5.

"No more games, no more of your stupid fucking heroics. I will make you regret wasting my time."

~ Craig Tucker.


The South Park PD had the Gazette surrounded within minutes.

Dozens upon dozens of police cruisers lined the street in both directions, their flashing sirens painting the snow in shades of red and blue. Police Chief Token had set up a barricade with a TV monitor of all things, and was watching it with a grim expression on his face. The terrorists — if that's indeed what they were, even now nobody seemed to know — simply kept the cameras rolling after their initial threatening broadcast. There was no message being played now, but the image of the hostages on their knees, with two masked and machine-gun wielding men standing directly behind them, was all the message they needed.

Token didn't know if these maniacs would actually make good on their threats and he really didn't want to find out. He couldn't get the image of Gary Harrison's pale, terrified face as he was forced to read the note the hijackers had passed him out of his mind. Gary Harrison was a born news anchor — his voice hadn't wavered once, even with his obvious distress — but any eagle-eyed person could have seen how badly his hands were shaking, and Token was eagle-eyed indeed. The Police Chief clenched his fists so hard his nails bit bleeding crescents into his palms, trembling with rage. These were the people he'd sworn to protect. It was the oath he'd taken when he'd been promoted to Chief of Police, and yet he'd never felt so helpless and confused. Just who were these assholes, and why did they want Mysterion so badly they'd taken over the Gazette just to lure him in?

Token glanced out into the night, his mouth set in a hard line. He'd never taken Mysterion seriously. As far as he was concerned, the so-called "superhero" was just a lunatic vigilante who had taken it upon himself to do a job that the men and women of the South Park Police Department did every day, and do it badly. Sure, Mysterion had saved a few people, Token grimly allowed him that much, but his off-the-record brand of justice had no place here, not in his town.

Token had promised himself that one day he would find out who Mysterion really was, and when that day happened, no amount of good deeds would be able to save him from the padded prison cell where he belonged. The Police Chief glanced back at the TV monitor, grimacing. Token had never taken Mysterion seriously, but apparently there was someone out there who did, and they meant business. If Mysterion really was the superhero he claimed to be, he had to show up. He had to. Or else they'd all be watching live executions, and Token didn't think he could handle it.

"Sir, what the hell are we waiting for?! Why can't we just storm the building?"

Token sighed, and turned to face Stan Marsh, standing tense as a drawn bowstring behind the barricade of police vehicles. The air was already thick with apprehension and uncertainty, but nowhere was that feeling thicker than with Stan Marsh. His cornflower blue eyes were narrowed, his face was pale and his breaths were ragged puffs of pale white smoke in the icy air. Clyde Donovan stood beside him, considerably calmer but no less worried, his hazel eyes concerned under the brim of the crisp navy police cap he was wearing.

"We've been given the order to stand back, Officer Marsh." Token replied stiffly, glancing up at the building. Stan inhaled sharply, shaking with disbelief.

"Stand back? By who? That doesn't make any fucking sense!"

"By the mayor," Token deadpanned, "and no, it doesn't. But it doesn't matter. The hijackers have already informed us that if we take so much as a step toward the building, they'll shoot the hostages in the head, and it'll be on live TV. They want Mysterion and Mysterion only."

Stan hissed, his face contorting with grief and rage. "Chief...we can't just fucking stand here! What if he doesn't show up?!"

Token sighed. "I don't know. We better pray he does."

Clyde cleared his throat nervously, gently laying a hand on Stan's shoulder. "I'm sure he'll show up, dude. I mean, I know he's a vigilante and all, but there's no way Mysterion would let people get killed on account of him. I mean, that would be totally un-superhero!"

"You don't fucking know that!" Stan snarled, wrenching himself out of Clyde's grasp. Clyde paled a little as Stan whirled on him, his eyes dark with fury. "My fucking fiancée is in there!"

The words were out before he knew it. Stan paused, surprised at himself. Wendy hadn't been his fiancée in months. His feelings for her had faded slowly but surely, the passionate love he'd once felt eventually becoming a comforting kind of fondness. He supposed they both should have seen the writing on the wall. Toward the end they were practically strangers, and the preparations for their wedding — the grand wedding in Paris that Wendy's parents had excitedly bankrolled — were disinterested at best. Breaking it off for good was the best decision they'd ever made as far as Stan was concerned, but he wasn't proud of the fact that Wendy had caught him fucking their wedding planner. Their very male wedding planner. Stan had never been particularly good at being sneaky, though.

Clyde was staring at him with wide eyes. "Whoa, dude! I didn't know you were engaged."

Stan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I meant to say that she's my ex-fiancée," he muttered, "but I still care about her. I'll always care about her."

"Dude," Clyde replied, looking amazed, "you don't mean Wendy Testaburger, do you?" Stan nodded glumly. Whoa, Clyde thought, hoping his shock wouldn't show up on his face. Hearing that Stan had once been engaged was surprising enough, but hearing that he'd once been engaged to Wendy was mind-boggling. Wendy was gorgeous, and even though Clyde had only seen her TV, he definitely thought she was much too good for the likes of Stan Marsh. But besides all that, Clyde had always gotten the impression that Stan preferred to bat for his own team. Whether he did or didn't was none of his business, Clyde wasn't judging, but it had always made for juicy gossip around the station.

"She's in danger," Stan continued, his voice low, "while we're standing around doing nothing!"

"I understand, Marsh." Token said, his own voice harsh. Token sounded angry, but Clyde was willing to bet that the Chief of Police was directing that anger mostly at himself. Token's jaw was tightly clenched, and his dark eyes were hard and bitter.

"I want to end this as much as you do." Token snapped. "Do you really think I like standing here feeling useless? I don't. Our hands are tied, Marsh. Until the situation shifts in our favor, all we can do is wait."

Stan let out a shuddering breath, glancing forlornly up at the building. Rushing in with guns blazing was probably the worst thing they could do considering the circumstances, but Stan looked as if he wanted to take that building down with his bare hands. Clyde couldn't really blame him. If someone he loved had been inside, he would have wanted to do the same thing.

Clyde bit his lip and stared off down the blockaded street. C'mon Tweek, and Mysterion whoever-the-fuck you are, I know you guys are out there! We've got some major shit on our hands, dudes!

Clyde had left Tweek out of his report on Mysterion. He still doesn't know why he did, only that at the time, it had seemed like the right thing to do. His childhood friend was obviously working with the vigilante superhero for reasons Clyde couldn't even begin to imagine, and Token would have wanted to know about it...but Clyde just couldn't give Tweek up. Even though they'd lost contact, Clyde never stopped considering the guy his friend. He just hoped his little omission wouldn't come back to bite him in the ass. After all, from what he'd seen the night Mysterion had knocked him out, Tweek was radically different from the weak little spazoid he'd been in high school.

I hope you know how to use those nines you were packing, Tweek.

Clyde shuddered and turned back to the monitor, trying to ignore the nasty feeling of dread in his gut. He sincerely hoped this wasn't one of those situations where things got worse before they got better.


Red looked out the window and giggled, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"Would you look at that," she said to no one in particular, her brown eyes gleaming with amusement, "they're like a bunch of helpless little ants down there! Gosh, I suppose the doctor really does have Mayor McDaniels in his pocket, hmm?"

"Red." Craig said, a single word spoken in a low, warning tone.

"I didn't say any names!" Red pouted, turning away from the window. "Gosh! If you don't learn to relax, you'll end up in an early grave, sweetie."

Craig didn't even bother to scowl. The tall, dark-haired man was on high alert, his pale blue eyes trained on the entrance to the newsroom, as if he was expecting a SWAT team to come bursting in at any moment. Red honestly didn't know why he was so nervous — her plan had gone off without a hitch, if she did say so herself.

Ugh, men.

Red yawned and walked back to the newsdesk, her thigh-high heeled boots clicking softly. She sank down with a blissful sigh, propped her feet up, and picked up the Vogue magazine she'd found there. The hostages they'd taken were lined up on their knees before the desk, like ducks in a row. Gary Harrison looked like he was about to piss himself. Red hoped he would, just so she could have something to laugh at. Wendy knelt beside him looking equally terrified, but she was holding it together with admirable courage. Mr. Garrison was a...difficult man to read. Red honestly couldn't tell if he was bored or frightened, but so far he'd held his tongue, and that was good enough for her.

Cartman, on the other hand, didn't seem particularly intimidated at all. In fact, the fat prick looked more annoyed than anything, his expression dark and scornful. It was almost as if he was looking down on her, even though he was the one on his knees with a gun to his head. Red glanced at him, smiling coyly. Cartman simply frowned, watching her with defiant, intelligent light brown eyes. Looks like we got a tough one here, Red thought, grinning. How interesting.

"Hey sexy! Did you know leg warmers were back in style?" Red asked, flipping through the glossy pages of Vogue. Craig actually glared at her, which was a pretty good indication of just how much he was on edge. Normally, Craig would have ignored her outright, his devastatingly handsome face utterly expressionless.

"Have you considered the possibility that Mysterion may not show?" Craig demanded, his voice razory with irritation. "This is starting to feel like a dangerous fucking waste of time."

"He'll show up." Red replied, bored. "It's only been, like, fifteen minutes. God, I hope you aren't this impatient in bed."

"What if he doesn't?" Craig snapped, persistent as an attack dog with a death hold. Red rolled her eyes, slapped the magazine down and stood up.

"You are really fucking annoying." Red said, exasperated. "You better be damn glad you're so handsome."

Red swept her eyes over the hostages, considering. When her gaze landed on Wendy she smiled. The dark-haired woman went several shades paler, trembling.

"You," Red said, pointing a finger at Wendy and hooking it in a come-hither gesture, "stand up. Come here."

Wendy uttered a small, hissing sound of fear and shook her head, her eyes pleading No. A hired gun behind her simply grabbed her arm and forced her to her feet, nudging Wendy roughly in the back with the butt of his firearm when she refused to move. Wendy took several halting steps in Red's direction, while Gary and Mr. Garrison watched mutely, sick to their stomachs. Cartman grit his teeth and made a move to rise, but he was quickly forced back on his knees.

"Are the cameras still rolling?" Red demanded, glancing at the two cameramen they'd taken hostage as well. When the men nodded fearfully, Red turned her attention to Wendy, looking her up and down with a cool smirk. Wendy couldn't seem to stop trembling, but she returned Red's gaze bravely enough, her head held high. Red laughed softly and began to slowly circle the woman, like a predator closing in on its prey.

"Miss Testaburger, isn't it?" Red asked, reaching out to run her fingers lightly through Wendy's soft, thick black hair. Wendy shuddered at her touch, pulling away with a sneer of disgust on her lovely face.

"That's right," Wendy tossed back, her voice quavering, but only a little. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Are you proud of yourself, holding innocent people hostage like this?"

Red laughed again, amused. "Gosh, you're a little spitfire, aren't you? How a-dor-able! Hmm, I bet you're a real whirlwind in the sack…"

Wendy colored, her expression darkening. She remained stubbornly silent as Red halted before her, crossing her arms with an unpleasant expression.

"You are unfairly fucking pretty." Red complained, tsking softly. "How many guys do you think have whacked off thinking about you, love? You look like you were one of those stuck-up, perfect, popular girls in school. Tell me, did you ever have to go down on any of your professors? Or are you as smart as you are beautiful?"

Red leaned forward, smiling wickedly. Wendy's clenched her fists, shaking with barely suppressed outrage, her gaze filled with loathing. She wanted nothing more than to claw this woman's eyes out, to wipe that coy, shit-eating smile right off her face. Somehow Wendy knew — as surely as she knew her own name — that if she made a move against her, this woman, this Red, would kill her without hesitation. There was a cruelty about Red so intense it was almost tangible.

"My ass is tighter than yours," Red continued conversationally, "but that's only to be expected. I probably get a little more exercise than you. You have much better tits than I do, though. I'm jealous."

Without warning, Red stuck her hand down Wendy's silk blouse, squeezing her nipples. Wendy gasped in horror and disgust, and then wrenched away so violently she ripped a few buttons. Red threw back her head and laughed, while Wendy shook like a leaf caught in a fierce breeze, covering herself with an incredulous expression.

"What are you doing." Craig asked, his deep voice a monotone. Craig's pale, ice-blue eyes were steely and disapproving.

"Mysterion likes girls," Red answered flippantly, eying Wendy with her previous unpleasant expression, "He'll most definitely show up if we torture this bitch on live television! What do you say, sweetie? Should we force her to suck every dick in the room?"

Craig was silent, but some of the hired guns laughed at Red's suggestion. Wendy felt so sick she thought she was going to cry, but she suspected that was exactly what Red wanted, and she wasn't about to give this horrible bitch the satisfaction.

Mysterion, I know all we ever had was a cheap, tawdry affair...but if you're watching, if you ever cared about me in the slightest, HELP us.

"Fuck you," Wendy hissed.

Red snorted. "Bold words! If I were you, I'd rethink them."

"No," Wendy replied, slowly straightening up, ignoring Gary's mortified look, "go to hell, bitch!"

Red paused, cocking her head. For a moment it looked as if Red were deep in thought, pondering the situation, before she sighed sadly and gestured to the nearest hired gun.

"Shoot her in those perky tits of hers," Red said, plopping back down behind the newsdesk, "and make sure you get it on camera. I don't want Mysterion to miss it."

Oh, God. Wendy's face went slack. The world seemed to blur and then slow to a crawl as a hired gun seized her from behind, his grip hard and unyielding. Wendy was dragged forward with the sound of her heart pounding in her ears (ba-thump, ba-thump), stumbling over her own feet like a child just learning how to walk. The tall, raven-haired man loitering in the background took a sudden step in her direction, his expression stony, and Wendy honestly couldn't tell if he meant to help her or hurt her (ba-thump, ba-thump).

Wendy could hear someone shouting desperately, but the sound was muffled somehow, as if someone had shoved wads of cotton in her ears (ba-thump, ba-thump). It took her a long moment to realize that those shouts were coming from Gary, endless cries of "Stop it, don't hurt her, please!" but he was quickly silenced by a vicious cuff to the side of his face, followed by a brutal kick in the ribs. No, not Gary, he's such a nice guy! Wendy twisted, struggling futilely, too petrified to scream. Her heart was a maddening drumbeat in her ears (ba-thumpba-thumpba-thumpba-thump) and her knees had gone weak.

Wendy thought she heard the raven-haired man issue a command in that deep, authoritative baritone of his, but nothing was making sense to her anymore, nothing quite registered. Don't shoot me, please, don't shoot me, was all she could seem to think.

"EYY!" Cartman suddenly snapped. Wendy had just enough time to see Cartman throw something at the startled Red. It hit the woman right between the eyes with a solid smacking sound, bounced off and fell on the newsdesk. The room went dead silent.

Cartman's...shoe? Wendy thought, frozen in place. Why the hell did Cartman throw his shoe?

Red had gone pale, her eyes wide with disbelief. There was a perfect imprint of a size 10 men's loafer stamped on her lovely face, almost as red as her hair. Cartman glared at her, his expression undeniably haughty. Wendy couldn't believe it.

"Jesus Christ," Cartman said, rolling his eyes. "Would you shut your fucking mouth, you troll-faced, horse-banging, brain-dead skidmark? You aren't impressing anybody, okay? It's just fucking sad. We get it! Your Daddy touched you, and now you spend your days trying to prove you're some kind of badass, when in reality, you're nothing but a vapid, leathery piece of crusty dog shit. I'm so seriouslah, you wouldn't even make a decent cum-dumpster, and I bet that's your only notable skill. So calm your saggy-ass tits, you're embarrassing."

Whoa, Wendy thought, awed.

"Cartman, for fuck's sake." Mr. Garrison said, exhausted. "Did you really have to say what we were all thinking?"

Red slowly rose to her feet, her expression eerily calm. The thought of what she would do next made Wendy feel ill, but the raven-haired man suddenly took her by the arm — his touch surprisingly gentle — and led her away.

"Sit," the man said, his tone brooking no argument. Wendy practically crumpled in relief next to the bleeding Gary, but it was Cartman she was watching, with a concern she never thought she'd feel for the offensive fat ass. Did he say all that just to distract her? No...Cartman would never do anything so selfless.

"What did you say?" Red asked sweetly, her eyes drilling holes in Cartman's face. "I didn't quite catch all that. Do you want to repeat it?"

"Did I stuh-stuh-stutter, skank?" Cartman replied, in a bored tone.

"Red," the raven-haired man said, "don't —"

With a sneer of hatred, Red whipped a pistol out of God-knows-where, aimed it Cartman, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit Cartman in the stomach, rocking him back. Wendy screamed, Mr. Garrison cursed, Gary uttered something that might well have been a prayer and the raven-haired man strode purposefully toward the newsdesk, his long legs eating up the ground.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Craig asked, struggling, honestly struggling, not to lose his temper. "I thought we agreed not to kill anyone. Your bullshit is going to draw too much attention. Why are you so fucking stupid?"

Red rolled her eyes, a smile playing across her pouty lips. Behind her, Gary, Wendy and Mr. Garrison had all jumped up and were kneeling beside Cartman, groaning in a quickly spreading pool of his own blood.

"Good lord, it's just a gut-shot!" Red replied defensively, shrugging her shoulders. "A gut-shot isn't fatal. Painful, yes, but not fatal."

"Oh my God, Eric!" Wendy sobbed, tearing off her silk blouse with badly shaking hands. She pressed the smooth material to Cartman's tummy in a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding, but her blouse was soaked within seconds, and pretty soon her hands were, too. Cartman was gazing up at her with hazy light brown eyes, his expression twisted in a grimace of agony.

"Stupid bitch actually shot me," Cartman groaned, "Someone...kick her in the testicles for me…"

"Eric, why?" Wendy demanded, suddenly infuriated, but Cartman just gave her his old familiar condescending look. Somehow, that only made her cry harder.

"Christ," Cartman muttered, "Wendy...stop crying. We'll be...fucking fine."

Wendy bit her lip, shaking her head, her shoulders trembling with the effort of holding back her sobs. This was probably the first time they'd ever referred to each other by their first names. Eric…

"Don't try to talk, buddy-boy," Gary said softly. His bottom lip was busted and swollen. "Hey, for the record, I always respected you, Cartman."

Cartman groaned. "For...the record, I always hated you, you...Mormon faggot. If we...die, I hope you burn in...fucking hell. Ugh…"

"It's okay, trooper," Gary replied soothingly, "I know you don't mean that."

Mr. Garrison ripped off the Burberry cashmere scarf he'd tied around his neck at a jaunty angle, and pressed it to Cartman's stomach on top of Wendy's blouse.

"You owe me a new scarf, just so you know." Mr. Garrison said, a wry smile on his lips.

Cartman groaned again. "You guys...seriouslah…"

"He's bleeding out." Craig deadpanned, watching the scene, his pale blue eyes narrowed.

"Like I said, he'll be fine," Red replied, unmoved, "I'm sure the fat prick probably wishes he were dead right now, but it takes days to die from a gut-shot." Red re-holstered her pistol and plopped back down, casually picking up the discarded issue of Vogue, as if she hadn't just shot a man in cold blood.

"Ooh, did you know Jennifer Aniston was pregnant?" Red cooed suddenly, flipping through the magazine. Craig grit his teeth and turned away from her in disgust.

Mysterion, Wendy thought, trying not to freak out over how much blood Cartman was losing, please, hurry the fuck up.


Tweek tore through Kenny's duffel bag with a grim expression on his face, carelessly tossing out triple-X rated porn mags with sticky pages, tubes of lubricant, boxes of condoms, the odd book or two and his spare clothes. He dug around in his friend's things until he found what he was looking for: Kenny's Mysterion costume.

He spread out the cowl and cape with his stomach twisted into knots of anxiety, along with the black mask, the thick gloves, and lastly, the dark lavender bodysuit. Tweek shoved everything into a grocery bag while Butters watched with a miserable expression, his aquamarine eyes big and shiny in his boyish face. Butters couldn't seem to stop rubbing his knuckles together. Tweek guessed that it must be a nervous tick of his — boy, did he know all about those — but he didn't exactly have time to comfort the kid, even if he'd known what to say. Hell, Tweek really wished someone would comfort him right now. Preferably Bebe. Preferably, wearing only a thong. Tweek sighed. Here he was rushing off on a suicide mission, and he'd never worked up the nerve to tell Bebe that he had the biggest fucking crush on her. Not that she would have responded favorably in any case. Too busy trying to fuck Kenny into loving her.

The thought was steeped in bitterness, but Tweek figured he could have a pass just this once.

"Umm, Mr. Tweek…" Butters began softly.

"Shh, kid." Tweek replied gently. He needed to concentrate, and he already had a pretty good idea of what Butters was going to say.

Swallowing hard, Tweek ripped open his own duffel bag and pulled out two boxes of spare ammunition. He tossed them into the grocery bag along with Kenny's costume, then checked his nines, cocking the pistols back with a sharp chick-CHACK! sound. Tweek tucked both guns into the waistband of his jeans, pulled the hem of his black hoodie down, and reached for his jailbroken iPhone. He punched in Kenny's number and waited, but after a few rings his call went straight to voicemail.

Yo, this is Kenny-motherfuckin'-McCormick. I'm busy right now, so leave a message, and if you're someone I actually WANT to talk to I'll get back to you later. Peace.

"Jesus Christ, man!" Tweek shouted in frustration after the beep, "Where the fuck ARE you?! We have a serious fucking situation on our hands! NGH, if you're screwing around right now I swear to God, man, I SWEAR TO GOD I will kick your fucking ass the next time I see you! Arghhh! When you get this message, call me back!"

Tweek hung up and washed his hands over his face, shuddering. What else could go wrong tonight, man, what else…?

Tweek felt a gentle touch on his sleeve. When he looked up, Butters was standing beside him, frowning.

"Wuh-uh, why ain't the cops doin' nothin?" Butters asked, with a familiar pout.

"I don't know, kiddo. Ngh, they just aren't." Tweek replied, tucked his phone into his pocket. He looked around, wondering if there was anything else he might need, but all that was left were Kenny's weapons and Tweek didn't know how to use those. Besides, Kenny when he returned — if he returned — would definitely need them.

"Okay kid," Tweek says, laying a hand on Butters's small shoulder, "ngh, here's the plan…" Tweek couldn't help pausing and snorting a little at that, because he didn't really have a plan, just a desperate fucking shot in the dark, "Look, I'm going to go down there, put on Mysterion's costume and turn myself in. I need you to —"

But Butters wasn't listening anymore. The boy flushed, his expression horrified.

"No!" Butters cried, yanking his sleeve, "Mr. Tweek, you can't! I tell ya, it's a trap!"

"GAH, I know it's a trap, kid! But —"

"Wuh-why ain't the police doin' nothin'?! A-and Mysterion, won't he need his costume?" Butters was dangerously close to tears, his voice high and panicky, "Where is he?! Where's Mysterion? Ain't he supposed to be a superhero? Ain't he —"

"Fucking hell, kid, I DON'T FUCKING KNOW!" Tweek shouted, exhausted, exasperated and angry, though not necessarily at Butters. "RAH, just shut the fuck up and LISTEN, this is important, alright?!"

Butters flinched, all the color draining from his face, before he flushed again, his chin wobbling with fury.

"Fuck you, you...you unfinished Muppet!" Butters shot back, giving Tweek a hard shove. "I never shoulda trusted you! I never shoulda trusted any of you!"

Butters made sudden a beeline for the guestroom. Tweek scrambled to stop him, jumping in front of the kid to block his way.

"Move!" Butters snarled, all his sweet Southern affectation gone, "You better jus' move, or I'll...I'll…"

"Please kid, I'm sorry!" Tweek insisted, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender, "Ngh, look at me! LOOK AT ME! I'm fucking scared too, man!"

Butters paused, giving Tweek a hard stare. The skinny man looked haggard, his platinum-blonde hair hanging down over his face in wispy strands, his dark green eyes like mossy wells surrounded by permanent dark smudges. Tweek had really beautiful hands, Butters thought, his fingers long and graceful, but they were shaking with obvious distress.

"You saw what happened, kid." Tweek said in a lower tone. "That chick just shot someone, and those people are probably going to do much worse if we don't DO something! Ngh, Myst could be on his way right now, but just in case he isn't, we need a backup plan! If Myst were in my shoes he'd do the same thing, okay? Do you really wanna run outta here knowing people might die, kid, do you?! You're pretty tough, but you just don't strike me as being heartless."

Butters bit his lip, glancing down. "I…"

"I gotta go, kid." Tweek said, struggling to control the spasms threatening to overtake his body, "Look, um, i-if something happens to me, Myst will know what to do. I need you to stay here and give him this when he gets back."

"What's this?" Butters asked apathetically, as Tweek pressed something into his palm.

"No time to explain it, kid," Tweek replied, picking up the grocery bag that he'd stuffed with ammo and Kenny's costume, "just...GAH! Please just fucking promise me you'll give that to him, okay?"

"I promise," Butters said solemnly, closing his hand securely around the small device, "Um...I'm s-sorry I yelled too, Mr. Tweek."

"Jesus, this is a tense situation, don't worry about it," Tweek replied, sighing. "Ngh...do I really look like an unfinished Muppet, though?"

Butters blushed a little. "Wuh-uh, naw, you don't. I was jus' sayin' stuff, Mr. Tweek. You're real handsome, an' all."

Oh. The compliment was totally unexpected, and it made Tweek feel both grateful and uncomfortable. Handsome? Geez, no way! Ugh, stop letting this stupid shit distract you and get on with it!

"Look kid, it's just Tweek, okay? None of that Mister bullshit," Tweek replied grouchily, "I can't handle all that fucking formality man, it's way too much pressure!"

Butters smiled weakly. "'Kay...Tweek."

"Okay," Tweek said, taking a deep breath, "Ngh, the South Park Gazette is like, four blocks from here. Time to make my goddamn TV debut."

Tweek started for the door, but he turned around at the last second, anxiously scratching the back of his head. "Hey, uh, if you see Bebe...ngh, tell her I always thought she was really fucking beautiful."

Butters blinked. Tweek was gone before he could question it, slamming the door behind him.

Alone again. Gee, it seems like I'm always being left alone, Butters thought, gazing blankly down at the thing Tweek had given him. Alone...

It would have been ridiculously easy to just grab his shirt, raid the house, and walk right out that door, right out of this fucking town, leave all the madness and the horrible memories behind. After all, these people weren't anything to him, not really. Butters was finally free and he had to start looking after himself now, he had no more excuses...but…

/You're pretty tough, but you just don't strike me as being heartless./

No, he wasn't heartless. Even after everything he'd been through, and all the bad shit that they'd done to him...Butters's heart was still as big as ever.

"Aw, geez." Butters muttered, turning nervously back to the TV.


Kenny was shorter and in much better shape than he was, so his costume bunched tight in some places and sagged horribly in others.

Tweek put on Kenny's mask with his stomach well and truly in knots, and tried to call his friend one more time, even though he really wasn't expecting anything. Just like before, the phone rang a few times and then went straight to voicemail, but Tweek simply hung up without bothering to leave a message. Hopefully, the silent aggravation behind all his missed calls would make Kenny feel like a real piece of shit when he got back from doing...whatever the fuck he was doing. Tweek honestly had no idea where Kenny was, but he really hoped his friend wasn't doing anything he might regret later. In his own way, Tweek knew Kenny was just as bad as he was when it came to dealing with stress. McCormick just hid it better. Behind his cheerful facade and casual promiscuity, there was a lot more going on than anyone had ever given Kenny credit for, stuff he didn't want anyone to see, much less know about. Tweek shuddered, pulling Mysterion's dark purple cowl over his platinum-blonde hair. If he survived this, he was so going to kick Kenny's irresponsible ass. Right now, he had bigger things to worry about.

"Mysterion...to the rescue," Tweek muttered to himself, trying to mimic the deep voice Kenny used whenever he was playing his alter-ago. "Ngh, fear not, it is I...Mysterion."

Tweek sounded nothing like Kenny and even less like Mysterion, but fuck it, fuck it all. He had hostages to rescue. If Kenny wanted authenticity, he should have been here himself.

With that thought in mind, Tweek slipped out of a pitch-black alley and made for the blockade of police cruisers. Seeing all those boys in blue made Tweek feel like throwing up (policemen were totally just tools of The Man, man), but he grit his teeth and keep going, raising his hands above his head so the police wouldn't shoot him on sight.

"Hey, pigs!" Tweek shouted, waving to the newest cops, "I'm here, okay? Ngh, take me to your fucking leader!"

"Jesus, it's him! It's Mysterion!" One cop said, lowering his gun in amazement.

"Well I'll be," another cop added, in a thick redneck drawl. "Stick a dick in my mouth and call me Paris Hilton, I didn't think this bastard would show!"

"Uh, yeah," Tweek replied in his mock-deep voice, slowly lowering his hands, "I'm here. Ngh, what's the sitch?"

Sitch? Kenny totally used that word, right? Right.

"It's about fucking time," the first cop said, narrowing his eyes at Tweek, "the Chief of Police has been waiting. Chief! Hey, Chief Token, over here!"

Chief Token? Token watched as a sea of cops parted and a tall, handsome black man appeared, his expression cold. Behind him trailed another dark-haired blue-eyed cop and...Clyde. Tweek almost smiled at the sight of him, then remembered he was supposed to be Mysterion and scowled.

"You." Police Chief Token said coolly.

"Hey man, I'm here to —" Tweek began.

Token cranked back a fist and punched Tweek in the face before he could finish that sentence.

"OW OW OW! NGH, JESUS CHRIST!" Tweek cried, grasping his nose. Token had punched him so hard he was surprised it wasn't broken. Tweek immediately felt a flash of rage through his discomfort and pain. Technically, that punch had been meant for Kenny.

Oh, oh he was so going to kick Kenny's ass later.

Token reached down and seized Tweek by the collar, dragging him close.

"That's for taking your sweet-ass time, you son of a bitch," Token growled, shaking him, "I ought to arrest you!"

"NGH, if you arrest me, who's gonna rescue the hostages?!" Tweek snapped, struggling in Token's powerful grasp, "It's ME they want, asshole! So let me get in there!"

"Chief, dude, he's right!" Clyde said, trying to pull Token away, "Dudes, we don't time for this shit! The clock's ticking!"

Token glowered, but he released Tweek obediently, reluctance written all over his face.

"If you're going to do something, I suggest you do it." Token said flatly. Tweek bit his lip anxiously.

"Look man, I know I haven't been on good terms with the police, but I'm asking for your help. NGH, I can't do this alone, it's WAY too much pressure!" Tweek said, his eyes full of pleading. "I'll go in first and distract them. I want you guys storm the building in five minutes and get everyone out of there!"

Clyde was staring at him strangely, but Token actually looked as if he was considering it. The dark-haired cop beside him frowned impatiently, gesturing up at the building.

"Chief, people's lives are at stake here! We can deal with the rest later!"

"For once, I totally agree, Marsh." Token said, before he turned to glare at Tweek. "Five minutes. Now go!"

"NGH, right!" Tweek said. He turned and ran for the building, a 9mm in hand.

"You heard him!" Token shouted to the assembled cops. "In five minutes, we're going in!"

Mysterion...didn't he have blue eyes? Dark blue eyes? Clyde thought, as his fellow police officers began scrambling. He kind of sounds like…

"Clyde, form up, NOW!" Token snarled.

Clyde rushed to do as he was told, putting everything else out of his mind.

Tweek burst through the double doors of the South Park Gazette's headquarters, feeling a little bit better about himself. If he could hold it together for five minutes, just five minutes, the police would take care of the rest. It was terrifying, but doable — or so Tweek thought — but no sooner had he set foot in the building than he had a gun to his head.

"Oh, geez…" Tweek groaned, eying the two masked and machine-gun wielding thugs who had obviously been assigned to watch the door. "Ngh, machine-guns are for assholes who don't know how to aim, y'know!"

"Shut up. Where's the boy?" One of the men barked.

"Hey, I'm not telling you phlebs anything!" Tweek snapped. "GAH, just take me to Craig Tucker before I put a bullet between your eyes and piss down the hole!"

Then men exchanged a look. Tweek waited, glaring. The thugs finally stepped forward, tearing the 9mm out of Tweek's hands. Ah, damn it.

"Bring him."

Tweek was escorted to the newsroom. The fear in the air was so thick Tweek could almost taste it. The captive news anchors were all kneeling on the floor, next to their bleeding comrade. Tweek didn't know anyone's name — he rarely watched the local news — but he immediately recognized Wendy Testaburger, wearing only a skirt and a lacy black bra. Her lovely face was deathly pale, but she immediately brightened when she saw him, her eyes filling with gratitude and relief.

"Mysterion!" Wendy exclaimed, her shoulders sagging, "God...I was so worried." Then she smiled, her lips trembling. "I knew you'd come."

Goddamn, Tweek thought, a little dazed, if putting on the Mysterion costume is all it takes to get beautiful women to look at me like that, maybe I ought to wear it more often.

"There he is," a red-headed woman said, smiling coyly. "See? I told you this would work, sweetie."

Craig Tucker's gaze was heavy. He was definitely a lot more intimidating up close, with eyes that seemed to look right through a person. He possessed an aura that was somehow untouchable, as if nothing ever got to him.

Tweek disliked him instantly.

"Oh Jesus, it's like the circus came to town," an older-middle aged man with a balding head muttered darkly.

"Mysterion," Craig said, in a deep monotone, "Where is Leopold?"

Tweek swallowed. Time to stall.

"Hidden," Tweek snapped, "so tough luck, you cyborg motherfucker! Ngh, I came to make a trade, okay?! Let the hostages go and you can have me instead! I'm the one you want, right?!"

"It's Leopold we want," Craig replied, without the slightest hint of emotion. "You are just a ridiculous inconvenience."

"Why?" Tweek demanded, gritting his teeth. "Butters is just a fucking kid, man! Ngh, what the fuck do you people want with him?!"

"The brat is an extremely valuable experiment," the red-headed woman said in a bored tone, "and we work for an extremely wealthy client who would like to have him back. So please, just tell us where he is. He's really not worth all this trouble, hun."

"Go fuck yourself, okay?!" Tweek said, his left eye twitching. "Let the hostages go first, and THEN we'll talk!"

Red and Craig exchanged a glance. For a moment the atmosphere was filled with crackling tension as Tweek stared down Craig's impassive gaze. Craig's head tilt was so subtle Tweek barely caught it, but it filled him with alarm all the same.

Ah, crap.

"Mysterion, behind you!" Wendy shouted, but it was already too late.

Tweek's legs were kicked out from under him, and he winced as he was wrestled roughly to his knees and then restrained by three or four hired guns.

"RAH, get off me, GET THE FUCK OFF ME!" Tweek hissed, struggling wildly, but he couldn't break free no matter how much he twisted. He froze as Craig Tucker slowly approached him, Desert Eagle in hand, his pale blue eyes so cold they gave him chills. Craig halted before him, gazing down at Tweek as if he was an insect that needed a good, hard heel. Tweek inhaled sharply, his nerves going haywire. As if being helpless and on his knees wasn't bad enough, Craig suddenly reached down and seized him by the throat, his fingers digging into the tender flesh of his neck.

"Nghhh…ghck...ghhh!" Tweek choked, his eyes watering.

"No more games," Craig said softly, his deep voice seeming to reverberate in Tweek's skull, "no more of your stupid fucking heroics. I will make you regret wasting my time."

Craig tightened his grip, cutting off Tweek's already limited supply of air. Dimly, he could hear Wendy shouting angrily in the background, but he couldn't make out a word she was saying over the pain in his neck and his screaming lungs. I can't breathe...I can't...please…

Craig eyes suddenly narrowed in suspicion and he released Tweek's neck. Tweek sagged, gasping painfully for air.

"Your eyes." Craig said, before all hell broke loose.

"Fuck!" Red snarled, drawing away from the window, "The fucking cops are breaching the building!"

"What." Craig frowned. "No."

"Just because you say it ain't so don't make it true, sweetie," Red snarled, a nasty smile on her face. "I suppose the rednecks got tired of waiting. There's no way we'll be able to hold here, not unless we want a bloody shootout on our hands. Knock out Mysterion and take him with us, we can torture the brat's location out of him later. Time to blow this taco joint, tiger."

"No!" Wendy cried. "Mysterion!"

I'm not Mysterion, Tweek thought weakly, coughing. Sorry Kenny, I tried…I did a horrible job, but I tried...

That was Tweek's last coherent thought, before he was dealt a brutal blow to the temple. Tweek crumpled into a boneless heap, a thin trail of blood dribbling from his hairline.

"Pick him up," Craig ordered flatly. "You two, cover our escape. The rest of you, get to the van."

No, Wendy thought, with fresh tears in her eyes.

It only took a few minutes for the police to burst into the newsroom, but by then, Craig, Red, Mysterion and all their henchmen were gone. It didn't matter. Wendy felt like she was in a living nightmare. Policemen swarmed around her. Paramedics quickly followed, descending on the unconscious Cartman like flies. One of the medics kept screaming ARE YOU OKAY? Wendy realized it was probably because her hands were covered with Cartman's blood, but she couldn't seem to respond to the question. It was as if someone had glued her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Cartman was carried off on a stretcher, an oxygen mask to his face. Gary kept insisting he was fine, but the paramedics carried him off, too. Seeing Cartman getting wheeled away snapped Wendy out of her paralysis, and she started to chase after him, without really knowing why.

But then Stan was there, hugging her tightly, smoothing back her long dark hair.

"Wendy!" Stan whispered urgently, squeezing her, "Are you okay, baby?"

No, Wendy thought, clinging to Stan as if her life depended on it, no, I'm not okay.


Kenny woke up in a filthy alley with vomit on his shirt and the sunlight drilling a hole in his head.

He immediately rolled over and vomited again, choking on it, getting even more on piss-yellow bile on his parka, on his hands, and in his long hair. For a second he couldn't breathe, and Kenny felt a stab of annoyance, because it wasn't the first time he'd died choking on his own vomit and it wasn't exactly a pleasant experience. Thankfully, he was soon able to take a deep breath, his joints aching, his throat burning and his head feeling as if it were about to break apart. His vision swam, and it was so dizzying Kenny was soon retching again, vaguely wishing someone would just put him out of his fucking misery.

God...this was why he didn't like to drink. It was high-risk, low-reward, and left him feeling like absolute shit afterwards. Kenny sniffled and climbed wearily to his feet, every fiber of his being protesting against the movement. He looked around blearily and found himself gazing up at a dimmed neon sign that read Skeeter's Bar and Cocktails. Skeeter must have had him tossed out at some point, to either sober up or freeze to death at his discretion.

That Skeeter, Kenny mused, forcing himself to walk, what a class-act.

His even-shittier-these-days Prius was right where he'd left it, smashed bumper, plastic up to the broken window and all. Kenny climbed in with a muffled groan and slowly drove to the nearest 7-Eleven. The clerk barely acknowledged him as he paid for a pack of gum, six bottles of strawberry Gatorade, and a big jug of water. Kenny guessed he wasn't the first person to come dragging in at 6am, reeking of booze, caked with vomit and looking like absolute shit.

"Top of the morning to you." Kenny muttered as she dumped his change on the counter. The woman, in her late forties and severely overweight, simply grunted in response.

Kenny trudged back to his car, opened up the jug of water and dumped half of it over his head, before swallowing down the other half. Then he gulped down three bottles of Gatorade, struggling not to retch it all up again. He climbed back behind the driver's seat feeling almost as bad as he had before he got out, if not a little worse. Kenny was halfway back to Bebe's house before he had to pull over again, his stomach roiling.

"Fuck...me," Kenny hissed as he retched out the door, his vomit a disgusting pink color, "Fuck me right in the ass."

Kenny's head hurt so badly he thought he was going to black out again. His joints felt inflamed, and Kenny realized (with a small snort of amusement) that the worst hangover of his life was probably also the aftereffects of mild to moderate alcohol poisoning. Fuck, he was so sure Skeeter had stopped cutting his drinks with gasoline after the Health Department busted him that one time.

Or maybe you're just a guy who's never known when enough is enough, a voice muttered somewhere deep inside. You pathetic man-child.

"Fuck you, I do what I want." Kenny groaned, closing the car door.

Kenny reached into his glove compartment and rooted around until he found an old plastic baggie. Inside was a half-gram of cocaine, maybe less. He couldn't even remember who had given it to him, but it had been sitting in his glove compartment for months, one of those things that he'd see and go, "Shit, I should throw that away," before completely forgetting about it time and time again. Kenny had tried coke once or twice, ages ago, before he was Mysterion. He hadn't really liked the hyperactive feeling it gave him. When Kenny got high he did it because he wanted to mellow out, not to feel as if he could run the Boston Marathon in twenty minutes. Still, it was just the thing he needed right now.

Kenny snorted up on the back of a Guns N' Roses CD and waited. It wasn't long before he was feeling alert, his aching joints forgotten, his head clearing. Kenny knew it was only a temporary fix, and in an hour he'd be completely fucked up, but hey, he was alert enough now to face Tweek and possibly Bebe. Then he could shower, eat something, and sleep for the next twelve hours. I'll be right as rain, yep.

Kenny checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, smoothed back his hair, popped a stick of gum and drove the rest of the way to Bebe's place.

He didn't see Bebe's car in her driveway. Good. Kenny strolled up the walkway, hoping Tweek wouldn't be in a bad mood, and unlocked the door. He stepped inside Bebe's house with a sigh, tucked his keys into his pocket, and took a step toward the living room.

"Tweek?" Kenny called, "I'm back. Hey, if you changed your mind, I'm totally still down to fuck —"

Someone suddenly bowled into him.

"Fuck!" Kenny cried, startled, as he was nearly thrown right off his feet.

A blonde-haired kid had just crashed into him, and not just any blonde-haired kid, but Butters. Kenny gazed down at him, astonished. Somehow, he'd completely forgotten about the boy. Holy shit, he's awake. Kenny was utterly unprepared for this, to say the least. The bruises that had marred Butters's fair skin were gone, and he didn't appear to be in any pain, so Kenny could only assume that he'd healed himself. His eyes were as gorgeous as ever — even more so now that they were alert and undistracted — and Kenny couldn't help but notice how fucking adorable Butters was, with something not unlike arousal.

Kenny was so busy staring, it took him a moment to realize that Butters was shaking him, all while yelling furiously.

"Where were ya? Where the fuck were ya?!" Butters shouted, shaking him harder, his voice tinged with raw panic, "I thought you were supposed to be a superhero! Why did you let this happen?!"

What? Kenny tried to detach himself from Butters's grasp, but the kid held on with all the ferocity of a pit bull, his eyes hurling daggers.

"Please...stop...shaking me." Kenny said dryly. Butters ignored him.

"Tweek is probably hurt real bad because of you!"

Tweek? Kenny frowned, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't you know?! Don't you even fuckin' care?!" Butters cried, tearing himself away from Kenny, as if he found touching him repulsive. Butters fumbled in his pocket and hurled a small device at him. It hit Kenny square in the chest and fell harmlessly to the floor, but Kenny felt as if Butters had just thrown a brick at him.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

"What happened?" Kenny demanded, his voice rising. "What did he do?"

The look Butters gave him was filled with rage and disappointment. "I thought...I thought you were so cool," Butters whispered, "but you're not a superhero. You're jus' a fuckin' fraud!"

Kenny crossed the room and grabbed Butters by the arm before he could stop himself, trembling. The boy just glared at him, completely unafraid.

"What. Happened?" Kenny asked again, every word low and infuriated.

The door banged open behind them and Bebe flew in, looking absolutely terrified.

"Kenny?!" Bebe cried, stopping short, her pale green eyes wide. "You're...here? But I thought...I thought you'd been captured…"

Kenny closed his eyes and let dread wash over him. "No," he muttered, "tell me what happened. Someone. Please."