A/N: Okay. So. This...is a really nice quick update, hey? ...I wrote most of it during school today. So. This is Kenny. And...yeah. Don't hate me?
Thank you, so much, as always, to: tweekers, ChapeauVert, , Lar-lar, Evie Antorcha, and my two anonymous people. Love for all of you.


"'Tophe? 'Tophe!"

"What the fuck's Frenchy doing?"

"Oh – God! What if—"

Whispers.

"Did you hear that?"

"No."

"It sounded like—"

The sound of seatbelts, clicking open and shut.

"Kyle, where are – ? Kyle!"

"Hang on!"

Screaming; deafening, echoing screaming, coming from everywhere at once.

"Stan – Kenny – !"

"Tweeker, stay – stay there, don't move – !"

Whistling, weightlessness, a sudden, scorching heat—

Then nothing.

... ... ...

I woke up with a killer headache. I couldn't even remember where I was, what I was doing, or even my own name, fuck, thinking hurt too much. Keeping my eyes shut, I covered them with one of my arms—just to be safe, in case there was an intense amount of bright light on the other side of my eyelids—and groaned. "Jesus H. Christ, I wish I was dead."

I expected Cartman to tell me to shut my "poor-ass mouth", or Kyle to offer me some Tylenol or Advil, or Tweek to yelp something about how I probably had the plague now. I didn't expect to hear the voice I did, and it was in that moment that I realized something was really, really fucking wrong.

"Wish granted, though not by the one you speak of."

I opened one of my eyes just a crack, and when there wasn't light to blind me or join forces with my headache from Hell to knock me unconscious, opened them both all the way, moving my arm from my face. Judging from the ceiling I could see above me, I was lying on a floor. I slowly turned my head to the right, and found myself face-to-leg with a pink, flowered couch. Just as slowly, I managed to raise myself into a sitting position and squint at the source of the voice: a skinny, pale boy with jet-black hair, who was lounging on the right side of the couch, two remote controls sitting beside him. One was black, and looked like a normal TV remote. The other was a bright, intense red that sucked to look at if I stared at it for too long—it felt like it was burning my eyes. I knew, without needing to look, that on my other side would be a huge, flat-screen high-def TV set. The boy on the couch was smirking at me.

"Damien?" My voice came out as a croak.

"Infidel," was the response.

Yeah, that was Damien all right. My stomach churned and I did my best to shove the pain out of my head so I could try to remember what had happened. Damien, the pink couch, and the red remote control ...they all meant one thing: I was in Satan's living room. In Hell. I had died again. But how? And when? The last thing I remembered was sitting on the plane; we'd almost made it to New York. I'd been singing, annoying the fuck out of everyone—except Clyde, who had fallen asleep on Token's shoulder the second he'd sat down—on purpose, and then...

Another lightning bolt of pain zapped my skull. "Fuck," I muttered, somehow finding the strength to scramble up onto the couch. I curled myself into a ball, facing the back of the couch and pressing my forehead against the soft fabric. I heard Damien let out an exasperated-sounding sigh—he'd never had very much patience with me; I had no idea why—and a second later I heard millisecond-long sound clips coming from the TV as he channel –surfed.

"Turn that down or fix me," I whined into the couch, my voice muffled. "Only hardcore Satanic assholes like seeing people suffer, and aren't you supposed to like, rebel against your upbringing or something?"

Another loud sigh. I was pretty sure I heard Damien mutter something evil under his breath; he was probably pissed that I was already dead and he couldn't kill me again. I knew I had a point, though, so I just waited, as patiently as I could, and a second later, my headache was completely gone. I sat up, sitting sideways on the couch so I was facing Damien, grinning at him. He ignored me, staring straight ahead at the TV. Glaring, actually, like it was the TV's fault I was here in the first place. For all I knew, maybe it was. Maybe Satan's demonic TV set had found its way up to Earth, and if that happened, it was only natural that it would find its way to me of all people. I was the proverbial death-child of the world, or whatever the fuck it was called. If there was a name for what I was. Sometimes I wasn't even sure if I was human anymore.

So, yeah, maybe I'd been eaten by Satan's TV. I supposed there were worse ways to die, having lived—died, I guess—more than a few of them over the years. I yawned; not because I was tired, but because there was nothing else to do. "So how have you been?" I asked, deciding that if Damien was going to be all bitchy and ignore me, then I was going to play the How-Long-Until-He-Tries-To-Punch-Me-In-The-Face game. It was one of my favourite things to do when I was bored. I played that game with Christophe all the time, and it was pretty impressive how after this long, he still had yet to actually hit me. He had amazing self-control. Maybe they taught that skill at mercenary school.

Damien didn't have anything like self-control. It was probably a side effect of living in Hell your whole life and being able to do whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. Plus, he had those sweet demon powers. He didn't answer me, but I saw his fingers twitch and it was only because I somehow intuitively knew to duck, that I didn't get hit by a flaming fireball—which ended up flying over me and crashing through the wall, leaving a big, fiery hole. Not that that was epic, or anything; everything in Hell was fiery.

"Missed me, missed me," I singsonged. "Did you miss me, Damien? I know I haven't been here for, like, ever!" Before he even had a chance to say anything or send more fire shooting at me, I leaned forward and rested my chin on his shoulder, grinning up at him. "And you only come up there—" I looked up at the ceiling. "—to see Pip, your little British love muffin with chocolate frosting and sprinkles, so—"

Jesus, Damien was quick. I didn't even see him lift his arm—maybe he didn't, maybe he did it with his Hell magic—but the next thing I knew I was sprawled on the other half of the couch, having just been punched in the face. I laughed. Whatever, the bruise would be gone by the time I got back home. Nothing ever lasted down here. "That's a new personal record," I told Damien, who was back to ignoring me. "Less than thirty seconds. We make a good team." I sat back up and stretched my arms out in front of me. "So. Anything good on TV?"

I finally got some sort of reaction—Damien turned his head from the TV to look at me like I was retarded. He held up the flaming-red remote control—oh, I hadn't noticed he was using that one—and said, "I am not watching television, infidel, I'm watching—"

"Hellevision, yeah, yeah, I get it. Sorry, jeez, I thought you were being boring and watching regular TV." I should have known Damien wouldn't be happy watching normal television, not when he had access to hidden Hell cameras all over Earth. See, the thing about Hell and TV, which I'd discovered about, oh, a few hundred deaths or so ago, was that a lot of the people who ended up in Hell—which was seriously like three-quarters of the world's population—were sick of Earth TV. How anyone could get sick of TV—reality shows, come on!—was seriously beyond my comprehension, but most Hell-bound people were pretty bitchy. So anyway, they'd all gotten together and had a big discussion with Satan, and in the end it had been decided that Satan would send a bunch of his minions up to Earth where they'd put magical Hell-enhanced cameras everywhere, and hook it up to some complicated cable system down here, and Hellevision was born. There was still regular TV for those of us who enjoyed that; that's what the black remote control was for. Hellevision was pretty fucking awesome, actually, though. There were seriously like, a zillion and twelve channels, and you could pause and rewind and record things just like TiVo—but, the only downside I saw, was that you couldn't fast forward, so you couldn't see what the future was going to be like. Which, okay, wasn't possible for regular TV either, but this was Hell for Christ's sake! You'd think we'd get some extra-special feature like that.

Damien muttered something that sounded like, "Infidel." Seriously, the kid needed a new insult. Calling someone an infidel just wasn't as harsh as it used to be.

"Is there anything good on Hellevision, then?" I asked, looking at the screen for the first time. It looked like a scene from ER or Grey's Anatomy or something. There were ambulances everywhere and paramedics running around and newscasters, and of course it was windy so everyone's hair was flying around and they had to yell to get the microphones to pick up their sound. Jesus, was Earth really as cliché as that? That was depressing.

Damien kind of grunted at me, which I took to mean, "Shut the fuck up, infidel, and either watch what I'm watching or go away."

I didn't feel very much like wandering around Hell right now; I was lazy, and I still was trying to figure out how the hell I'd managed to get to Hell, so I leaned back on the couch and sighed. An almost-hot-but-tries-way-too-hard blonde female newscaster was shouting into her microphone as the wind whipped her hair across her face.

"…the crash occurred only hours ago, on the outskirts of Newark, New Jersey. Over sixty passengers were on board the flight to New York City; only five survivors were found, all of whom are currently in the hospital, in critical condition."

I froze, not even able to breathe.

… … …

"'Tophe? 'Tophe!" I called after him as he practically flew past me. I stared after him, completely confused. Was he chasing that skinny guy? Maybe the guy had made some crack about French people; that kind of stuff always pissed Christophe off.

"What the fuck's Frenchy doing?" Cartman demanded from my left.

I shook my head, looking around at everybody else. With the exception of Clyde, who was still fast asleep, they all looked as confused as I felt. Well, except Cartman, who looked more angry than anything else."I don't know. He looked pissed though, didn't he? Maybe I should go see what's up."

I reached down to undo my seatbelt as Tweek yelped from my other side, "Oh – oh, God! What if—"

"Shh, Tweeker, it's okay," Craig said, and I glanced over to see him petting Tweek's hair. "Don't worry, everything's fine." Tweek whimpered, but seemed to relax. I smiled to myself, clicking my seatbelt open. It was hard to believe Tweek and Craig had ever had problems at all last year. I stood up, about to go after Christophe, when I heard something, like a loud clang, or bang, or something. I looked down at Token, in the seat in front of me. I whispered, trying to be quiet in case it happened again, "Did you hear that?"

Token looked down at Clyde who was still sleeping on his shoulder, smirking at the brunet before shaking his head at me. Shrugging, he said, "No."

"It sounded like—"

The plane tilted sharply to the right, suddenly, and I fell back down in my seat, whacking my elbow on the arm of the chair. "Ouch, fuck!" Rubbing my elbow, I opened my mouth to ask what the fuck had just happened, but I realized that the plane was still tilted. That wasn't right, the pilot should have righted the plane by now, we should be flying straight again.

"Oh, my God!" someone, one of the other passengers, yelled from the front of the plane. "We're falling!"

It took a minute for his words to sink in, but when everybody else figured out that it was true, we were on a plane that was falling, fast, out of the sky, there were clicking sounds as everyone undid their seat belts. People were running up and down the aisle, like there was anywhere else for them to go; a little girl started to cry; I was frozen. This wasn't happening. I was the one who died, just me. A plane crash would kill more than just me. I would come back, but nobody else would, this was going to be permanent for them. My friends were going to—

"Kyle, where are – ? Kyle!" I heard Stan yell, his voice filled with pure panic.

"Hang on!" I didn't recognize that voice, but how I could tell one from the other was a mystery to me. Everyone but me, it seemed, was screaming. I heard the screams from all around me. The noise was deafening; the screams echoed in my brain.

"Stan – Kenny – !"

"Kyle!" I managed to shout. I caught sight of the redhead, clinging to one of the seats up ahead. Somehow he'd gotten to the front of the plane.

"Tweeker, stay – stay there, don't move – !" I heard Craig say, his voice hard, but not angry—he was just trying not to let Tweek see his own fear about what was happening. They hadn't moved; they were still in their same seats, although Tweek was huddled on the floor now. I could see him crying as Craig crouched over him.

I heard a sudden, loud, high-pitched whistling, and somehow I knew that meant that it was almost over. I closed my eyes and braced myself for the plane hitting the ground, but all I felt was a strange-yet-familiar sense of weightlessness, and knew that I'd died. I felt like I was flying through fire, and then…

Nothing but blackness.

… … …

The room spun, the blonde newscaster's words repeating themselves over and over in my brain. Five survivors… Five out of over sixty. The odds of all of the survivors being any of my friends were… But even if they beat the odds, there were only five survivors. I made six, and there had been ten of us so…

"Oh, my God." I felt sick, and I wished I could have my headache back. I would take my brain imploding over this. I would do anything to forget what I had just remembered. The plane crash… It was all so clear in my mind now, and I couldn't get rid of it no matter how hard I tried. I saw Kyle, holding on to that one seat like it would be able to save him, and I wondered if it had, if Kyle was one of the survivors, or if… What about Craig and Tweek, were they okay, or…? Oh, God, what about Butters? He'd never done anything to anyone, how could God do this do him? Why the fuck had I been enough of an asshole the last few weeks so that I'd ended up here instead of Heaven? I wanted to go talk to God; no, I wanted to go scream at God, I wanted to know what the fucking fuck He was thinking when He killed… Who? I needed to know who, I needed—

"Damien," I said, unable to look away from TV screen yet, even though it made me feel even sicker to see the remnants of the plane, crushed and twisted on the ground. Christ…

"Yes?" Damien said, sounding distracted and bored. I wrenched my eyes away from the TV and looked at him. He glanced at me, and he must have seen something in my eyes, or something, because he actually paid attention for once in his demonic life.

"The lists," I said. I couldn't think straight. I tried to breathe, and focus my thoughts, tried to get the images of my terrified friends out of my mind. "The lists that your dad gets when people die. Are they here?"

"The Death Lists are in the kitchen on the table," Damien replied, raising one eyebrow at me. "But you won't be on them. Father has made it quite clear that those lists only record permanent deaths."

"That's what I need to know," I muttered, standing up and brushing my hair out of my eyes so quickly I accidentally yanked a big chunk of it out. I ignored the sharp pain and made my way to the kitchen. I'd been in Satan's house a lot; he liked me, even if Damien hated my guts, so whenever I died and came here, I got to stay for supper, and wander the house. I wondered what time it was down here—I'd given up trying to calculate Hell Time—and whether Satan would be home soon or not. Since I couldn't bitch at God, he was going to have to deal with me.

The kitchen was bright pink, this time. I wouldn't have noticed, considering I only had one thing on my mind at the moment, except it was bright, bright, blinding pink. It was like walking into Barbie Cave or something, fuck. Someone had to talk to Satan about his decorating skills someday. Maybe me, but not now. I needed to know who was on the lists, which were sitting, as Damien had said, in a big pile on the kitchen table. I pulled out the chair closest to the giant stack of papers, kneeled on it, and grabbed the first sheet off the top of the pile and scanned it. I'd never seen the lists before; Satan had just talked about them. They were pretty easy to figure out, though; there wasn't much to them. They were alphabetical by last name, and beside the names it said either Heaven or Hell. I ran through the last names of all my friends in my mind, and my stomach twisted as I shuffled through the papers until I found the beginning of the B's. I'd just started scanning the "Br—" last names when I remembered that Kyle wasn't the only one whose last name started with B. I went back to find Black, and almost had a heart attack when I saw six listings. With the same feeling of dread each time, I checked the first names, feeling so relieved I could cry when Token wasn't there.

Back to looking for Broflovski. I flipped back to where I'd been before, and made myself read through the list slowly. Brock… Broeckner… Brogan… Wait. F came before G, right? I read through again, and then a third time, to make sure I wasn't seeing things. To make sure that Broflovski really wasn't on there. That was two… I kept going, to the C's.

Carmichael… Carrell… Cartman, Eric.

"Oh, fuck," I whispered. My hands were shaking. I slowly moved my finger from Cartman's name across the paper to find out where he'd ended up. Hell. Of course he'd come to Hell. Fuck. I'd known not all of my friends were going to be okay, but with Token and Kyle both being survivors, I'd gotten too much hope. I blinked; there were tears in the corners of my eyes. I'd never thought that I would cry for Cartman…

DeLorne, Christophe. Hell. Well, at least he'd gotten what he wanted. He wasn't stuck with God, which would have made him even more miserable for all eternity. Now he just had to deal with anti-smoking lectures. I'd warned him. …Oh, fucking Christ, how could I even think about making jokes right now? My friends were fucking dead.

Donovan, Clyde. Oh, Jesus, Clyde… Clyde, who had been innocent and sleeping the whole flight. …According to the list, he was in Heaven, at least. But still. That wasn't fair. That wasn't fucking fair.

Marsh, Stan. No. "No. Fuck. No," I said out loud, barely even noticing as I started to cry. "Stan… Christ." My eyes moved across the paper. "At least you're in Heaven, dude…" I said quietly, moving on.

Stotch, Leopold. Heaven.

Tucker, Craig. Hell.

I shoved the papers away from me, scattering them across the table. Some of them fell on the floor, but whatever. What the fuck was Satan going to do, kill me? He had more Hell powers than Damien, he could wave his fucking giant red hand and the pile would be neat as a fucking pin. I slumped against the back of my chair, swinging my legs out from under me and hooking them around the bottom of the chair. My eyes were on the wall by the neon pink microwave, but I wasn't seeing anything. I couldn't process the information my eyes were trying to send my brain. I could hardly even think.

Cartman, Christophe, Clyde, Stan, Butters, and Craig. Six of them. Six of my friends were…had been… Fuck, this wasn't fair! They'd done nothing wrong! …Well, okay, Cartman had done a lot of things wrong in his lifetime, but being with Butters was actually making him be a better person. He hadn't been on his way to Mother Teresa level or anything, but he was getting there. And Christophe, well, I guess Christophe being a mercenary kind of worked against him, but he wasn't a cold-hearted murderer; he had a crush on Kyle, and cold-hearted murderers couldn't feel things like love, right…? Craig was an asshole, but most of the time he was protecting Tweek, so couldn't that be forgiven? I leaned my elbows on the table and rested my head on my hands, closing my eyes.

And then sat straight up in my chair as I realized exactly what the fuck had happened. "No," I whispered, shaking with anger and misery, but it was true.

Craig was here in Hell, but Tweek had survived.

Stan, in Heaven, held unrequited love for his best friend and still-alive Kyle, who had a reciprocated-but-never-acted-upon crush on new Hell resident Christophe DeLorne.

Butters was in Heaven, the farthest away from Cartman the universe could get him.

Token was alive, but he'd lost Clyde, his best friend.

The ones that had meant the most to each other were split up, forever.

"You…" I glared up at the ceiling with all my strength. Somewhere in the back of my mind I really did know that I couldn't blame God for any of this, that he didn't actually make the rules even though he was supposed to be the all-powerful-whatever-the-fuck. But that didn't matter right now. What mattered was how angry I was, and how much I just wanted to get the fuck back on Earth to go check on Kyle and the others. I needed Satan for that, though. And since he wasn't here now… I stood up, knocking the chair over with a bang. I marched through the living room, pulling open the front door of Satan's house. With one foot out the door, I turned to Damien, who was watching me. He looked amused, and that pissed me off even more.

"When your dad gets home, tell I need to fucking talk to him," I growled. I slammed the door without waiting for an answer, and went in search of Craig, Christophe, or Cartman.