Hey guys! You know the drill, by now-- I'd like to give a quick thanks to all my excellent supporters, praisers, and general readers. I know there aren't many of you, at least compared to some other stories, but that has never mattered to me. Even if only one person was reviewing the story and wanted to see more, I'd still keep writing-- at least until I run out of ideas, and I don't think that'll happen. Once this mind starts going, trying to stop it is as useless as dissolving toilet paper.

Last time, we found out who the healer was. It ended with a brutal attack on Butters . . . And continues now with the resulting fight. I'll try not to make it three years long. But as long as I've been preparing to write this scene, I'm not sure how well I'll do. J

Oh, and by the bye . . . If you guys even read these things, I have a special message to relay. I'd like to give a special thanks to the one of you that dropped me a helpful PM about my punctuation (you know who you are)-- it was much appreciated, and well used. As serious of a writer as I consider myself, I try to display good English in any writing that I do, rather it be a fan fiction or one of my novels. I have tried my best to use your knowledge in this chapter, and though I might not have had much of a chance to explore it (just look at all the shouting in this chapter), I just want you to know that your help was well needed and appreciated.

I don't own South Park. And I did not create these powers (save for Butters'). Credit for them goes to Charmed.

So here it is: Chapter 4! Enjoy!

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Chapter 4: The Test

In the few seconds of blackness between points of teleportation, Kyle felt his mind begin to wander. It would have been stupendous if it had wandered onto thoughts of victory, happiness, or perhaps getting to keep his life-- but, of course, he could never be that lucky. They wandered onto nothing but danger. Nothing but the danger he was getting plunged into right now, and the all too possible consequences.

He had hit his head last time. Not just hit it, but been bashed in it, hard enough that he remembered a feeling like his jaw had detached from his skull. And as much as that was hard to forget, what had it been like during his stay in the hospital? During those long, dreary days, fading in and winking out like the sun through a blind-covered window? It was hard to say, because he remembered nothing. Nothing besides blinding, exquisite pain, and brief periods of coherence in which his awareness was blotted by the hallucinations of morphine.

And when I finally snapped out of it, the room was covered with flowers and balloons, He thought, feeling the ground touch beneath his feet once more. The rough carpet snagged the tips of his shoes, causing him to slightly stumble. And my parents were there, telling me they'd almost lost me. Everybody thought I was going to die.

When the familiar surroundings of Butters' room appeared in his vision, Kyle, for a moment, was allowed to believe that this painful part of his past was well behind him. There was the teal carpet, as unscathed as always. The Lego table, sitting undisturbed next to the closet.

However, when the fog before his vision faded and reality rang in his head like a bell, he realized that that awful nightmare wasn't so far behind him.

The carpet was speckled with something. In the dark it was impossible to tell exactly what it was, but the smell in the air was heavy like iron. The Lego table had teetered onto its side, spilling colorful bricks over the floor like scattered casualties.

And it was when Kyle looked on the bed that he saw Butters. It was this sight that helped him realize for sure what the substance on the carpet was-- because Butters was covered with it. He was covered in the brightest blood he had ever saw, bright like florescent lighting, from the top of his hair to the tips of his socks. There seemed to be no single location for it, either- it simply seemed to be there, as if leaking from every pore on his body.

Kyle gave an unintentional gasp. Unintentional, because the air was simply sucked from his lungs, like a rude and unwarranted blow to the chest. It was enough to see Butters lying there on the bed, bleeding, but it was worse to see the condition of his force field. In the state the boy was in, it was a miracle he was still holding the thing up at all . . . But it was there. Flickering, but there, and sputtering like a burnt-out light bulb.

And, perhaps most horrific of all, was the man standing by Butters' bed. He stood next to the force field, his own face bloody but intact, as if waiting for it to expire. Kyle's pulse drummed in his throat when he realized that was exactly what the man was doing.

The man turned to face them. His features widened with surprise, with outrage, but Kyle was too stunned to move. Too terrified. He was paralyzed where he stood, his hand clamped around Eric Cartman's calf in a death-like vice, his free hand a balled-up fist buried in his lower back. He would have moved if he was able, would have done anything but stood there and stared at this man who obviously meant to deliver his death . . . But there was something about the look in his eye that froze Kyle like a statue.

That look, it's . . . He thought, trying to swallow through a throat that was suddenly way too dry. He was aware of the tension around him, buzzing like a beehive, but his mind seemed covered in a paralyzing shellac. That's the look the other one gave me right before he bashed my head in. Right before he should have killed me.

Kyle's sudden paralysis was numbing and unbreakable. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Butters' attacker.

He was moving faster than Kyle could comprehend. Before he could even fulfill his natural instinct, that to raise his hands to the level of his chest, the man was running at him, his face distraught with outraged surprise. His mouth was fixed in an angry snarl.

The man yelled something. In the fog of his disillusionment, Kyle wasn't exactly sure what that something was; but the words he thought he heard spiked cold terror into his heart.

"The exploder!" He heard, as the man's long-legged stride brought him closer and closer. "It's the exploder! Get him before he--"

Get him? He had time to think. Why, that would mean there was more than--

"Get out of the way, Kyle!" He heard. The next thing he knew Stan had jumped in front of him and knocked him backward, spilling him painfully onto his backside. He bit his tongue, but the pain was numb-- he could only focus on Stan, and how he'd suddenly appeared in front of him. How he'd jumped in the path of a man who clearly had murder on his mind.

"Stan!" He shouted, unable to do anything but reach for him. "Stan, no!"

"Get Butters out of here, Cartman! Before his force field runs out!" Stan yelled behind him. He swung an arm and, not surprisingly, the man charging him went flying backwards, toward a window which seemed all too willing to receive him.

Kyle turned to where Cartman had been standing. Not surprisingly, the fatass was gone; probably teleported away to the safety of his bed and the blessings of fresh Cheesy Poofs. Not that it mattered, now. As the sharp ringing of glass breaking into a million pieces tore through his head like a blade, he realized without hesitation the thing he had to do-- without Cartman here, it was a no-brainer.

I have to get to Butters, He thought, pulling himself to his feet. The man that had attacked was gone, but Stan still stood protectively in front of him. His heart swelled with love for his brave, brave friend. I have to get to Butters, and get him out of here. Before someone else attacks.

Kenny's whereabouts never once struck his mind. He dashed past Stan to the sprawled-out form of moaning, bleeding Butters, feeling as if his feet were a blur beneath him. The force field was, impressively, still up . . . But flickering ever stronger now, and shrank to a width that was barely more than a film over Butters' body. It was still more than enough to keep someone out.

Realizing this, Kyle shouted to Butters. He could only hope the boy wasn't completely unconscious.

"Put your shield down, Butters! Put it down or I can't get to you!" He yelled, seeing the blessings of the bed closer and closer. In the intensity of the darkness and the flurry of his panic, he seemed to be moving in slow motion . . . But the glint of the moonlight on the brass grew larger and more defined.

He saw the force field flicker one last time, and then disappear entirely. Whether Butters had intended it or not didn't matter; it was what he needed just the same.

"Hold on!" He shouted, grabbing hold of the bed rail. "Hang on, I'm--"

Stan's voice suddenly boomed from behind him. It took no more than a second for everything to go all to hell . . . But in that very second he had time to wonder why Stan's voice sounded that way. So loud, and so scared.

"Kyle! Look out behind you!"

He stopped immediately. Butters' form on the bed seemed so close and yet so far, like a treasure dedicated to the Gods.

"Stan? What's the--MMPH!" Before he could get another word out, there was a hand clamped over his mouth. The other was wrapped strongly around his chest, so tight and so hard that it felt more like an iron bar. He had to look down to convince himself it was actually an arm. It was unnaturally cold and firm, so much so that it sprang goose bumps to his flesh.

His hand was jerked off the bedrail faster than he could comprehend. He immediately tried to scream, panicking as his mouth filled with ice-cold, salty flesh.

"MMMPPPH!"

His captor jerked him around. His heart sank when he saw the reason for Stan's warning rather than action.

There was another man holding his best friend. He was big, probably the biggest man he'd ever seen . . . And he had Stan's arms twisted behind his back, wrenching them in a way that was obviously painful. Tears collected in his best friend's eyes, threatening to spill on a dime.

The horror of seeing his best friend in agony wasn't even the worst of it. It was also the knowing that, with his arms twisted behind his back, Stan was virtually helpless to use his power.

Kyle's thoughts didn't even come near using his own.

He wrenched his head to the side. He managed to dislodge his captor's hand, despite the raw strength of it.

"Let go of him, you asshole!" He shouted, struggling for all he was worth. He gathered his strength and jumped against the holding arms as hard as he could, but to no avail. "Let him go right now or I swear I'll--"

Blow him up, Kyle thought, still wiggling like a wet noodle. Still struggling in vain, feeling his lungs burn from exertion. I'll blow the asshole up.

The normal fear was absent. He raised his hands and gestured, not thinking once about the possible consequences.

There was a sound like a firecracker exploding; That sharp little burst of noise that you can't expect no matter how many times you experience it. He felt his captor jerk, startled, against him, but Kyle was incapable of doing any such thing. He was incapable of doing anything except concentrating on where his explosion would land.

Right in the center of his head. Please, He thought, feeling traitor tears burning behind his own eyes. Stan was in the bottom of his vision, struggling and cursing, but he paid him no attention. It would only risk the explosion landing on him. Split his head like a watermelon. Make him let Stan go.

The explosion erupted right next to the man's head, blasting Butters' doorframe into thousands of tiny wooden splinters. Kyle squinted as chips of wood stung his cheeks, his eyes, his arms. The heat from the explosion, sweltering and humid, pelted against his face.

His target was not a part of this well-done piece of work. He jumped aside just in time, making Stan scream as his shoulders ground in their sockets.

"Oww! Son of a bitch!"

"Stan!" Kyle shouted, reaching for him. He readied for another explosion, once again not taking the time to be afraid. He could feel the power building inside of him with his urgency, so big and so tempting that it couldn't be ignored. By the time it was gone, both these assholes were going to have sludge for brains.

If I could just concentrate, really hard, I'm sure I could aim right, He thought, eyes darting to and fro from the struggling Stan to his rattled captor. If I could just calm down enough to--

"Restrain his hands, you moron! He can't use his powers if you restrain his hands!" Stan's captor shouted, dragging Stan over closer to Butters. It was unclear what this man had in store for them, but it was quite clear to Kyle that he planned on at least snapping Stan's neck. One of his hands was resting on his best friend's cheek, the other still struggling to hold the thrashing arms.

"Restrain his hands, and then kill him! Now!"

No! Kyle thought, struggling even harder. But it was too late; he felt those iron, stone-cold hands clamping on his wrists, squeezing down so hard that the bones ground together like little rocks. He attempted to flex his hands through this, trying to set off an explosion or at least a freeze before his captor got a good grip, but it was suddenly so painful to do so that he could do nothing but scream. One of his captor's hands made its way to rest on his jaw, in a heavy, sure way that made Kyle certain of what he intended to do.

Break my neck, He thought, his pulse buzzing rapidly in his throat. He's going to break my neck, just like the other's going to do to Stan . . . And I won't even have time to scream.

His natural-born stubbornness flared into his head. This was followed by an immediate refusal to lose his life, and a burning persistence to save Stan's.

He twisted his arms to the side. It was painful as hell, but he was mildly flexible and had the advantages of being young. He doubted the bozo behind him could keep up-- that is, if the man was human. Certain things about this evening were beginning to make him doubt that.

"Let go of me, you asshole!" He demanded, aware that the requests were hollow and useless. That didn't matter. It was all a part of the fight, and he did not plan on giving up. At least not until he was dead.

And dead he would soon be, if he couldn't get away.

Through the struggles, he tried to pay attention to Stan's situation. It surprised him when he saw Stan not struggling, as he himself was doing with every fiber of his being; but being quiet and calm, his head dropped toward the floor in every semblance of defeat. It was something so unlike Stan that Kyle, for a moment, believed he was hallucinating. It could have been the rapid pulse drumming in his head, he thought, or maybe the rough weariness that constant struggles were putting on him. But when he focused on the image longer, keeping his eyes fixed all the time through his writhing and tugging, it never changed. Stan was completely still.

Stan had given up.

Kyle gave a powerful lurch against his captor's arms. In the heat of his passion he nearly succeeded in breaking free, only to be stopped by the collar of his shirt.

"Stan! " He shouted desperately, feeling himself being tugged ruthlessly back towards his captor. His wrists screamed and cried. The collar of his pajamas dug uncomfortably into the base of his throat. All of this was unacknowledged in the horror of seeing Stan so accepting. "Stan, don't give up! He's going to kill you! He's--"

His screams stopped in his throat for two reasons. One, because his captor kneed him in the middle of the back so hard that his lungs shriveled into what felt like little prunes; and two, because Stan had looked up from the floor.

What struck Kyle first was the quality to his best friend's gaze. It was a quality not normally present in this particular set of eyes; a quality that did not belong in the kind-hearted, give-you-the-shirt-off-my-back persona of Stanley Randall Marsh. The bright blue eyes, normally kind and twinkling, were flat and dead. In the backs of them, buried deep like some forgotten secret, were the slight stirrings of hostility and rage.

What struck Kyle next was where he had seen the look before. It had been about a month ago, he was sure; before that awful in-and-out month in the hospital in which his life had been juggled by the precision of several well-trusted machines. It had been just before he'd hit his head and almost died; just before everything had went all to hell, and taken the five of them with it.

Last time, when that look crossed his eyes, things just went flying, Kyle thought, his skin suddenly sweating beneath the unnatural frigidness of his captor's body. He didn't even have to move his hands. It's like he lost control, and things just went--

"Watch out!" Kyle heard one of the men yell. He couldn't tell which-- it seemed as if he were listening from miles away. "His eyes! Something's happening to his eyes!"

As if in a confirmation of this, Stan squinted. Not significantly; just enough so that it seemed as if he were reading uncomfortably small print. In a welcome confirmation of Kyle's suspicion, he felt a vivacious tug at his collar as the hand holding him there was ripped viciously away, taking a piece of the cloth with it.

Raw surprise defeated his ability to think. It was only when he felt the hands at his wrists being forced away as well, twisting the bones and forcing a moan out of him, that he realized what was truly happening.

He's losing control, He thought, feeling another dramatic yank at his wrists. He himself was jerked back slightly at this, but a few of the attacker's fingers slipped from the grip. He hissed with pain. All of the fear has finally caught up to him, and his body is acting out in the will to survive. Just like it did last time.

He thought about the things those eyes had done last time, when things had become their worst. There was Cartman, being flung about half a mile and breaking his arm in the fall. The truck that had somehow been turned over, and moved about five yards down the block. Not to mention the several small animals that had been splattered against various hard surfaces.

However, horrific as the memory was, there was only one thing Kyle could think.

This loss of control was very welcome. And it couldn't have come soon enough.

He felt one last tug and his wrists were free. He felt his captor go flying, and he went part of the way with him . . . Only to thump to the ground halfway through the journey. The man kept going, and judging by the large thump he heard take place on the wall behind him, he could guess he finished it.

His wrists were suddenly freed and useable. They throbbed and screamed, each individual bone complaining in simultaneous symphony about the impossible angles they'd been bent into. Were they broken? He wasn't sure; he only knew that he was about to find out. Because there was no way they were going to be able to get out of this unless he did.

Before he could even manage to pull himself from the floor, he heard Stan's captor. The voice was low and slightly bitchy, but the message still impacted him the same.

"Oh, you little bastard," He hissed violently, grabbing Stan again by the jaw. This time hard enough that Kyle heard his best friend whimper, despite the danger of his current state. "I'm going to snap your neck like a--" Kyle never got to hear what he was going to snap Stan's neck like. At the instant of hearing the other man speak, his instincts took over for him.

"No!" He shouted, shooting up from the floor. Before a thought struck his mind his hands had shot out in front of him, and the man's head vaporized in a pretty shower of purple and burgundy-red.

I hit him, Kyle thought, staring at the thin pink mist with something like wonder glittering in his eyes. It picked up darts of stray moonlight through the shattered window, sent them off like strobe lights. I actually hit him. I hit my target. Right on the nose.

The headless body holding Stan shuddered. The muscles relaxed slowly and the knees gave out, sending it to the floor like a puddle of sludge. It hit the ground behind him with a hollow thud, the limbs still twitching slightly as if electrocuted. Blood pumped from the stump of the neck in a dull, dreary pattern.

Somehow, it seemed oddly anti-climactic.

Kyle stared at the headless body behind his best friend until the movement stilled. By then, the attacker that had been thrown against the wall was gaining his feet, preparing to charge them again.

"Kyle!" He heard Stan yell, pointing. "Kyle, get rid of him!"

Kyle turned around. The man was bloody, his head a nest of gore and hair, but intact. And completely conscious. Not to mention gaining his feet slowly, trembling like a ballet dancer with weak knees, holding his palms out before him as if to prove a set of clean hands.

Something danced between the opened palms. Something little and scary that reminded Kyle of static electricity-- and proved the man's humanity to be nothing but a jip. This man wasn't human. He wasn't sure what he was, but definitely not human.

This would have been enough to excuse murder in Kyle's mind. However, when he went to raise his hands to deliver the death-giving explosion, he was terrified to feel them plastered helplessly to his sides. Not with rope, or arms, or anything of the solid world . . . But with the manic emerging of fear.

He could only stare at the attacker, knowing that he was supposed to do something but not able to wrap his mind around the what. He'd executed a near-perfect explosion seconds before, yes, but was that just wishful thinking? Was it just a stroke of luck, brought on by his panic and the heat of the moment?

I could have hit Stan when I did that. And I could hit him now, too. Just like I did with Kenny, He thought, feeling his hands creep slowly behind his back. The images of Kenny's gory death invaded his mind like an unwelcome stranger, sending awful shudders down his spine. If I do it again, it's just tempting fate.

"Kyle, what's the matter with you? Blow the son of a bitch to next week!" Stan squalled, becoming a little jumpier the closer the man came. He grabbed Kyle's shoulder and tugged at his shirt. "Come on!"

Kyle bunched his hands into fists. He hadn't known it was possible, but he could taste his heart. "I can't, Stan. I can't do it! What if I hit you?"

"Dude, you didn't before! Just do it!"

"No!"

The man came closer, those strange things coming from his hands leaping ever higher. Kyle had never seen such a thing before, but he had a distinct idea that if he were to touch them with those hands, they'd feel the equivalent of 50,000 volts surging through their small, underdeveloped bodies. There would be nothing left of them but charred hair and spare bits of smoking bone. If even that. It was questionable as to why the man hadn't used this ability before, when he had Kyle totally helpless in his grip, but it might have been a similar situation to Stan's abilities when things got out of hand. His eyes only worked as a medium when he was severely threatened or angered. Maybe this man's abilities to change his hands into sparkplugs were about the same.

However, what disturbed him more was the fact that the man was smirking. Not frowning in outrage as before, but smirking.

"That's it, you little bastard. Keep those hands behind your back," He chided, advancing a little faster. Stan yelped and dragged Kyle backward, toward the far wall. But it didn't help. The man would catch them eventually, if one of them didn't do something to stop him. "Don't try to fight what's inevitable."

Stan swung an arm. The man went flying backward again, smashing hard into the wall. This time, his shoulders broke through a little, and blood dotted the air in a fine mist.

"Go check on Butters! I'll finish him off!" Stan ordered, watching the piled-up heap begin to pull itself off of the floor. It was clear that Stan's telekinetic throws weren't as effectual on him as they normally were, but they were definitely taking their toll. One of the man's pupils had clearly blown, indicating a high degree of brain damage.

Go check on Butters. Okay. That's a good idea.

He scurried toward the forgotten bed, noting the slow, hollow movements of Butters' chest. It meant life, but probably not much of it. The boy would most definitely need a hospital within the next hour. And if that wasn't unpleasant enough, the nagging pain in his wrists gave Kyle the idea that he would need one, as well. What a pleasant, pleasant cycle this was becoming.

I'm going to kick Cartman's ass, He thought, climbing up onto the bed.

He heard the buzzing of electricity again, and Stan's grunt of exertion as he swung an arm. The man crashed into the wall again, moaning in the highest degree of pain. Just where the hell were Butters' parents? Unless this whole thing had lasted a lot shorter than he thought it had-- a possibility that was not totally mute, he thought, because things like these seemed to last a minute and feel like a mile-- his parents surely would have heard the commotion.

Unless they just don't care, He thought, scooting next to Butters.

It was relieving to finally see where the blood was coming from. Relieving, but still horrifying. Most of it was coming from his nose, a gash on his forehead, and his smashed, split-up lips, but there was a lot more that remained unaccounted for. Some could have come from the meter-long slash down his forearm. More still could have come from his right leg, which appeared roughly the same as it might if it had freshly emerged from a meat grinder.

Kyle's eyes watered as he gulped back vomit. Uck. I just watched a man's head explode, and I can't deal with a little blood.

He began to gently shake Butters, trying to bring back his consciousness. Meanwhile, from behind him, he heard one last crash and then silence. Stan's heavy breathing was the only sound that he heard, and it sounded unhealthily labored. As if he'd been running a marathon and been forced to stop in the middle of the track, collecting himself with his hands perched over his knees.

"Damn it!" Stan wheezed. Aah, so that was it. The asthma. Stan might be needing a little hospital time of his own, by the time this was all over.

"Stan? Are you okay?" Kyle asked, bending down closer to Butters. Trying to listen to his breathing, but hearing nothing but little squeaks. This might just be a complication of the blood clotting his airways, but in situations such as these it was always best to assume the worst. "What happened? I don't hear him anymore."

"He got away, is what happened. Just disappeared, into thin air. He's gone," Stan managed to say, only to erupt into several harsh patterns of breathing after the sentence was over. He coughed a couple of times, the choked, hard little bursts that always prompted his mother to make him sit down for a while with a glass of ice water. The warning signs of a coming asthma attack . . . Or the beginning signs of a false alarm.

Please. No asthma attacks, Kyle thought, tilting Butters' head to free more space for breathing. Not now. I can't do this alone. I'll go crazy.

"Sit down, Stan. You need to calm down. I think it's over now,"

No, I don't think that at all. I think we need to get the hell out of here, before our luck runs out, but I definitely don't think it's over.

Instead of saying this out loud, he shook Butters just a wee bit harder. The boy made a small noise-- a definite moan, if he'd ever heard one-- but did nothing more than that. There was no flutter of the eyelids. No movement of the arms.

He needs a hospital, is what he needs. There's no way to get around it.

"Is he that bad?" Stan asked, still wheezing and choking with coughs. Kyle turned to look at him and he was clutching the base of his throat, cradling a face that was pale with blood-red cheeks. "Should I go get his parents? They'll be a little freaked out, but . . ."

Kyle looked around the room. It looked like the disaster area it had been before, when he'd been turned around and facing the music . . . Minus the splattered body that had littered the wall next to the bed. Every inch of it was gone, from the biggest part of the corpse to the smallest swatch of bone. Vanished, as if into thin air. Just like the other one had done.

Oh, no. Let's hope he wasn't still alive like the other one.

Somehow, he doubted that.

Without the body littering the floor, the room still looked like a tornado had whirled through it. The picture window was completely shattered, even missing parts of the frame where the first attacker's body had been hurled through. The doorframe that had stood in the way of Kyle's first explosion and the blown-up attacker was splintered and faulted, leaving a chunk of the wall pulverized into dust. The place where Stan had repeatedly slammed attacker 2 was buckled in and bulging with insulation.

Something about the picture struck Kyle as funny. He wasn't exactly sure what it was, but he had a feeling it had to do with what Butters' parents would think as they got their first glimpses of the battle zone.

I'm not sure what they'll think, but they'll find a way to link it all to him, bruised and bloody or not, he thought, suddenly no longer seeing the humor. I don't know how, but they always do.

Stan, still wheezing, had gained his feet. He was noticeably swaying, and still gasping for air, but apparently intended on fetching Butters' parents. Fat chance. Just by looking at his best friend, Kyle had an idea he'd die of suffocation before he even made it down the stairs.

"Dude, come here. Watch Butters," He said exasperatedly, leaping off the bed. As he passed Stan he clapped him on the shoulder, wincing as his (most likely) shattered wrist cried bloody murder at the pressure. Shut up, He told it, biting back tears of pain. You'll get fixed eventually, but for now I need you to work. "I'll go and get Butters' parents. The last thing we need is for you to die of an asthma attack trying to go down the stairs."

Stan, still whooping and coughing, shook his head. Fine beads of sweat had now broken out at his hairline, stabbing a cold dash of pity into Kyle's heart.

"No, dude. We need to stay together. What if another one of those guys attacks us again?"

Kyle briefly stopped to consider this. What if another of those guys did attack them again? And worse yet, while he was gone? With Stan in the throes of an asthma attack and Butters already half-dead, they'd be nothing but sitting ducks. Stan could probably hold the attackers at bay for a little by using his telekinesis, but how long would it be until the exertion catalyzed his asthma attack into something deadly?

Probably not long at all.

But listen to your instincts, Kyle, Kenny told him, from deep in his brain. He wasn't sure where Kenny had disappeared to during all this, hadn't even really thought of it during these last crucial minutes, to be truthful, but the muffled voice seemed louder than ever. He could do nothing but listen. Your instincts tell you that Butters needs a hospital right away, but do they tell you anything else? Do you feel like you need to stay here with Stan?

Kyle looked at the floor. He felt Stan touch his shoulder, apparently in concern, but he ignored it. It was a simple question. Did he feel like he needed to stay here? They'd just escaped the very brink of death, and he was scared and uncomfortable and every length of worried . . . But were they out of the water, yet? Or was Butters coming closer and closer to the light at the end of the tunnel?

I've known the answer since I first approached Butters. He's dying. He needs a doctor.

That was the last of his debate on the issue.

"Stay here. I'll be back in a second," He called behind him, running for the door. Stan reached a hand feebly behind him, obviously intending to call him back, but didn't. Kyle suspected he simply didn't have the breath. "Watch Butters. And stay still, damn you,"

That was the last he heard from Stan. He ran from the door with all the speed he could muster, thanking God for the many afternoons of basketball practice. He wouldn't be playing for a long time, thanks to the pecker that had snapped both his wrists, but the shape it had broken him into had never been more useful.

****************************************************************

Slicer looked at the man in front of him with disgust wrinkling his lip. Dupree had gotten out luckier than the other two-- with his life, which was dully impressive, considering his weakness-- but his luck hadn't surpassed theirs by far. Looking at his blown pupil and constantly twitching mouth, instant death might have been mercy compared to the slow end he was now likely to face.

What was funny about it was that he could instantly tell where the wounds had come from. It was a no-brainer, really.

"So the mover got a hold of you, huh?" He asked, not bothering to keep the amusement out of his voice. Dupree's twitching, ruined face drooped in confused, insignificant anger. "Nasty little booger, isn't he?"

"Nasty, yes. But not near so nasty as the exploder. He killed Nigel practically without even looking. Blew his head right off."

Slicer nodded, trying to ignore the nervousness that cramped his gut. It was there, no matter how much he tried to ignore it . . . And flaring like a bonfire on dry wood. It wasn't uncommon for an exploder to be able to land an occasional hit or two, but at the age of eight? An age when most kids were scared to stray away from their mommies in the dark?

No worries. If Dupree wasn't killed too, that's a good sign. If the brat had complete control of his abilities, he'd have sent him off to hell in the same hand basket as Nigel.

This brought a little relief . . . But not enough.

"All right. And before you die on me--" He smirked widely at Dupree's offended, violated gape before continuing-- "Did you find out about the healer? Have they met him yet?"

Dupree gave a small smile. Or, at least, what passed for a smile in his ruined face; It could have been a grimace, for all Slicer knew.

"No. They haven't met him," Said Dupree, his voice jumping a little with subtle excitement. His bad eye popped and rolled into his head, putting another leap on the short timeline until death. "But they've met her. She's the mover's sweetheart. And all too eager to help."

Slicer's heart fluttered with excitement. He couldn't help a genuine smile of relief, which washed gradually over his face like a soft blade chiseling through the toughest stone.

Well, hell. Hallelujah. The poor bastard's saved us all. We can get rid of her, now, and end the whole damn operation.

He stopped for a moment, smiling. Dupree seemed a bit nervous by this smile, and had every God-given right to be.

Might as well show him a bit of mercy.

He killed him with a single dagger to the heart, thrown by a short flicker of the wrist. He died without even the slightest scream-- without even the chance to scream-- and his body vaporized like the head of his brother. How helpful that avenue of dying was, Slicer thought. It left such an astounding lack of messes.

And without the mess to worry about, he had only one thing. One thing besides the lack of success they'd had tonight, as his members had been destroyed by not all of the inheritors, but only two . . . one thing that made grim prospects suddenly seem a little brighter.

The mover's sweetheart, is she? He thought, wishing he had a photo of her as well. He didn't need it, but . .. He always liked to see the face of his most deliberate target. It sort of made the murder more justified. If that's so, her death will have more of a negative impact on them than I'd originally thought. Once we kill her, he'll be crushed. Heartbroken.

He smirked. Once again, he wished had a picture in front of him; but this time, one of the mover. So he could extinguish his cigarette on his young, childishly-handsome face, and imagine that it was the real thing. Hell, why not kill two birds with one stone? Might as well have the exploder's, too.

But that didn't matter anymore. Worrying about them didn't matter anymore.

Now, it was worrying about the healer that mattered.

And as sure as the sky was blue, she'd be impossible to worry about before the next three days were out.

Because her heart would stop beating, by then.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Okay, here we are, at the end of the chapter. Not as long as the last, but harder to end, because I didn't want to leave you guys in a cliffhanger . . . But sorry, my bad. I did. Please don't kill me. ;)

Okay, so I can't really say what the next chapter will be about . .. Alls I know is that Butters will be in the hospital, Kyle's wrists will be in casts and the boy's parents will not be happy with them. Stan's conscience will be tied in a bow, trying to defend Wendy's secret while Butters lies dying in a hospital bed . . . Though defending her secret will, in this situation, do her no good.

Will her secret be revealed in the next chapter? And where is Kenny? Stay tuned to find out!

See you next time!

-Aub