7.
- PART TWO -
"Did you forget who you were talking to? I was completing my first black ops missions while you were getting slapped in ze face wit' your father's dick."
~ ze Mole.
A low black car was parked outside the South Park Police Department, looking strangely ominous on the mostly empty street.
It was almost noon, but the sky had a gray, brooding cast that made the day seem closer to dusk. South Park was on the brink of yet another bitter winter storm, and if the local weather reports could be believed, this one was going to be "a real humdinger". Folks had been advised to bundle up tight and stay off the roads if they could. Stark's Pond had just about frozen solid, and everywhere you looked there was snow, snow and even more snow, armoring the town in a thick layer of white. A harsh wind had come howling off the mountains, turning the wind-chill into something that stripped the warmth off a person like a starving wolf stripped the meat off a bone.
In short, it was cold. Bloody fucking cold. Gregory turned the heat up another notch and watched a snowplow lumber up the block with a low, droning sound, driving big piles of dirty slush before it. He had grown up in Birmingham, so he was well-used to chilly English weather — but that did not necessarily mean he liked it. The sooner they could crack this case, the better. Gregory did not much fancy freezing his ass off in this one-horse town full of slack-jawed, redneck morons.
Unfortunately for him, Christophe's attitude was not inspiring much confidence.
"Let's go over this one more time," Gregory said, turning to the swarthy Frenchman sitting in the passenger seat, "I know it's hard, but do try to pay attention."
Christophe — better known in his professional circles as The Mole — shot him a look that could have won awards in disinterest. He was a tall, lean, ruggedly handsome man with dark brown hair and even darker brown eyes that sparkled with a keen intellect. Though only twenty-six years old — or so he claimed — Christophe looked a lot older than that, possibly because he had been smoking a pack a day since he was fifteen, possibly because his unapologetically pessimistic outlook on life had taken some of the youth out of his features, and still possibly because his experiences had left him horribly jaded.
Christophe carried himself with a kind of effortless dignity that had always reminded Gregory of his old flame Craig Tucker — not that he would ever have dared to make such an open comparison between the two. There was something warm about Christophe — he was approachable in a way that Craig was not — but there was no warmth about him now. His partner had been alternating between giving him the cold shoulder and being downright rude ever since they'd gotten here, and it was really starting his work his already overtaxed nerves. Christophe could be terribly childish sometimes, but they had a job to do, and Gregory was determined to be the bigger man.
Still, the fact that ze Mole had bothered to acknowledge him at all was something of a surprise. Gregory decided to take that as a good sign. He smiled triumphantly at his partner, but Christophe simply rolled his eyes and began feeling around in the pockets of his black trench coat for his cigarettes.
"As far as the police department is concerned, we are FBI agents the state dispatched to investigate the terrorist known as Mysterion," Gregory said, reaching for the file that he'd placed on top of the dashboard. He flipped it open and pulled out several grainy black and white photographs that had been taken of Mysterion over the years. Many of them were snapshots of the so-called superhero perched on rooftops like a lavender gargoyle.
"Now, I know what you're thinking, old chap," Gregory continued as Christophe nonchalantly stuck a slim white cancer stick between his lips at a jaunty angle and then reached for his lighter, "and if you're going to smoke, do please crack the window a bit, thank you — anyway, I know what you're thinking. 'Who is this Mysterion?' Is he really a terrorist, as Mayor McDaniels seems to believe?"
Christophe snapped his lighter once, twice, before it caught flame. It was silver, and etched on the side was the saying: God is a joke. He didn't look like he was thinking of anything, or even paying Gregory the slightest bit of attention. Christophe inhaled deeply, then lowered the window to blow a thin plume of smoke out into the chill air.
"Quite frankly, who gives a fuck. We are not really here to apprehend Mysterion, as you well know," Gregory grinned slyly. "The investigation? A clever ruse. Our history with the FBI? A most daring deception! For though we are indeed agents, neither of us have never been affiliated with an American agency."
Christophe arched a brow at him. His expression remained impassive, but his eyes seemed to say no shit, Sherlock.
"What our charmingly corrupt Miss McDaniels does not know is that we are secretly working with Interpol," Gregory chuckled smugly, "an illustrious intergovernmental agency focused on battling organized crime, illicit drug production, weapons smuggling, human trafficking, money laundering, child pornography...why, the list goes on and on. I daresay we're much better than the FBI."
Christophe uttered a single soft laugh.
"We crafted this brilliant cover-story in order to take our true target into custody...Dr. Alphonse Mephesto," Gregory rifled through the file in his hands with dramatic flair and produced several pictures scribbled with notes, "wanted in connection with at least a dozen crimes against humanity. Quite the slippery little madman. Dr. Mephesto was based in Europe for a while, but when his...unconventional...scientific views made him unwelcome there, he relocated to the States and has been living off the radar ever since."
Christophe nodded. He chucked his cigarette out the window half-smoked and immediately lit another.
Gregory's amber-colored eyes narrowed dangerously. "Tracking him down has taken many long and difficult years...but I knew we'd find him eventually. He got sloppy. Men like him always do. This time, he'll not be escaping justice."
Gregory looked up just in time to catch a ghost of a smile on Christophe's face, a hint of affection in his soulful brown eyes...but both were gone before he could truly appreciate it. He couldn't help feeling a tad disappointed as Christophe turned his face to the window, his expression unreadable — disappointed and something else, some other uncomfortable feeling. Gregory cleared his throat in a poor effort to dispel a sudden feeling of awkwardness.
"Mephesto has been using a number of aliases in order to avoid detection and gather human test subjects," Gregory said, quickly getting back to the task at hand. "Obviously, he disguises his true intentions behind quite a bit of charity work. He established a "youth foundation" called Camp New Grace, which purported to "cure" young boys of bi and homosexual urges —" Gregory liberally applied sarcastic air quotes, " — but that's all just a charade. These boys were kidnapped, plain and simple. Not all of them, but enough. Whenever someone goes missing, the story is always the same: they ran away."
Christophe turned away from the window to give him a blank stare.
"I wondered much the same thing, old chap," Gregory replied, reading his partner's mind. "Why would anyone believe this, least of all a concerned parent? But you must understand, many of these boys had a history of behavioral problems long before they were sent to Camp New Grace. People were much more willing to accept that they'd simply run off. Take this young man, for example —"
Gregory handed Christophe a few photographs. Christophe accepted them without complaint, quietly observing a picture of a smiling boy with fuzzy honey-blonde hair and pretty aquamarine eyes as Gregory continued his explanations, " — Leopold A. Stotch, eighteen. Records show he ran away from home a total of four times. He was never in any significant trouble, but he spent two weeks in juvenile hall for allegedly making up a story about his uncle molesting him."
Christophe hummed softly.
"Who knows," Christophe sighed. "Leopold insisted he was telling the truth, his parents said he was just trying to get attention. Either way, it's a sad business. Then there's this lad —"
Christophe obediently cycled to the next photograph. In it, a tall young man stared straight ahead, as if he was prepping for a mugshot. He had a head full of sandy blonde curls and his eyes were somehow nervous and downcast. "Bradley Alderney, seventeen. He came from a very religious household. Bradley suffered from depression and was hospitalized for two separate suicide attempts. His mother was hoping Camp New Grace would "fix" him."
Christophe tsk'ed sympathetically.
"Indeed. A most disturbing set of circumstances. Yet even more disturbing is the knowledge that Leopold and Bradley are only the most recent victims. The list of boys that have gone missing in connection to Dr. Mephesto is quite long." Gregory paused, and then added in a low voice, "At the risk of stating the obvious, rescuing these boys — if any still live — is a top priority."
Christophe nodded resolutely.
"We must move swiftly, my good man." Gregory snapped the file shut. "Interpol has reason to believe that Mayor McDaniels has been covering for Mephesto's illicit activities, and in exchange he's been pumping money into the town's infrastructure. One wrong move and our cover could go up in flames. All we need are a few more pieces of good, solid evidence and it's all over."
Gregory smiled brightly. "So! What do you say to that, Chris?"
Christophe exhaled a lungful of smoke, scowling. "English," he muttered. His gruff voice was flavored with a heavy French accent.
"Bah! Don't be daft, man. Your English is...ah." Gregory smiled unconvincingly. "Perfectly fine! Quite splendid, really."
Christophe sighed, leveling him with a strangely meaningful look. Gregory couldn't help thinking how nice it would be to hear his partner's voice after so much stubborn silence — until Christophe actually began to speak, that is. Then he remembered: Ahh yes, ze Mole really is an annoying bastard…
But perhaps that's why they got along so well.
"Fine, eez understood," Christophe grumbled, chucking the smoldering filter of his second cigarette out the window. "Did you forget who you were talking to? I was completing my first black ops missions while you were getting slapped in ze face wit' your father's dick."
"Charming."
"If any of zees bitches get in my way, I will bury zeem. Ze mission is good as done."
"Now, now!" Gregory admonished, "We work for Interpol, remember? You can't go around busting lads over the head with your shovel anymore. Please show some restraint, Chris."
"Fuck restraint right up her maggoty cooze! Where was your restraint when you were stabbing all those men, eh?!"
"That was different!" Gregory insisted, exasperated. "Good heavens man, I haven't stabbed anyone in ages!"
"You stuck a cheese knife in zat drug dealer's testicles three months ago."
"Like I said," Gregory sniffed, crossing his arms, "ages."
"Hmph. You neglected to mention Craig in all zees," Christophe spat, making no effort to conceal his disgust. "Where eez he in your fancy little file? Or eez zat classified?"
Damn it. Gregory pinched the bridge of his nose, willing himself to stay calm. He couldn't pretend he hadn't known from the very beginning why Christophe was so annoyed with him, but instead of coming forward and addressing the issue — like a fucking professional, like a man — he'd danced and dodged around it, as if Craig would magically disappear if he avoided him long enough. Christophe had every right to be upset with him for being such a pussy. Hell, Gregory was upset with himself. This wasn't like him, and they both knew it...but he seemed to lose all ability to reason when it came to Craig; just being around him was enough to send his common sense whistling right out the window. It was...oh, so very vexing.
But for the sake of their partnership, if not his own peace of mind, this had to be dealt with. Gregory slumped in his seat a little, massaging his temples.
"Craig is Dr. Mephesto's head of security," he said, in what he hoped was a strictly professional tone. "Looks like Tucker's been keeping himself busy."
"And?"
"And," Gregory clenched his teeth, briefly. "If we run into him again...I will do my job."
"Will you?" Christophe asked, his voice sharp as a blade.
"Yes."
"Hmph. I find zat hard to believe."
"Believe what you will," Gregory muttered, turning his attention back to the street.
He could have said any number of things and made it out of this conversation relatively unscathed, but that right there was the wrong thing to say. If there was anything Christophe hated as much as he hated God and dogs, it was being dismissed. His partner was silent for a moment after that, but Gregory could practically feel his anger building like steam in a closed pot, just waiting to explode. And considering Christophe's violent, unpredictable temper, that didn't bode well for anyone. Was it too late to apologize?
Gregory glanced warily in the Frenchman's direction and winced at the fury he saw in those dark chocolate eyes. Yep, too late.
"I believe zat you are a fool!" Christophe snarled. "A blind fool, ze worst of zeem all! Do you think zees eez a game?! Your attachment to zat blimey cocksucker will get us both killed, and for what? For what?! I will tell you! Ezz because you can't let go of ze past!"
"I —" A dozen denials rose to the tip of his tongue and died there. He could lie to himself just fine and get away with it, but he couldn't lie to Christophe. The man knew him too well. Gregory ran a hand through his thick, sandy blonde hair in frustration — hair he carefully styled each morning — and sighed, hard, as if by doing so he could expel some of his unease.
"We were all criminals once upon a time," he muttered tiredly. Gregory honestly didn't know why he was saying this — only that part of him desperately wanted Christophe to understand where he was coming from, how he felt. "You, me, Craig...we were the bad guys, and we all did things we weren't proud of. The only difference between us and Craig is that he stayed a criminal, while we had enough sense to go legitimate."
Gregory chuckled mirthlessly. "Hah...Craig probably thinks we're the biggest sellouts…"
"I don't give a flying fuck what zat son of a bitch thinks!" Christophe snarled, the venom in his tone taking Gregory aback.
"Chris —"
"Oui, we were criminals," Christophe continued bitterly. He slowly curled his hands into fists on his lap. "We stole things and we killed people...lots of people. I suppose zat would make us "bad guys", but you know what?! I don't regret it! Everything I've ever done in my life has been to survive. I can watch a man die and feel no remorse, and I'm proud of zat! If deciding to dedicate myself to ze greater cause makes me a sellout, then I am proud of zat as well!"
"Chris..." Gregory said gently, laying a hand on his partner's shoulder. "Old chap...I didn't mean —"
Christophe shrugged him off. "Ze way I see it, ze only difference between us and Craig eez zat we learned from our mistakes. Eez not the same as regret. If God did not want us to feel regret, then He should not have taken a shit on our lives! Zat makes God a hypocritical bastard!"
Gregory could hear the pain in Christophe's voice. It was unmistakable, a sea of bitter emotion the Frenchman always tried so hard to hide behind a facade of casual indifference. Gregory was too shocked to do much more than stare as Christophe lapsed into a brooding silence, frowning deeply. Christophe detested weakness, in others for sure, but in himself most of all. As far as ze Mole was concerned, there was only one way to get through life, and that was with your head down and your shoulders up, middle finger held high. Breaking down was not an option. Seeking comfort from another person was not an option. Christophe had always seemed larger than life, a confident and competent professional, but right now he just looked so tired, so angry. He was only a man, and even men like Christophe could only take so much.
Seeing him like this, raw as an exposed nerve, was surreal. It made Gregory feel strange, protective somehow.
Chris…
Gregory started to reach for him, without really knowing if he was going to punch Christophe in the face or give him a pat on the back, if he was going to pull him into the fiercest bear hug he could manage or kiss him until they were both breathless, if he was going to scream himself hoarse trying to make Christophe understand or concede defeat and finally let go of the past; maybe he wanted to do all of those things, maybe none of them. But before Gregory could decide one way or another, Christophe pinned him with a cold glare that effectively halted him in his tracks.
The casual indifference was back. The moment was gone.
"Non, je ne regrette rien," Christophe growled. It was times like this when Gregory really wished he'd taken the time to learn French. "So you and Craig can go fuck yourselves! Eez what you were planning to do anyway, I'm sure!"
Gregory let that comment settle in for a second or two, a dark scowl etched across his face, looking as if he'd just swallowed a spoonful of awful-tasting medicine. It was hardly fair, but Gregory had no choice but to gather his pride — what was left of it, anyway — and move on. Christophe had made his point.
"I am not going to let anyone stand in the way of our mission," Gregory said softly, "not even Craig. I will kill him if I have to, make no mistake."
"Good." Christophe's voice was flat.
"...you never particularly cared for him, did you?"
Christophe met his gaze, briefly. "No."
No further elaboration. Not that Gregory had been expecting any. He leaned back and cut the engine, feeling much too weary for this hour of the day.
"...We should head inside. Chief Black should have finished wrapping up his affairs by now."
"Ze bitch mayor suspended him," Christophe commented. "Why?"
"Hm? Oh!" Gregory couldn't believe he hadn't mentioned this before. "Some blokes hijacked a local news station last night, demanding that Mysterion turn himself in. I haven't had a chance to review the tapes myself yet, but that whole business gives me a bad feeling. In any event, Chief Black cooperated with Mysterion in order to free the hostages, and was suspended for it. Between you and me, I think they were just looking for a reason to get rid of him. Token Black is an upright man of the law, I hear. The sort of man who will not be bought, for any reason."
"Mayor Bitch eez afraid ze Chief of Police will become a nuisance."
"Indeed. We'll have to keep an eye on Mr. Black, just in case McDaniels is thinking of arranging an —" his air quotes were almost comical in their extravagance, "accident."
Christophe toyed with lighting another cigarette, then thought better of it. "Do you think zees Mysterion might be involved with Mephesto?"
Gregory made a face. "Perhaps. I thought he was just some random lunatic myself, but...it is possible. If there's a connection, we will find it."
"Oui. We best not waste time."
Christophe opened the passenger side door, then hesitated, not looking at him. "Greg."
Gregory blinked, a little startled. "Yes?"
"I...fuck." Christophe quickly shoved another cigarette between his teeth, shaking his head. When he spoke again, his voice was an agitated grumble, "I wanted to apologize for my earlier comment. Perhaps I was too harsh."
What? Gregory thought, befuddled. Which comment? And since when do *you* apologize to *me*?
But Christophe was gone before he could get any sort of clarification on that, slamming the car door behind him. Gregory lingered in the driver's seat for a moment or two, feeling as if someone had just handed him a pop quiz he was in no way prepared for.
"No worries, old chap," Gregory muttered to the empty vehicle, before he got out to follow his partner up the snow-covered steps of the brick building which housed the South Park PD.
After all, they had a job to do.
Butters had a headache.
And not just any headache, but a horrible migraine that had settled at the base of his skull and was currently shooting flares of pain directly into his temples. He kept trying to tell himself that it was just stress — and after what he'd been through he supposed it might even be true — but Butters simply couldn't shake the feeling that his pounding head had a darker reason behind it. What if Dr. Mephesto had rigged him to explode like a watermelon dropped from a ten-story building if he got too far away? What if this headache was the result of a malignant brain tumor or — worst of all — what if he'd never actually escaped and was simply imagining this? He could be tied to a gurney table in a drug-induced stupor right this second, dreaming. And he'd never know, he'd never…
Butters tried to dispel that thought before it could take root and do significant damage, but the damage was already done. A sudden feeling of unreality washed over him like a tidal wave, and there was nothing to hold on to, nothing to ground him. Had he always been so utterly alone? Not always, surely...but his mind drew a blank when he tried to remember what it felt like to have someone by his side, someone he could depend on.
Bradley was there. He always made me feel special...
Oh...but it hurt so much to think about Bradley.
Butters glanced around the room, feeling dizzy — almost feverish — and his eyes soon landed on Mysterion (Kenny, his name is Kenny) and Bebe. He could creep on them perfectly from where he stood without being seen, but they were both so engrossed in their conversation he doubted they have noticed him even if he'd been dancing right under their noses.
Butters watched with no real interest, just to have something to do, something to distract him from his aching heart and throbbing head. Bebe's full lips were moving, and despite her confident stance there was something nervous about the way she brushed her strawberry blonde ringlets away from her lovely face.
Butters quietly observed Kenny's startled expression, the way Bebe's demeanor had shifted from playful to serious. She said something and he said something, and before Butters knew it they were kissing. Kenny leaned down to cup Bebe's face tenderly in his large hands, pressing her against him in a way that screamed intimacy. Butters frowned, glancing away in annoyance. Were they seriously making out at a time like this? Did they not have much more important things to do right now?!
What's the rush? a voice, cold and dead, hissed somewhere deep inside. It's not like you have anywhere to go! I hope you aren't dumb enough to crawl back to your parents' place!
Butters shivered, hugging himself. This wasn't something he'd wanted to think about, but what was the use of avoiding it? It was true. He had absolutely nowhere to go. If he'd known what to do next — had even the foggiest idea — that fact wouldn't have been nearly so terrifying. But he didn't know, he didn't know anything. He wasn't smart, he wasn't cool, he wasn't streetwise or resourceful, confident or ruthless, he wasn't savvy enough to "wing it", didn't know the first thing about being on his own; at the end of the day he was the same ol' Leopold Stotch, just a stutterin' Melvin the other kids had never wanted to play with. Maybe he was a little tougher now, a little wiser, more cautious, but what did that amount to?
Butters chuckled mirthlessly. For the first time in his life he could do whatever he wanted to do, but all he really wanted to do was hide. The future was full of possibilities, but he had forgotten or lost all the things that'd once made it bright.
College. Remember college. The SATs you studied so hard for, the essay you were writing for NYU.
Oh sure, he remembered. It was like recalling something that had happened to him a lifetime ago, on a different planet, another universe. The idea of college was almost laughable now.
The old me would have been excited about having to start all over. He would have looked at this as a chance to do things differently.
True. But the new Butters just wasn't that optimistic. Not anymore.
Butters massaged his temples, grimly fighting off a sudden wave of nausea. He would figure it out, he had to. The important thing was that he wasn't back there...
(— maybe, you could be dreaming, remember? the dead voice cackled from somewhere in Butters's mental dungeon, the voice of all his fears, you could be dreaming, you could be —)
...no, he wasn't back there! He would hold on to his freedom. For now, it was more than enough.
"Hi," someone chirped behind him.
It was a simple greeting spoken in a perfectly friendly tone of voice, but Butters was so wound up it might as well have been a blood-curdling scream. He jumped and the skin along his arms broke out in goosebumps, but when he whirled around and saw it was just the kid from earlier — the kid with the curly red hair and the super-thick glasses — he took a deep breath and calmed down a little.
Gosh, Butters. Get a grip already.
"Oh hey, I didn't mean to scare you," the kid said, smiling brightly.
"Wuh-uh, you didn't s-scare me," Butters muttered, even though he had and they both knew it.
"Umm...okay. My name is Dougie," the kid said. "What's your name?"
Butters stared at the guy. He didn't want to answer, but he was thrown off-balance somehow by such a straightforward introduction. "...Butters."
"Huh?"
"Leopold," Butters grit out. He hated his first name, but he was pretty sure he'd throw up if he had to explain why he went by Butters, just because.
"Leopold?" Dougie considered that for a second. "Do people call you Leo, for short?"
No one had ever called him Leo. It was almost worse than Leopold. "...Sure. W-why not."
"Leo...no, Leopold," Dougie said firmly, as if he'd decided that Leo was just too silly, even for him, "Kevin took those guys you were with in the back to see the really good shit. I know he doesn't look like it, but Kevin's a mad scientist when it comes to this stuff."
"Good for him." Butters glanced away, relieved to see that Kenny and Bebe had stopped tonguing each other down long enough to do whatever they'd come here to do. Fucking finally.
Ah yes, the dead voice snickered. The sooner Kenny rescues Tweek, the sooner he can dump you off at the nearest bus station.
"So uh, what happened to your shirt?"
Butters looked down. He was wearing the same dirty, blood-stained shirt — the blood now dried to a dark maroon color reminiscent of mud — that he'd been wearing for God-knows-how-long, but he couldn't very well walk around in Tweek's Ninja Turtle pajamas. The clothes on his back were the only things he owned. Butters might have been depressed, but he simply couldn't bring himself to care about something so trivial.
"...I dunno. I fell or s-somethin'." Butters muttered.
"Huh. Are you from around here?" Dougie asked, unperturbed by Butters's lack of interest.
"No."
"Are you from Texas?"
"Wuh-uh, the hell kinda question is that?" Butters snapped. Suddenly he was beyond irritated, at Dougie, at himself, at everything and everyone. This isn't fair...why am I here while Bradley isn't? Why?
"I didn't mean to offend you or anything!" Dougie quickly replied, his eyes widening. "It's just...your accent..."
"I know I sound like a countrified hick an' all, but I'm not from Texas," Butters snarled, turning away, "that's jus' stupid!"
"I —"
"It's really n-none of your fuckin' business!"
"I'm s-sorry," Dougie stammered, scuffing his feet. "I was only curious...I like your accent..."
Butters, sweet chile, why're you bein' so mean? a second voice lamented softly in his head. Butters recognized it immediately. The nephew I knew hated it when people were mean. He always tried to be nice to everyone he met, no matter what.
Aunt Nellie...
His eyes stung. Butters blinked back tears, wondering how she had reacted to the news of his disappearance, if she thought he was gone forever or was still holding out some faint hope that he might come back one day. Deep down, Butters knew his parents had loved him, but with Aunt Nellie he never had to question it, her affection was unconditional.
I'm so sorry Aunt Nellie. You married a monster and I'm so sorry. Please don't hate me.
Butters forced himself to look at Dougie, still scuffing his feet, and bit his lip shyly.
"Wuh-um, I didn't mean t'snap at you...I'm real sorry, I'm jus'...tired." Butters tried to smile, but he just didn't have the energy for it. "S-sorry."
"Oh." Dougie perked up a bit, grinning. "Nah, it's okay! Um, you do look a little pale..."
"My head hurts," Butters mumbled.
God, what an understatement that was. Butters's head felt like it had been placed in a vise. It was funny — he could recover from burns and lacerations and even gunshot wounds with no problem, but a migraine was apparently where his body drew the line.
(— unless there's something wrong with you there's probably something wrong with you you've never been lucky never been lucky never been —)
His vision had begun to blur around the edges. Maybe I really am about to explode? The thought made Butters giggle madly. Dougie gave him a strange look, part weirded-out and part concerned, his eyes magnified to twice their actual size behind his thick lenses. I was going to major in child psychology. That made him giggle even harder.
"Umm...Leopold? Are you okay?"
No, I'm not okay. I don't think I'll ever be okay.
"Leopold?"
Butters opened his mouth to tell Dougie to fuck off, but it was as if his tongue had been paralyzed. All sensory information began fading out, slowly but surely, as if he was being pulled underwater. Butters felt weightless, light-headed, and realized rather belatedly that maybe he ought to sit down.
"I'm...I need to..." Butters gestured weakly. Dougie looked both puzzled and worried.
"H-huh?"
Just forget it. Butters didn't sit down so much as he sort of folded up and crumpled to the floor. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. It would be better if he just disappeared forever.
"Oh shit!" Dougie squeaked, running off. "Kevin! Kevvvin! You guys!"
I had hamsters, Butters thought, floating. They were so cute...
He fainted. Butters didn't realize this until after the fact, inexplicably waking up in Kenny's arms.
He couldn't have been out for more than a minute, two minutes, tops, because when he opened his eyes, he was in the exact same spot and his head still hurt like a bitch. Butters could hear Dougie gibbering excitedly in the background —
"I don't know what happened, I was talking to him and he just fell over —"
— followed by even more excited gibbering —
"I'll go get some water —"
"Mysterion — I mean, Kenny — look my friend, maybe this isn't such a good idea, doing this right now I mean —"
"No Kevin, now. Go get the stuff. I'll stay with Butters."
— but it was Kenny he focused on, mostly because the guy was sort of cradling him in his lap.
He got here fast, Butters thought, still too dazed to move.
Kenny still smelled a bit like alcohol, a faintly bitter scent that had always reminded Butters of his Uncle Budd. He couldn't help but wonder when was the last time the guy had slept, because huge bags had formed under his sapphire-colored eyes, giving the unmasked superhero a decidedly hangdog look. Bags or no, there was no denying how good-looking he was. Kenny must have been exhausted, painfully hungover and incredibly stressed-out on top of everything else, but he was still so attractive, ridiculously attractive. Butters had no idea how he managed it.
It's his eyes, Butters mused. Kenny's eyes were so much older than the rest of him, time-tested and careworn somehow. If his Aunt Nellie had been here, she would have said Kenny was one of those folks who had old souls. Butters never really knew what that meant.
Kenny smiled in relief when Butters opened his eyes. He had a great smile, but staring at those full lips and pearly white teeth — being this close to him — made Butters feel deeply uncomfortable for some reason. He tried to squirm his way out of Kenny's grasp, but his movements were feeble and uncoordinated at best.
Clearly, this day couldn't get any better.
"Whoa there, Buttercup," Kenny said gently. "Take it easy, okay?"
"...I thought I told ya not to call me that," Butters mumbled, flushing a little. "Let g-go of me, jerk!"
Kenny grinned, and brushed away a few strands of hair that had become plastered to his forehead with sweat. Butters flushed even harder.
"And what if I don't?" Kenny teased, his voice low, almost a whisper. Those dark blue eyes of his sparkled in amusement. "You must not be feeling too bad, considering you still have the energy to call me names."
Butters all but sputtered in rage, but before he could form a response Bebe came jogging up, kneeling down with a bottle of water in her hand.
"I grabbed this from the vending machine outside," she said, pressing the bottle to Butters's cheek. The smooth plastic surface was blessedly cool. "Is he going to be okay?"
"I'll be f-fine! I jus' got a little dizzy, is all!" Butters said quickly, ashamed by the fuss he'd caused. He struggled to his feet, ignoring his aches and pains. "D-don't worry about me!"
"Don't be silly!" Bebe admonished, narrowing her pale green eyes. "You've been through a lot, now settle down and drink this!"
Lady, you don't know the half of it, Butters thought sullenly. He didn't dare say that out loud, though. There was something earthy about Bebe, something very strong and no-nonsense. Butters got the feeling that one minute she'd be all hugs and kisses and cooking breakfast wearing nothing but lacy red lingerie, and the next minute you'd be all OH MY GOD IT BURNS, BABY I'M SORRRYYY!
Like with Dougie, her straightforwardness off-balanced him. Bebe held the water bottle out to him and Butters accepted it meekly, stealing shy glances at her face. Her pale green eyes were kind and her smile was warm, almost motherly. To say that she was beautiful would have been stating the obvious, mentioning that she had it slam-bam bangin' going on would have been trite. All those things were true, but it was the kindness in her eyes that struck Butters the most, gave her a glow. She seemed like a really nice girl.
Which, in Butters's opinion, begged the question of what she was doing with a guy like Kenny. There was really no accounting for taste with some people.
"Thank you," Butters mumbled. He fumbled with the cap and took a single, measured sip of water. It tasted like heaven. He sipped a little more, and felt infinitesimally better.
Bebe's smile widened. "You're welcome, Butters. Try to take care of yourself, okay?"
Gee whiz, she has the perkiest boobies I've ever seen. Butters blushed hard and glanced down at his dirty sneakers, feeling more awkward than he could remember feeling in a while.
He found a little relief from the situation in the form of Kevin, who sprinted around a corner just then (Dougie following close on his heels) carrying a backpack in his left hand by the straps. Butters thought he looked kind of worried for a guy who had been so annoyingly enthusiastic just a few minutes earlier. It didn't exactly bode well.
"Here," Kevin said, handing the backpack over to Kenny, "that should be more than enough. Now remember —"
"I got it," Kenny replied impatiently, tossing the backpack over one shoulder. "Clock's ticking, dude."
Kevin nodded solemnly, rubbing his hands together. "Well...I've done all I can do, then. Mysterion, I wish you luck —"
"You're driving, Kevin. Bebe's going home."
Kevin looked mystified. "I...excuse me, come again?"
Kenny turned away to give Kevin some time to process that on his own. "Butters...are you sure you're up for this?"
Butters didn't know how to answer that. If Kenny was asking whether or not he was physically up for this, the answer was probably a no. Butters felt like dog crap, crusty old dog crap. But mentally…
"Y-yea, I'm fine." He could handle this. He could handle anything. Nothing frightened him anymore, except maybe the future.
Kenny studied his face for a moment or two, then nodded. "Right. Looks like Tweek's GPS coordinates are still coming from that warehouse outside of town. We better get going."
"Right now?" Bebe asked, glancing trepidatiously out the workshop's high windows. It was dark and gray and snowy, every tree stripped bare and bowed over in an icy wind. Just looking out there made Butters shiver.
"Yes," Kenny replied, his expression stony. "This is the only thing I have to work with right now, Bebe. If he's there, I'm getting him back, and if it's a trap, I'm going to find out where they've taken him. Either way, I'm not fucking waiting. If Tweek…" Kenny swallowed visibly. "If something happens to him because of me…"
Kenny didn't finish that sentence, but then again, he didn't have to. Butters could see the guilt and the worry written all over his face. It made him dislike the guy just a little bit less. A little bit.
Bebe nibbled on her bottom lip, looking as if there was something she wanted to say. Whatever it was, she kept it to herself.
"Look, about the driving thing…" Kevin began nervously, but Kenny whirled on him before he could up with an excuse, firmly clapping his hands down Kevin's lean shoulders.
"Kevin," Kenny said solemnly, looking directly into Stoley's startled dark brown eyes, "I need you, dude. I can't do this without you. I'm not asking as Mysterion, I'm asking as a friend. As a partner. Please?"
Partner? Gee, I wonder how Tweek'd feel about that, Butters thought, arching a brow. But Kevin seemed to light up, a big, goofy grin spreading across his face.
"Partner? As in...superhero sidekick?" Kevin asked, his tone hopeful.
"Um…" Kenny looked uncomfortable. "Yeees. Sure, dude."
"Too awesome," Kevin replied dreamily, before he straightened up and nodded resolutely. "Of course, Mysterion! Whatever you need! Dougie, can you lock up the shop?"
"Uh-huh," Dougie pushed his glasses up on his nose and smiled. "Good luck out there, Kev!"
"Kenny," Bebe murmured, "be careful, baby. Please."
The rest involved a rather uneventful trip out to Kevin's car — a green Camry — and all three of them piled in without saying much. Bebe stood in the doorway of the Kids 4 Science workshop, smiling a sad, sweet smile as Kevin fussed with his seatbelt and then pulled out of the parking lot. Dougie stood beside her, grinning excitedly, waving his arms.
Dougie. I never even got your last name, Butters thought, watching as Bebe and Dougie drifted farther and farther away. Thanks for talking to me. Nobody's talked to me in a really long time.
The idea popped into Butters's head to wave back, but just as he was about to lift his hand, Kevin turned a corner and they were gone.
"This is so cool," Kevin enthused, glancing over his shoulder at Butters. "Don't you agree?"
"Keep your eyes on the road, dude," Kenny said tersely.
Butters frowned, then turned away from the window to stare blankly down at his lap.
Kenny cinched his mask behind his head, pulled the hood of his orange parka up, and then zipped his jacket shut with a sound that seemed overly loud in the stillness of Kevin's car.
Kevin had parked in a blind alley created between two buildings — one an old textile mill and the other a print shop — and across the street, guarded by a high fence with a snarl of barbed wire looped across the top, was the warehouse that Tweek's GPS signal had been coming from.
Kenny didn't like the look of this place. They were smack-dab in the middle of South Park's historic industrial district, an area that had been converted some fifty-odd years ago into factories and train yards and lonely highways that would take you out to Denver, Colorado Springs and all points in-between. The train tracks stood empty, the lines covered in snow, and the warehouse loomed big and dark and brooding, the fence that surrounded it festooned with a single large sign:
[PRIVATE PROPERTY.]
[NO TRESPASSING.]
Kenny saw no signs of life. He swept his eyes up and down the street, but most of the factories and assorted businesses had long since closed their doors in lieu of the storms. The warehouse's parking lot was vacant. At Kenny's direction, Kevin had circled the block twice, but the mass of armed men Kenny thought would be lying in wait for him — like they had back at his former secret base — were nowhere to be found. It was quiet.
Too fucking quiet.
"Maybe they're all inside," Kevin said in a hushed whisper, the gravity of the situation having stripped away some of his boyish excitement.
Maybe. But if they were, why hadn't a guard been posted at the doors? Where were their cars?
"Wuh-uh, if they're inside, then where are their cars?" Butters replied in an equally hushed whisper, mirroring Kenny's thoughts exactly. "I don't like this, n-not one bit!"
Kenny glanced at the blonde-haired boy, who was clutching the back of Kevin's headrest so hard his knuckles had gone white. Butters's cute face was pinched and pale, his pretty aquamarine eyes filled with quiet dread. Kenny hoped he hadn't made another mistake in bringing Butters along. Spontaneous regeneration or no, Butters needed a lot more rest than he was willing to admit, both physical and mental — but Butters kept insisting that he was okay, and Kenny didn't have the time or the inclination to worry about him.
"Mmph hm, mnp mnnpn mn."
Kevin and Butters turned on him simultaneously. "What?"
Kenny sighed internally and lowered the zipper on his jacket a little. "I said, fuck it, I'm going in."
Kevin nodded, a few jerky up and down head movements that were probably supposed to be a lot more casual than they looked.
"Keep your radio on," Kenny said, tapping the other half of the two-way set that Kevin had let him borrow, "and whatever happens, I want you two to stay put. Got it?"
Kevin nodded again. "Got it."
Butters fidgeted a little, but eventually he nodded as well. " 'Kay."
"If things sound like they're getting a little hairy…" Kenny paused, thinking.
Nobody'd ever believed him when he said he couldn't die — nobody except Tweek and Karen — but their belief didn't change things. For a while, Kenny had figured that if he could just get someone to believe him, to take him seriously, then maybe they'd remember. But it just didn't work like that. It didn't seem to matter one fucking little bit.
"You...can't die?" Tweek repeated slowly the first time Kenny told him, his expression a study in incredulity. "Jesus man...are you serious?"
"Look dude, I know how it sounds," Kenny said, shaking a cigarette out of the pack he kept in his shirt pocket, "but it's true. I'm serious...fuck, this is the most serious I've ever been about anything."
Kenny could clearly remember the way Tweek had stared him, his brows furrowed over his dark green eyes. Tweek had a very expressive face. It was one of the many things Kenny liked about the guy, only he'd never told him, because he knew Tweek would just get weird about it. His partner was the worst when it came to accepting compliments. Tweek always got flustered and defensive whenever he was paid any sort of attention — but he craved attention all the same, so go figure. Kenny had seen the way his expressions had shifted, knowing that it was crazy, crazy even for him, and yet wanting to believe Kenny anyway. Because they were friends, and fuck...they hadn't even known each other all that long by this point, but they'd already been through some shit together, the kind of shit that turns casual acquaintances into life-long comradeship.
When Tweek's face relaxed, Kenny relaxed. Tweek probably thought he was being real subtle, but he was so easy to read. All his emotions were always right there on the surface.
"Okay...ngh, I believe you, Ken…" Tweek said, running his fingers through the thick platinum blonde hair at the nape of his neck. "So, er, with this dying...thing...do you rise from the dead like a zombie, or…?"
"Dude, no!" Kenny had laughed, actually laughed, more out relief than anything else. Tweek believed him. And he could recall thinking: Maybe this time...just this once, somebody will remember. He supposed he couldn't be blamed for feeling hopeful.
"It's like...shit, it's hard to explain," Kenny said, ashing his cigarette on the floor of their former secret base while Tweek watched him warily. "I just sort of...wake up. And it doesn't matter how I died before, 'cause I'm always right back in my body like nothing ever happened. I used to wake up in my bed back at my parents' place, but now it doesn't matter. I could pop up on a park bench or a street corner somewhere, but I'm always close to home. Whatever place I currently consider my home, anyway. Like the base? Or when were we staying at that place on Main?"
"I...okay." Tweek's expression had shifted again. Kenny could see his partner struggling to suspend his disbelief, wanting more than anything to be supportive. Kenny really loved the guy in that moment.
"Look, I'll prove it!" Kenny said, grabbing one of Tweek's nines. He stood back and pressed the barrel of the gun to his temple, ignoring Tweek's wide-eyed dismay.
"JESUS CHRIST KENNY, DON'T —!"
"Try to remember," Kenny said, "please?"
Then he pulled the trigger.
Looking back on it, killing himself right in front of his best friend definitely wasn't his smartest move. But Kenny had been desperate...and hopeful. He couldn't forget that part. But when he got back, practically bubbling with excitement, Tweek's blank expression said it all.
"Hey man, did you step out for a bit?" Tweek asked, never looking up from his computer, his fingers moving at the speed of light, filling the base with the sharp tac-tac-tac sound of his rapid typing.
"You don't…" Kenny blinked, swallowed, took a deep breath. "...you don't remember…?"
"Remember?" Tweek glanced up at him, concern flashing briefly in his eyes. "Ummm...was there something I was supposed to remember?"
Yes. Me dying. Me blowing my brains out right in front of you. But Kenny just shook his head, filled with a feeling that was too dark to be called disappointment, too hopeless to be called depression.
"No. Nevermind, dude."
As far as Tweek was concerned, he had only been gone for a few hours. But Kenny was in Hell for three days.
That was the thing about dying, one of the many unpleasant things Kenny had discovered. Time...time was different in Hell. It was faster.
A couple of days in the Pit were only worth a couple of hours on Earth. A few months chilling with the Anti-Christ only bought him a few weeks topside. Kenny didn't know — nor did he want to know — how long he'd have to be in Hell to make years go by in the land of the living.
They didn't call it an eternity for nothing.
Kenny could control his resurrections to a certain degree. When he didn't feel like going back — and sometimes he didn't, sometimes even Hell was more comforting than the shit he had to deal with when he was alive — Kenny just stayed. It was a state of being he couldn't quite describe.
But no matter what, he always had to go back. Always. Damien would look at him with those terrifying eyes of his, eyes that wept blood and cried smoke at the same time.
"Time for you to skedaddle, buckaroo."
But I don't want to. Talking in Hell didn't exactly involve moving your lips and forming words. It was different. It was purer. It was another thing Kenny couldn't quite describe.
Damien just grinned. His teeth were fangs.
"Leave —" and Kenny would be hurtled right back into his body. Always. It was as if the universe had hit a reset button.
Eventually, Tweek learned that any explained absences from him were probably because he was dead. But he never remembered...no one did.
"Mysterion?" Kevin asked softly.
Kenny blinked, startled out of his reverie. Butters and Kevin were both staring at him, and he realized with a jolt that he'd kind of drifted off.
"If things get hairy, I want you two to get out of here." Kenny said firmly.
"You want us to abandon you?" Kevin sputtered.
"I'll be fine," Kenny replied harshly. "Just take Butters back to Bebe's place, and wait for me."
Butters scowled. "B-but —!"
Kenny climbed out of the car and slammed the door before Butters could finish his protest. Tweek had taken his last lavender jumpsuit, but he always seemed to have extra masks on hand. It wasn't quite as heroic as he would like, but in this instance it would have to do.
"Right," Mysterion muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Let's do this shit."
Mysterion tightened the straps on the backpack he was wearing and then jogged across the street, head lowered, looking a bit like a punk. He took one last look around when he reached the barbed-wire fence, then leapt up, navigating his way to the other side in less than five seconds. Mysterion was as dexterous as he was flexible — which was pretty awesome, both standing up and on flat surfaces.
Under normal circumstances, Mysterion would have been a lot stealthier with his approach, but he didn't much think it mattered this time. He crouched when he hit the cold, wet concrete on the other side, his mouth dry and his heart pounding, feeling hyper-alert. The coke had long since worn off and his hangover was a distant concern. With a little less than eight hours of sleep in the last two days, he was running on pure adrenaline.
— no guards at the door but it would be stupid to go in that way I better find a window —
These thoughts went through his head in a flash. Mysterion skulked through the parking lot, moving quickly, and ended up on the west side of the warehouse. He shimmied up a metal rain gutter that had been welded to one side of the building — his fingers going numb at the contact — and carefully eased his way over to a large, narrow windowsill. He took a moment to peer inside, pressing his nose to the glass, but the warehouse was pitch-dark save for a few rectangular patches of weak light shining in from the other windows. Nothing moved.
Not good. Not good at all.
Mysterion pulled one sleeve of his jacket over his knuckles and punched through the glass. He made a hole big enough for him to climb through and jumped down about ten feet to the floor. His hands stung when he landed, bits of glass digging into his palms, but he barely noticed.
The warehouse was filled with the smell of dust and too much silence.
Mysterion fumbled on his mini-flashlight and aimed it around the room. And there, standing amidst the boxes and the broken-down machinery, was a person.
"Tweek?" Mysterion whispered, but he knew that was just wishful thinking. This person wasn't tall enough...and Tweek hated the dark.
"Hello?" Mysterion barked, his gruff voice echoing off the rafters. "Who are you? Turn around!"
He did.
Kevin watched until Mysterion had disappeared around the side of the building, and then there was nothing else to do but wait and listen to the static crackling over the two-way radio. He knew this situation was serious, and that they were probably breaking a ton of laws — which ones he had no idea, but a ton of them, surely — by helping a dangerous vigilante, but holy crap-baskets this was so cool. Kevin felt like he was in an episode of Young Justice maybe, or one of those one-off comics where two unlikely heroes team up to save the day.
Yeah. It was awesome.
"Kevin?"
Kevin jumped a little, startled by Butters's voice. The kid was so quiet. For a moment, he'd forgotten he was there. Kevin swiveled around to look at Butters huddled in the back seat, smiling a little. Butters didn't smile back.
"If ya don't mind me askin', how old are you?"
Eh? The question was so unexpected it took Kevin a second to remember. "Twenty-two?"
Butters nodded. Kevin waited for some addendum to that, his brows raised questioningly, but Butters just stared him, silent, his big blue-green eyes veiled somehow.
"Well, how old are you?" Kevin asked, genuinely curious.
"Eighteen."
Eighteen? Huh. He seemed older than that. Kevin drummed his fingers along the steering wheel. "So! How do you know Mysterion?"
Butters shrugged and glanced away.
...Oookay. So he wasn't much for conversation, apparently. Whatever, he could respect that. Kevin sighed and fiddled with the two-way radio, but all he got was more static. Being a superhero sidekick was surprisingly uneventful...
"Hey." Butters again. What was it this time?
"Hm?"
"Are The Kardashians still on TV?"
"Uhhh…" Kevin rubbed his chin, almost as puzzled by this question as he'd been by the age thing. "I don't really watch reality TV, my friend, so I'm not sure. I think so. Could just be reruns, though. Why? Do you like Kim Kardashian?"
"I do," Butters replied immediately, without a hint of sarcasm. "She's one of the prettiest women in the world, a-and she's got a booty like a mountain of vanilla puddin'."
Kevin nearly choked trying to hold in his laughter. A few chuckles escaped anyway, earning him a sharp glance from Butters, as if the boy was trying to decide if he was being laughed at. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he soon relaxed, even smiled, the vaguest upturning of his lips.
"So, you must be an ass-man," Kevin replied, grinning a little.
Butters flushed a little, becoming defensive. "S-so what if I am?"
"Relax, friend! Asses are good. In a world overrun by violence and corruption, a nice, round ass is surely a sign that there is still hope and beauty in the universe."
Butters started to giggle, then stopped, looking shocked, as if he hadn't done that in a while. "Oh...heh. Y-yeah, I guess so."
Kevin opened his mouth to reply, and that's when the two-way radio finally crackled to life.
"Guys," Mysterion's deep voice ground out, "there's someone in here."
Kevin and Butters both snapped to attention.
"Hello?" Mysterion tried again, keeping his flashlight trained on the figure in the gloom.
He whipped out his nightstick and held it ready just in case, but this person — whoever he was — didn't move an inch, even when Mysterion shined his flashlight directly into his eyes. He was a little above average height, with a mop of curly jet-black hair, a somewhat sallow face and a large nose. He was posed like a mannequin, one arm held out as if he was offering something, his expression blank, his eyes vacant. He was dressed in what looked like a hospital gown and slippers, drab grayish-blue, and there was a large red 'X' tattooed on his forehead. He looked to be about Butters's age, maybe a little older.
Mysterion halted several feet away from the young man, his mouth dry, his heart beating out a jerky rhythm in his chest. The hell was going on? Why was he just standing in the dark, in this abandoned warehouse? Why hadn't he moved?
"The fuck?" he muttered, confused and unnerved. This was so bizarre Mysterion briefly considered turning around and getting right the fuck out of here, but curiosity, as well as his natural inclination to help people, won out over the goosebumps slowly creeping up and down his arms. He took a step closer, then another, ready to bolt or defend himself at a moment's notice. When he was a little less than five feet away the young man suddenly inclined his head, as if he'd been activated, as if he'd been waiting for Mysterion to step within a certain radius. Mysterion froze as the young man blinked at him...and then opened his extended hand.
There, resting in the middle of his palm, was Tweek's GPS.
"Who are you?" Mysterion demanded sharply. "Are you hurt? Are you with Craig? Fucking answer me!"
But the young man made no reply, just continued to blink at him, very slowly. He looked like he was trying to convey some sort of Morse code through eye blinks alone.
Goddamn it.
Mysterion sighed and lowered his flashlight a little, his eyes fixed on the GPS in in the young man's hand. Tweek wasn't here — that much was obvious. As for the rest, well...Mysterion had no idea what this was supposed to be. No fucking clue at all.
"Don't worry. I'm going to get you some help," Mysterion muttered, reaching out take the device away from the young man. His fingers brushed him...slightly. The young man stopped blinking and his eyes widened...widened...became impossibly huge. His mouth split in a strange smile. Mysterion hissed and tried to snatch his hand away. His reflexes were fast, but this young man was a whole lot faster.
He seized Mysterion's wrist. His grip was like iron, clammy and cold as ice.
"Mysterion!" Kevin shouted into the two-way radio, his voice shaking a little. "C'mon my friend, give us a status report!"
"Is it Tweek?" Butters bounced forward, grabbing the back of Kevin's headrest again. "Did he find Tweek? Ask him!"
"Is Tweek there?!" Kevin asked. The radio crackled, but there was no answer.
Mysterion twisted in the young man's grip, too surprised to be afraid. When that didn't work, he yanked at his fingers with his free hand and tried to pry him off that way, but there was just no budging him at all; the young man held on, tenacious as a pit bull.
"The fuck is wrong with you?!" Mysterion snarled, hoping he could talk some sense into him, hoping he didn't have to use his nightstick. The young man simply grinned, eyes bulging, his curly black hair framing his pale face in wild loops.
Mysterion suddenly realized that he'd made a huge mistake in letting his guard down. He learned how huge just a few second later.
The young man uttered a sound somewhere between a wail and a groan, opened his mouth wide, and then dove forward, teeth sinking into the webbing between Mysterion's thumb and forefinger. Agony lanced up his arm, bright as a flare shot into a midnight sky, and Kenny had time to think, almost calmly: Whelp, I don't think I've even been eaten alive before — before he raised his nightstick and brought it down on the kid's head, hard enough to brain him.
The young man staggered a little and let go, finally. Mysterion's left hand was bleeding profusely, a mouth-sized chunk gone.
"Fuck," he growled, shaken and disbelieving. "Fuck me right in the rectum, dude…"
The young man raised his head, mouth bloody. By all rights he should have been lying on the floor in an unconscious heap after a hit like that, but he wasn't. He uttered another wail-like groan and charged, arms failing, and it might have been funny-looking it it weren't so utterly terrifying.
"FUCK!" Mysterion shouted, scrambling backward. He brought his nightstick up in a short, quick arc, as if he was batting a home run, and smashed the kid across the face. His head snapped, teeth flew, but it didn't alter his trajectory at all, or slow him down one bit.
no no no no no what is this this isn't possible what IS THIS
The young man crashed into him full force, knocking him clean off his feet. He was wailing loudly now, non stop, sounding just like any one of Hell's tortured souls. Mysterion nightstick flew out of his hand and skittered to a stop several feet away, and if that wasn't just fucking perfect he didn't know what was.
The little two-way radio he'd clipped to his belt crackled to life, and he could hear Kevin shouting at him, "Mysterion! C'mon my friend, give us a status report!"
Things are fucked, Kev. Thanks for asking, Mysterion thought, thrashing wildly under the young man's weight.
He didn't weigh much, he didn't weigh much at all, but he was so fucking strong it didn't seem to matter. The young man grabbed the front of Kenny's parka and tore through it like he was tearing through paper, showering them both in cotton lining and exposing Mysterion's vulnerable belly. The destruction of his precious parka might have pissed him off — and he supposed it would, later, if he survived this — but right now he hardly cared.
"GET THE FUCK OFF ME!" Mysterion roared, punching, kicking, fucking scratching at him, attacking any vulnerable spot he could get to, but if being bashed in the face twice with a nightstick had no effect he supposed this didn't either.
The young man braced himself on Mysterion's shoulders, pinning him down, straddling his hips as if he was about to ride him. His eyes bulged crazily, and Mysterion was reminded of that one villain in Who Framed Roger Rabbit, the one who said
Remember me, Eddie? When I killed your brother, I talked JUST...LIKE...THISSSSSS!
Mysterion wasn't one to give in to panic, but maybe he was panicking a little now, just a little. He tried to dig his fingers into the young man's eyes, tried to squash them like fucking grapes, but his assailant gurgled out a few nonsense words and shifted a little, so that both of his unnaturally strong hands were wrapped about Mysterion's right arm.
oh no please don't do what I think you're going to do please please
He bent his arm back at the elbow, breaking it. It sounded just like someone had stepped on a bag of popcorn.
He wasn't Mysterion now, he was Kenny, and he was screaming, screaming. His broken right arm, now bent at a grotesque angle, flopped uselessly to one side. His left, missing a chunk of flesh, beat the concrete floor weakly, helplessly. In his struggles, he didn't realize that the little switch on the two-way radio had been flipped on.
The young man braced himself once again, and bent down, mouth wide. When Kenny felt those teeth sink into his cheek, everything started going fuzzy.
At some point Kenny started screaming, and he didn't stop. Kevin thought he knew what terror felt like — staring up at a big wooden roller coaster and getting motion sick just thinking about it — but that wasn't terror, this was.
He clapped a hand over his mouth, shaking like a leaf, terrified right down to his core. This was nothing like the comics, 'cause in the comics everyone was brave and awesome and they had super-cool powers and nobody ever wet their fucking pants in fright, this was nothing like the comics, not even a little bit —
Butters jumped out of the car.
"Butters!" Kevin shouted. His voice sounded high and strange in his ears. Those blood-curdling screams continued over the radio, and Kevin knew he'd be hearing that crap in his nightmares. Butters ignored him and ran pell-mell for the barbed-wire fence.
"BUTTERS! KENNY SAID TO STAY PUT!" Kevin screamed, scrambling out of the car. "Shit shit shit shit —"
You always wanted to save the day, Kev.
"There is no emotion, there is peace, there is no emotion, there is peace...oh Spock, give me strength," Kevin chanted, before he took off after Butters.