She was sixteen, awkward and lanky in adolescence, with an innocent face and badly-kempt hair. Staring at her tear-splotched reflection in the mirror, she haphazardly pulled at random, pale strands and tried - as always - unsuccessfully to make order of chaos. But it was useless; with hands trembling from exertion, she at last worked her hair into uneven pigtails adorned with green ties which made her face seem a shade too pale, too sickly-looking and frightened.
It would have to do. Because tonight, Marjorine had a date.
How the most notorious boy in school had ever come to have a passing interest in her was beyond Marjorine's reckoning, but she had accepted Eric's invitation nonetheless. Everyone else called him Cartman, or some crude variant of Fat-ass which she didn't dare consider—but she would give him the dignity of being called by his proper name. Everyone deserved dignity. Didn't they?
Well, she thought so. Being ostracized by the girls and rejected by the boys on basis of sex alone, Marjorine had suffered numerous indignities since moving to South Park several years before. Yet she always returned insult with kindness, and readily offered to help in whatever scheme the town's miscreants were concocting, hoping that by offering intelligence or artistic ability she might procure something akin to friendship.
She'd never had friends. But - inexplicably - tonight she had a date with Eric Cartman.
Whatever forces guided the order of the universe had strange ways of arranging things. She slid a sweater over her handmade, paisley-patterned dress. It was chilly out. She took one last, passing glance at the bathroom mirror and then shuffled through the darkened house, groping for the handle on the front door and fishing for keys in her pocket.
There. She stood at the porch and looked at the silhouette of the house she lived in alone; her mother was always on a business trip or with a gentleman . . . never here. She had, it seemed, more important things to occupy her time. With the curtains drawn and the door locked, the house seemed forlorn as it sat in the moonlight of a Colorado night, winter-struck, with a dusting of snow on the ground and the roof.
Marjorine drew a deep breath of the crackling air, watching as the crystals of her breath swirled away into the night. Maybe tonight would be different from every other time she'd been stood up, every other prank the boys had pulled. Maybe something good would come of this.
Something moved him to check on the laboratory, hidden beneath the rubble of a dilapidated, abandoned warehouse. Huddled over equations, as if for warmth - the heat had been cut off some time ago, and he never found himself caring - he tilted his head and wondered what might warrant the trip.
The streets, after all, were dangerous - especially for him. Mysterion still roamed the alleys and rooftops after all these years. Perhaps he could summon his faithful general; with Disarray, there was safety in numbers . . .
No. This once, he would be safe. Besides . . . he snapped his fingers, and twin flames appeared, kindled into existence simply by his will. He smiled. He had a few surprises yet for the cloaked hero; immortal or no, everlasting life never guaranteed him a reprieve from the more chaotic things existent in the universe.
The door remained unlocked behind him. Who would dare to enter his lair? There was no one to say goodbye to his retreating, silent footsteps.
"You . . .?" Marjorine shook her head. Something was terribly wrong. Before her was Eric Cartman, clad in his old superhero costume from years ago. Sharp rings adorned his fingers and beneath the dark swath of a mask, his face was sinister. Raccoons always made Marjorine nervous. They were vicious, crafty, wicked fighters who sometimes carried rabies. She wanted nothing to do with them - or Eric. Again the thought crossed her mind that this was simply, wholly, entirely wrong.
Because she had agreed to meet him in the park. And it was dark. The weight of the night and their solitude seemed suddenly to close in on her like a vice; no, this had not been wise at all.
"Eric . . ." She closed her eyes a moment, swallowing an instinctive fear which suddenly rose in her chest. "This was . . . not what I thought. I really should be going now. Thank you for the offer . . ."
Cartman laughed - the deep-throated cackle which always meant trouble. "Fuck, did you really think I was asking you out?"
Marjorine hid the pain of the insult beneath a carefully rehearsed blank expression. "No. I should have known better."
"Right." He got up from where he'd been lounging on a park bench as if it were a couch in his living room and she were the object of his attention. Standing, he was large and imposing; still as hefty as he was as a boy, he had since grown much taller and added muscle to the extra weight. Now he was, indeed, a formidable opponent to even the rougher of the boys in school. Marjorine involuntarily took a step back.
The rings on Cartman's fingers gleamed as he clenched his fists. "You should've. But you still showed up."
"Why are you dressed up, Eric?" Marjorine searched her mind for any subject of conversation. Keep him talking. Don't let him get bored. If she could keep him chattering, perhaps she could find a convenient excuse to get away - or until a policeman passed by. Even Officer Barbrady was, under dire circumstances, good for more than the usual "Move along, people." If she was legitimately in danger (and Marjorine assumed this to be true, given her situation), surely someone - anyone - would help.
And so she repeated, "Why are you dressed up as the Coon, Eric? I didn't think you were a crime-fighter anymore."
"The fuck does it matter to you?" Cartman glanced around them as if seeing that no one else was around. "I invited someone. He's a total douche, but . . . he might enjoy this. He's a bit of a player, if you know what I mean."
"Kenny?" Marjorine ventured nervously. "Look, Eric, I don't know what you have planned, but - Kenny isn't as bad as you think. I doubt he'd . . ."
"You know nothing about him - or me. Or any of us. So shut the fuck up and stop pretending."
She clamped her lips shut. Silence was perhaps more frightening than Eric's veiled threats.
From the distance, a shadowed form detached itself from the dark and came toward them. Masked and hooded though he was, Marjorine caught a glimpse of Kenny's stark blue eyes and sighed with relief. He could be bad, yes - his exploits in all manners of drugs, women and booze were legendary - but he was not evil. He would not bow to Eric's schemes. Especially not when cloaked in the garb of a hero avenging the wrongs of the innocent.
"Cartman." The low graveled tones of the costumed vigilante's voice were a comfort, and for what seemed like the first time in ten minutes, Marjorine began to breathe. "Cartman, what is this?" He cast a sidelong glance at the awkward girl, obviously dressed for some special occasion.
"Glad you're here . . . Kenny." Cartman smirked at using the once-anonymous hero's name. "I've called you here because I think we need to teach Marjorine here a lesson. To leave us the fuck alone. No one will ever like her. No one will ever care. And it's fucking annoying how she doesn't understand!"
A disapproving growl rose from the depths of the tightly-cloaked face. "Leave her alone, Cartman. She hasn't hurt anyone. And it's not your place to hurt her."
A terse silence dragged itself out between the two of them; both claimed to be heroes, but Marjorine knew Cartman's game. There was nothing heroic about him. Only something twisted and manipulative and dangerous.
"Fellas," she said softly, when no one showed a sign of speaking or moving, "fellas - I should be getting home. It's late. My mom'll worry and I'll get grounded if I'm not home by…"
"… ten o'clock, and…"
The bringer of destruction and doom, skirting the sidewalks and paths around the park, paused. He had slipped from the silhouettes of buildings and old rooftops noiselessly, the silver of his helmet and gloves catching and glinting briefly in streetlights when he passed beneath their inverted shadows. The girl's voice. It was beautiful.
He shook his head, crouched at the edge of a dumpster, prepared to leap to the roof above. He squinted through the darkness. He couldn't be distracted by something as trivial as this! But, like a faint melody, her voice carried across the slight breeze and he found that he couldn't move on, was captive to her wavering plea:
"… and it's been real nice running into you, but I need to go. Please."
He could make out the shapes of three figures in the dark; edging closer, he clenched his teeth of a wicked smile of triumph. Some part of him had hoped he would encounter Mysterion - if only to test out his newest weapon. But something was wrong here. Because, apart from Mysterion, there was Cartman - the Coon - the professor's nemesis … once ally … multiple times betrayer. And…
Her. The girl who had spoken in a quivering voice, who wrung her hands and slouched forward defensively; who was quite clearly afraid.
Normally fear would leave the professor chuckling. But not now. He knew fear at the hands of these so-called heroes, had been beaten bloody more than once, and realized that whatever their intentions might be - this girl was not safe here. And she - bother the rest of the world, but she - must never be allowed to suffer as he had suffered.
He didn't wait to think why he should care about this stranger. This human, whose existence was ultimately meaningless in the overarching disorder of the cosmos. Because the simple truth was that, beyond explanation, he did care. Streaking from the shadows, he dodged into circles of light cast by the streetlamps on silent feet and, sending streaks of electric currents through his armor and cloak - for dramatic effect; they served no practical purpose - not yet - announced himself with a malicious howl of laughter.
Mysterion and the Coon turned, knowing well the voice of their arch-nemesis.
"Chaos!" Mysterion instinctively moved between the crackling fingers of electricity emanating from the professor's cloak and Marjorine; he could take the current - she wouldn't survive. "What are you doing here?"
"Who cares why he's here!" Cartman snapped. His eyes took on a wicked glint. His fingers glistened, tightening into fists. "Alright, asshole - come and get it!"
"Not here to fight. Not you." Professor Chaos tilted his head slightly. "Only him. Only Mysterion. And neither of you touches her. Understood?"
Mysterion glowered and Cartman began to laugh. "Okay, seriously - not fair if he gets to talk. I'll laugh." Still doubled over with mirth he added, "Fuck, dude - we'll beat you up, then her. You get to watch. This'll be - "
"No one touches her," hissed Chaos. "And you, Coon - you won't get me this time." His hands began to tremble with barely-controlled power. He'd meant to use his talents on Mysterion. But the Coon seemed more deserving, when all was said and done. He, after all, had first threatened the girl who now huddled in Mysterion's shadow. He had brought the trembling thread of fear into her voice.
And something - some dark, protective instinct - had so taken root in Chaos' mind that he could not shake free of it. Any and all effort would be toward protecting her; he had no concern for himself.
The tendrils of electricity emanating from his cloak crackled and brightened against the darkness. Neither Mysterion nor the Coon realized - or fully appreciated - the fact that Professor Chaos could indeed command the elements, bending them to his will in ways that all but defied the laws of an ordered universe. Now that he had someone to protect beyond himself, he was not afraid to unleash the full power available at his fingertips.
"Fuck." Eric Cartman took a step back, suddenly afraid. This was no new science experiment gone wrong; this was something different, truly terrible - truly dangerous. Chaos advanced slowly, deliberately; the tips of his fingers glowed with sudden energy. The air seemed charged; a harsh wind rose, swirling about him like a small cyclone, holding him as if in a vice. Whether from fear or the force of such an onslaught, Cartman couldn't tell - but he was powerless to move.
"Seriously - not cool - dude - seriously - "
Mysterion darted from the half-shadows and slid toward Chaos, hoping to strike a blow, to deter this attack on Cartman; he hated Cartman, but the idiot shouldn't have to die -
Chaos flicked one hand almost lazily; where electricity had crackled, now fire roared and spit, hissing furiously through the night and darkness like a rampaging beast. Before Mysterion could react, he was engulfed in flames and, blinking against the white-hot heat - brighter and more vicious than reckoning - he could think only that he had sorely underestimated his foe's abilities …
Marjorine was rooted to the spot with terror. She had lost her opportunity to run and a small part of her knew it. With morbid fascination she watched as a spinning gyre of flame encircled the briefly-illuminated silhouette of Mysterion - and then he was gone, lost to the mass of hungry fire. The night reeked of smoke and fear and burning things.
But she could not move. Her feet would not obey. Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. Her teeth were clenched, eyes wide in a silent cry of fear.
And then whatever vortex held Eric in its grasp was released with a wide sweep of the professor's arm; despite his weight, he flew several feet and crashed headfirst into the rail of the nearby bench - the same one he'd been lounging on not so long ago. He lay still; a pool of blood formed at his head, darkening the pavement.
Professor Chaos shrugged, and the night was suddenly still. The last bits of energy were discharged from his trembling fingers, harmlessly absorbed into the cold concrete. No more electricity crackled; no more wicked winds blew. The air was again cold, and Marjorine began to shiver.
"He'll live," were Chaos' first words as he nudged Eric's still form with one silver-booted toe. Nothing was said about the smoldering pile of ashes which moments before had been a living, breathing human being.
He turned fully to face her then, mask gleaming in the lamplight and obscuring his face. His expression was unreadable; Marjorine didn't want to know why his blue eyes - much the same shade as her own - glittered. He held out his hands, not quite touching her. "I won't hurt you. Not like he tried to."
Tears sprang hot and fresh to Marjorine's eyes. She couldn't speak. Shudders coursed through her, silent sobs, and she shook her head fiercely, struggling to comprehend the horrors of the night. "Please …"
Please what? Don't hurt me? Let me go?
After some time she opened weary eyes, blinking against the tears which blurred her vision. Chaos had not moved. He stood near enough to her that she could hear his breathing, slow and deep, and could smell something like the air when lightning strikes. The shaking had not stopped, and she curled her arms about her bony shoulders for warmth.
Chaos stared at her - the tears trickling from eyes squinted against darkness, pain, horror; he took in her frail, trembling form and wished there was something he could do to dispel her fear. Because inadvertently he had frightened her as much as the Coon; he had as much caused her suffering as the two heroes from whom he'd tried to protect her.
Tried and failed miserably.
He sighed. He knew only how to cause terror and bring destruction; he knew little in the ways to comfort another. But - she was shaking with cold, and that, at least, he knew how to remedy.
Professor Chaos shrugged the cape from his shoulders, unhooking it and sending small, radiating waves of warmth through the heavy folds of fabric, reinforced with a titanium alloy and woven throughout with strands of impenetrable metals. It was good protection; immediately, he missed its weight against his shoulders and felt dreadfully exposed.
But she needed it more than him.
With the lightest of touches born from years of delicate experiments and tinkering, he settled the cloak against her shoulders. It occurred to him that he didn't even know her name.
He saw her face relax as the warmth spread across her shoulders. Slowly her arms uncurled and hung uncertainly at her sides. She stared at him, wide- and teary-eyed, wondering at his kindness. Was it? Perhaps not. But as the sirens began to wail - attracted, no doubt, by the strange lights and wisps of smoke still clinging to the air - and he turned to flee into the darkness, she raised one hand in a small gesture of farewell and gratitude. It was all she could do.