely abandoned in the hopes that he could still save his baby brother, but Stan grabbed him around the middle to stop him.
"Kyle, stop! Stop! It's already caving in! There's no way—"
He elbowed Stan in the gut, but his friend didn't let go. Didn't Stan understand? Wouldn't he do the same for Shelly? Stan had a family of his own, he didn't need to—Kyle stopped struggling though, his eyes catching sight of something—someone—crawling out from under one of the cars in the driveway.
"Ike? Ike!"
There was another body coming out after his brother, Fimore's, but he didn't notice it.
Ike was safe. He was alive.
Time to go to war.
They were huddled in Cartman's basement, not knowing where else to go; the houses surrounding the place had already been hit, and the attackers had, for some reason, passed Eric's up.
"We shouldn't be here. It's too out in the open."
"They ignored his house, dude. It had to be for a reason."
"Yeah."
"Besides, it's stocked with food, and do you really want to go back out there?"
"I-I sure don't.
"You assholes aren't eating my food."
"Stop being such a selfish dick, dude."
The children, save Shelly, who was sitting a corner with the adults, were seated around the table Eric kept in the room. He was seated at the head of it with Kenny to his right and Stan at his left; Kyle was at the end. Between them were various other children.
"Kahl, this is my house, and I can throw you out."
"You wouldn't do that, Cartman."
"Y-yeah, Eric."
"It's my house, and I can—"
"Stop it, you guys. We need to talk about what happened. We need to figure out what to do."
"They're gonna kill us all! Gah!"
"They are not."
"They could."
"They snuck up on us; they planned this."
"Oh man!"
"Calm down. We need to think rationally about this."
"About aliens?"
"They've visited before, but they've never—"
"Tried to destroy the whole town?"
"We need to figure out if it's just us or if they're attacking other towns."
"I don't think it's just us."
Clyde had been staring up at the television in the room, so when the other children turned to question him, they quickly realized what he was talking about; it was muted, turned to a News station. Cities all over the world were being displayed, all burning to the ground.
"Definitely not just us. So, what do we do?"
The creaking of the basement door opening caught their attention. Someone was coming.
"Cartman. . . I thought your doors were locked."
The sound of several people gasping could be heard, but they were all focused on something else—the person—or, to be more accurate, people—coming down the stairs.
"You fight, that is what you do."
A French accent. Black and green clothing. A shovel on his back. Scars. Brown, spiky hair. A cigarette dangling from his lips. And the person behind him. . .
"Sounds like a jolly-good time to me."