ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FAN FICTION – EVEN THOSE BASED ON FICTIONAL PEOPLE– ARE ENTIRELY MADE-UP. ALL LOVECRAFT REFERENCES ARE RESEARCHED… POORLY. THE FOLLOWING STORY CONTAINS LEWD SEXUAL HUMOR AND DUE TO ITS LONG INTROSPECTIVE MONOLOGUES IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE. _|_|_|

Kyle

More time.

That's what I'd said.

"Give me a little more time."

The hell was that all about? I mean, shouldn't I have known, one way or the other? Oh, no. No, too easy. For me, anyway. My mind found itself in so many different places all at once, nothing could be easy.

Alone, quiet, in my room, I just sat on my bed, against the wall, and processed. First thing was first. Stan was out. My best friend had come out. To me, anyway; I had no idea if anyone else knew. Maybe Kenny… maybe. If that were the case, I… was actually kind of jealous. He'd've known first, since it probably came out in R'lyeh. Somehow, that scenario just made sense.

Just like a few other things made sense. My mind immediately rushed to that moment, and my right hand flew to my mouth, followed by my left. "Oh, God," I felt myself saying. My eyes misted up and closed, as I tucked my knees up, rubbed my feet together in their wool socks, and bowed my head, replaying that moment, hardly half an hour before. "Oh, God, oh, God."

Okay. So. Oh, God.

Now what?

This was… a lot to process, especially right smack in the middle of everything going on. Being so involved in the League was making me forget about all that normal stuff teenagers go through. Even though Kenny kept stressing that we enjoy normal life as long as we could, it was difficult. I was lacking in my studies—part of the reason my mother had been so hard on me lately—and I'd given up on Nelly at the start of November. I'd broken up with my girlfriend (however short-term I'd known she'd be) because I couldn't handle the stress. Because I couldn't…

…cope. Because at the time, I just couldn't deal with Stan being gone. I couldn't function when he was gone, and I'd been keeping him incredibly close since the day he'd come back. He'd been really close with me, too, and, yeah, now that I looked back, he kinda had been for a while. As if the way he played with my hair wasn't indication enough, there were all those times lately… how often he'd take my hand, how tightly he'd hold on when we hugged. And, I mean, I was prompting that kind of thing, too. Taking his hand to tell him he wasn't alone… holding onto him as assurance for both of us that he was safe, that he was alive, he was all right, he wasn't going anywhere.

I'd been a little shocked when he'd kissed me… stunned, but by no means angry. It had just been—unexpected, and I hadn't, in the moment, had time to process and react. Now that I was here and reflecting, I squeezed my eyes shut and listened to the pulse of my heart throbbing in my ears.

It was pretty much up to me, wasn't it? It was up to me to more or less make the decision on where we'd go from here. He was out… he'd confessed his attraction to me, and, I mean, I really was proud of him for saying all that. I didn't know if I was flattered or what, I just knew I was all right with it. But I did need time. There we go. I needed time… just… just a little while, to see how I wanted to proceed. To see if the attraction was mutual; to test out exactly how I felt about him.

Several things were certain. One of them was that I really hated it when Stan got down on himself. It happened from time to time, and whenever it did, I felt kind of useless. He'd tried a few different coping mechanisms before—total solitude, alcohol, depression meds—but during one of our last big tests of friendship, freshman year, he'd actually come right out and told me that having me listen was better than anything. Granted, he'd been on some scary weird meds at the time, so I don't know if he remembers that day like I do, but I do believe he'd meant every word. From then on, I'd taken to listening more, and that much I knew he'd noticed. So when he'd gone right back to moping around and being all silent after the final breakup, of course I'd get a little pissed that talking and listening didn't work that time around.

Looking back on that, and on other similar times as well, I started kind of feeling like a jerk. For not respecting the fact that, yeah, it was an annoying coping mechanism, but it was what Stan needed. Just to be alone. And obviously nothing could make me get over it better than, oh, watching him come back from the dead after six days of being convinced that he'd be out of my life for good.

Even though there was nothing I really could have done, once that bullet hit, I still felt mildly at fault for letting him die that night. And I thought about how I'd felt after that, so directionless, so empty… how I knew that if I ever lost him, if I ever even let him down, I'd feel like that again. So what could I do about that? Simple: take care of him. Look after him, protect him. Make sure he was all right, make sure I did my part, because no matter how I looked at it, we were a team. So, then, now, the question became, what do I want back?

What did I want back? And did it necessarily have anything to do with sexuality, or did it have more to do with just simple morals? I mean, okay, on the sexuality front, yeah, I liked girls, fine, sure, whatever. Girls exclusively? Well… not necessarily, I could be open, I supposed. I'd never wondered otherwise. Okay, so did I like guys? Did I necessarily have to identify as bi in order to accept that I might feel anything for Stan?

Well, I'd spilled it to him, why the fuck couldn't I get it through my own head? I'd said, word for word: "Stuff like this isn't always black and white, it's not necessarily a matter of straight or gay, or girls or guys or whatever. I don't think it's a big deal no matter who gets with who, as long as it makes 'em happy."

So, what made me happy? Or, what could?

There we go, there was a good jumping off point. All labels and everything else aside… would being with Stan make me happy?

…"Kyle," I muttered to myself once I came up with that, "that is the dumbest fucking question ever." Because obviously, yeah, being around him made me happy. Hell, being friends with him was one of the best things going in my life right now.

But. Was this the way things were really meant to play out for us?

If it did happen… would I mind? Would I be opposed to it happening?

And that was what made me realize… no. I'd be willing to give it a try. Honest to God, I would. I wouldn't mind. I just wouldn't want to rush anything. Which told me that, shit, I wanted to be practical about it. Take things slowly, logically.

God, could I ever think, over-think, and second-guess to beat hell.

The only thing that got my mind momentarily on other things was Ike pounding on my door telling me to come to dinner. I managed to suck it up and pretend I wasn't actually having some kind of major existential crisis around my family that evening, but my head was swimming with questions and possible outcomes for a couple hours as I lay awake that night in bed.

Turning to face the wall, reflecting again on the events of that afternoon, I flattened my lips tightly together and cupped one hand over my mouth. I felt the aftereffects of the replay, and wondered exactly how I'd handled it. How Stan read my reactions. If I'd appeared, at all, cold, or unaccepting. "Give me a little more time." Afraid I might've been irreparably unreadable, I grabbed my phone in a slight panic, held it out so I wouldn't need my glasses, and texted Stan:

Don't worry.

There.

Okay. I had time to think again.

… "What the fuck is wrong with me?" I scream-whispered to myself, yanking my pillow over my ears and hugging my arms tightly over my head. "Come on, Kyle, breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe."

But I'd started, and I couldn't stop. I looked back on everything. Fucking everything. Everything between me and Stan. And that was a long-ass catalogue, let me tell you. I've known him since we were toddlers. We've been tight from the beginning, and we'll be tight till the end. It had just become a matter of how. And the potential was there. Now I knew he wanted it, and I knew I wouldn't mind. Repercussions didn't even play into it, in my head. It was all just… me and him: would it work? Or would we somehow manage to fuck everything up? Oh, God, please not that. I couldn't afford to fuck that up. So the options were, kind of obviously, don't start it at all, or go for it with confidence and know that it's right.

I almost felt sick. This shouldn't have been a concern. It really, really shouldn't have. I was making way too big a deal of it. But I just could not afford to fuck it up. So, basically, all I knew at the end of the evening was that I was probably going to be awkward as fuck the next day, because I'd still be processing, still filtering logic. Well… at least I'd worked through my thoughts a little. At least I knew I wasn't opposed to giving it a shot. There was just more I needed to test out first. I had to be completely confident, or not try anything at all.

– – –

You know how things look one way on paper, or sound logical in your head? And then you actually start the thing and you're like, Huh, what the fuck did I do all this paperwork for? Yeah, so, that totally applies to laws of attraction. Or what the fuck ever it was that I'd been sorting out all night. I could think things through for hours and hours and stress myself out like crazy and have two distinct possible outcomes… but I still found myself at a different kind of square one some time later. At least I'd gotten one thing right. I was beyond awkward. But I was so wrapped up in over-analyzing that I didn't get why.

The following morning, Stan texted me asking for a ride just as I was wondering if I should ask him if he needed one. Ike was conveniently on the bus to school already, since middle school started earlier than high, and he liked getting there long before the first bell. I still woke up around the same time as my brother, though, so I arrived at Stan's house at 7:30. For some stupid reason, I felt like being all formal, and, leaving my car running for heat (because, fuck, it was freezing), I made my way up the shoveled walk and rapped a couple times on the front door. I heard Stan holler a goodbye back to his mother, and then a second later, the door opened.

This was just like any other day. Just… going to school, nothing weird, nothing different. So why the fuck did a simple, "Hi," come out so strained?

Not that his usual, "Hey," didn't seem to have more weight to it, either.

"Come on," I suggested, gesturing back toward my car with my right elbow, since my gloved hands were shoved deeply into my coat pockets for warmth, "I left the car going."

"Didn't lock yourself out, though, did ya?" Stan teased me as he followed me back to the driveway.

"Ha, ha," I replied as flatly as I could, rolling my eyes.

The second I got in the car, I yanked my hands out of my pockets and held them against the heaters to warm them up. I tended to feel colder in the morning, I'm sure just about everyone does, everyone who has to leave the comfort of his own bed and haul his ass to school by 8 a.m., at least. Once sufficiently thawed, I eased my car into reverse, backed out onto the street, and kept, oddly enough, just below the speed limit on the drive to school.

I really was feeling weird about going to school lately. It seemed like a waste of time, and I've never thought that before. I've skipped out before, when nothing was really at stake if I did, but now I was actually starting to wonder how much longer any of us could put up with it. How much longer it would even matter. I told myself I'd study hard for finals, to keep my parents happy, but what bothered me was that the Cult could make a move at any second. I knew that Kenny carried his Mysterion gear around with him, but it wasn't quite as easy for me to just become the Human Kite at the drop of a hat.

And, as far as today went, I even felt removed from that. Like Kite's activities were someone else's job, someone else's burden. Something for another day. Please, God, I begged, no mission tonight. Now, of course, I wanted to make headway on League activities, of course I did, it's just that I could only deal with one thing at a time. Whenever I get stuck on something, it becomes an obsession, and I don't like giving it up till I've got it figured out. So, not thinking about school, not thinking about the League, what was I left with? Honestly, a pretty significant distraction—and yet hardly a distraction at all, really. And he was sitting in the passenger seat of my car.

At a four-way stop, waiting for a bus to pass through, I shifted my focus over to Stan, who smiled nervously and said, "What's up?"

"Huh?" I wondered.

"You haven't said anything yet today…"

"Yeah, I did," I tried to argue, at the same time realizing that, no, we hadn't been having a conversation at all.

"Right, okay, you said 'hi,' I'll give you that."

"I-I'm concentrating on the road," I said quickly. The bus was gone, and I had the right of way, but I hate following large vehicles on potentially icy roads, so I clicked my brights on for the guy across from me to take the turn. When he didn't take the hint, I clicked them again, then finally laid on the horn and shouted, "I'm letting you move!" (This is the point where I'll admit to having some minor road rage.)

When the driver finally passed, he flicked me off, which was probably the only thing that could've gotten me to roll down my half-frozen window on a morning cold as that one, in the interest of yelling back, "I was doing you a favor, jackass!"

"Dude, calm down," Stan tried, as I sat back, rolled up the window, and finally took my right turn.

"No, no, I'm calm, I'm calm," I said, attempting to convince myself. "I just don't like it when people don't get simple signals on the road."

"Why'd you even tell the guy to go, then?"

"Because I don't like following busses, Stan, okay?"

"Okay." A few seconds passed, giving me some time to sigh out a little frustration (mostly with myself), but then the awkwardness from the first 'hi' was back. I bit the inside of my lip, trying to figure out what to say next, but Stan beat me to it. "Um… I didn't set you on edge, yesterday, did I?" he wondered.

"No!" I said, maybe too quickly. "No," I repeated, making myself sound more controlled. I let out a breath, which sort of admitted my actual tension, once I thought about it, and said, "I'm not on edge, Stan. Don't worry about it."

"Sure," said Stan, not wholly convinced. He let a few seconds pass, then added, "Thanks for yesterday, though, Kyle. I'm really glad I could talk to you."

"Yeah," I said, shrugging one shoulder. "Yeah, no problem. Did, um… was it… are you, y'know, are you glad to have come out?"

"I… yeah," Stan answered. "It's just one of those things where, like… it's fine, I know it's fine, it's just… I get nervous about actually saying it."

"Did you tell your parents?" I asked out of curiosity, glancing over at him. Slightly flushed, Stan shook his head and looked out the window. "How come?"

"Because," he said, "it doesn't feel right yet."

"Am I the only one you've told?" I wondered.

"Uh… no, actually, Kenny knows," Stan told me. As I'd thought.

"Oh, okay. That makes sense. So what'd he say about it?"

Stan shrugged. "He asked me if I thought he was hot."

"He would," I laughed. "Jesus, leave it to Kenny."

"Yeah…"

And that cut through the tension for a while. We were able to talk about normal things on the way to school, things about daily life, even though both of us, as usual, practically couldn't wait until we'd be in the right place to discuss League dealings again. It was nice that things were always pretty much able to shift back to normal for us, no matter what kinds of situations we found ourselves in or events that transpired, but this time, my brain wouldn't shut the fuck up. Even when we were talking as we always did, even getting on other subjects, my mind was just still insanely preoccupied. Because I'd read into everything Stan said. Analyze the way he said it. Analyze my own responses. Why couldn't I, for once in my damn life, stop being such an over-thinker? Such a self-critic?

Honestly. If things were awkward, it was my own damn fault. Yeah, things were hinging on me right now. It was my response, my final analysis, my feelings that needed to be sorted out and filtered through. I had to look at everything from all sides, and the more I got myself thinking about everything, the more awkward I'd get about it. Which was something Stan always got, which was why he'd taken to practically commanding me to stop thinking. I think, I obsess, I worry, but all in the interest of making sure that things work the way they're supposed to. Making sure things make sense. That I can find logic.

I parked in the lot out near the football field, momentarily anxious to finally get to senior year when I could be granted a better spot, and paused for a second, looking out over the frosted grass. Out toward the utility shed, which had undergone reparations since the night we, the League, had arrested Wilcox and gotten Craig working with us. That drug bust seemed like such a long time ago, like something almost inconsequential, compared to what we were up against now. Stan walked around to my side of the car, folded his arms across his chest for added warmth, and stared with me, most likely thinking the same thing. Everything we were dealing with was now pretty easily divided into before and after Halloween.

So, then, as soon as I thought about that, a question kind of escaped from me: "Hey, Stan?" I started.

"What's up?"

"How's your—uh…"

"My what?"

"You know," I said, clipping my words short, still glaring out over the frozen field as I spoke. "Your rib."

"Oh." I heard Stan take in a deep breath—maybe even just for my sake, to remind me that he was breathing at all—before he continued, "It's fine. Hurts a little every now and then, but I'm fine. It doesn't feel too bruised anymore."

"Good," I said. "Okay. That's good."

Satisfied and much too cold, I turned and started heading toward school, numbly moving from one thing to the other. Again, so damn much in my head, I had to go for one thing at a time. When I didn't hear a second set of footsteps beside me, I turned back to see that Stan was still standing there, giving me this concerned, You sure you're okay? look.

I kind of nodded, let out a quick sigh, and walked back over. Absentmindedly, I grabbed Stan's hand and pulled him in my direction, saying, "Come on, dude, it's freezing."

"Uh—" he started, tensing out of surprise, even though our hands dropped once I'd gotten him walking.

"What?" I wondered.

"Nothing," he covered.

I got what he'd read out of that, and that was fine; maybe I'd even meant more, but I honestly couldn't tell with everything swimming around in my head that day. So I just let it be what it was. I clamped a hand reassuringly on his shoulder as we stepped inside, and he retaliated by stealing my hat off and fucking up my hair.

While I could, just as Kenny had said, I had to enjoy this 'normal' lull, since none of us knew how brief it'd be. I went about my day in just as average a way as I could, fully aware that any of these upcoming school days could be the last—that any day now my League duties would come front and center, and Kite would be much more than a nighttime alter ego. All the more reason to figure out exactly what it was I wanted, and soon. Before it had a chance to get taken away.

– – –

At lunch that day, Red joined us at our regular table, clinging like a leech to Kenny's arm. You'd think those two were married already, jeez. They were pretty adorable, though, couldn't deny that. Ever since Kenny had left his parents' house, too, he and Red were getting noticeably closer. He'd remarked, a couple times lately, about how happy he was that he hadn't died since Halloween, and those comments kinda brought me down a little. I felt awful for not remembering Kenny's innumerable previous deaths, for knowing that nobody had, until Stan had kick-started a paradox that had allowed us all to be aware. I didn't want his deaths to keep fucking up his personal life. Kenny was a damn good friend and a damn good person, and as invested as he was as Mysterion, seeing him with Red was like seeing him in his exact element. It's amazing what relationships can do for some people.

(Huh, what a thought.)

Oddly enough, Wendy, too, joined us that day, having the excuse of sitting by Red for the regular school audience, but when Kenny's girlfriend got up to go buy herself and Kenny each a cup of coffee (at his request, and with his money), Wendy leaned in and said, "Guys, I'm getting really worried."

Because he was the one she—understandably—was looking straight at, Stan was the one to ask, "What about?"

Disheartened, Wendy rested her head in her hands and sighed, "Other than everything… Marjorine." Oh. A cold hush fell over the table. "I feel like I've just totally lost one of my best friends. Guys, Butters has been just plain scary lately. I don't know what to do. I tried reaching out, but he's like a different person. I don't know what to do."

I was at a loss for what to say. We all were. Obviously, he was a friend, and we wanted to help, but it's really hard to help someone who refuses to respond. I've totally run into that with Stan before, but his issues were, again, all bouts of real depression. What was happening to Butters was an actual change, a literal darkness descending and warping him into the true Professor Chaos, an entity to be feared. The days of sweet, all-loving Marjorine seemed to be completely over. And Wendy, from what I knew of her, was such a nice girl, she was probably taking her friend's absence personally.

In a very, very odd turn of events, the first person at the table to utter a response was Cartman. "Okay, fine," he said, "I'm on it."

"What?" Wendy asked.

"I'm on it, I'll get him to talk."

Kenny shot him an odd look as Wendy said, "Eric, really?"

"Eh," Cartman shrugged. This was weird, especially coming from a) the guy who was always such a dick and b) the guy whose biological father (who he'd had killed) was a Cultist. Then, glaring at Kenny, he added, "It's my job."

Wow.

Okay, so it was highly, highly probable that there was some kind of ulterior 'any excuse to beat the crap out of Butters' motive in there or something, but Cartman's seemingly honest compliance to the task made me wonder how much this Cthulhu situation was changing all of us. We all had our usual drives, but stakes were now higher. Much higher. Sanity was on the line. Lives were threatened. Two separate forces were actually trying to destroy the world.

Red walked back over at that point, so to strike up a more believable conversation, Wendy said, "So I think I'm good on about all my finals except calc, so…"

"Well," said Cartman, fully himself again, as Red sat down and handed Kenny his coffee, "see, Wendy, Wendy, what you gotta do is just copy off math-brain Jew over here—"

"Goddammit, Cartman, shut up!" I snapped. "Quit being an intolerant racist, already! God!"

"I'm not racist, you just have to be Jewish to be good at math."

"You're just pissed off cuz you failed algebra twice, shit-for-brains!"

"No need to fight it, Kyle. It's simple genetics."

"You don't know anything about genetics!"

"Okay!" said Kenny in an authoritative tone. "All in favor of kicking Cartman off the island?"

Not surprisingly, all hands were raised. "Sorry, dude," Kenny shrugged, which got his girlfriend laughing.

"Well, screw you guys! I didn't wanna sit here, anyway." And with that, the annoyance was gone. Kenny, Wendy, Stan and I exchanged a brief glance, saying we'd stand by his promise to deliver info on Chaos, but that was all. We were still testing his loyalties to the League… Kenny especially. Mysterion wasn't taking any chances. None of us were.

I found myself taking a brief but reassuring hold of Stan's wrist, where no one could see—just a quick, You're not going anywhere, reminder. I saw him smile, after that little action, but he didn't prompt anything in return. It really was all pretty much hanging on me. Stan knew enough not to go another step further until I'd caught up.

As the lunch period was winding down, Wendy excused herself in favor of hanging out with Bebe, and not long after she'd gone, Kenny glanced at the clock on the wall to his right and said, "Okay, let's see… few minutes left. Baby, you got a mint?"

"Huh?" Red wondered. "Why?"

"Cuz," Kenny smirked, "I'm gonna take you out to the back hall before the bell, and I didn't think you'd wanna make out if my breath smelled like shitty ol' cafeteria coffee."

Red snickered. "Maybe I like the smell of shitty cafeteria coffee."

"Weak," Kenny laughed.

"Just kidding. Open up."

Kenny stuck his tongue out, and Red dug into her pocket for a box of mini Altoids, three of which she then pressed down on the center of her boyfriend's waiting tongue. Kenny chewed them down, stood, and offered a hand to Red. As he helped her up, he grinned over at me and Stan, bid us, "Later," and then started leading Red away.

Once they were gone, Stan started laughing. "Kenny cracks me up, dude," he said. "I just don't get how he can still be so… him under pressure, y'know?"

"Yeah, Kenny's funny like that," I admitted. But he was dedicated. That guy knew exactly what it was he wanted, all the time, and went for it. He wanted Red? He got her. He wanted to send himself to college? He'd opened a bank account and worked all the damn time. He wanted answers? He was sure as fuck gonna get 'em, whatever it took. I kind of envied that. I'm moral—and highly opinionated—but sometimes I just don't see myself as strong-willed as, say, Kenny, or Stan. I couldn't stand up to my own mother, I had an (okay, I'll admit it) odd psychic quirk I couldn't control, I stressed out for no reason. But I liked order. That's all. I liked to make sure the reasons I did something were right.

God fucking damn, I'd already started obsessing again. I really needed a distraction.

Glancing up at the clock himself, Stan's eyebrows knit in a mocking glare. "Few more minutes, Kenny?" he remarked. "More like twelve."

"Dude, he's gonna wear Red down," I laughed, managing to break out of my thought cage for a minute.

"I dunno," said Stan. "They're kinda going at the same pace, don't you think?"

"Yeah," I had to admit. "Kinda lucky that way."

"Yeah." After a few silent seconds, Stan looked back at me and asked, "You wanna skip out till next period?"

"Out where?" I wondered. "Why?"

Completely joking, Stan put on an awful, cheesy, seductive tone and echoed Kenny: "Cuz I'm gonna take you out to the back hall and—"

"Dude!" I laughed, slapping his arm.

He let himself laugh as well, but once we were off it, he showed a real smile and said, "Seriously, though, let's just go for a walk or something." The expression he wore seemed to add, I want to talk about something, just not here.

Realizing I wouldn't have been able to say no, regardless, I agreed, "Sure," and followed him out of the cafeteria, down a short hall, and out one of the back doors to an area nobody really used, even for smoke breaks.

It was the time of year when we all took to keeping our coats on inside, so the chilly air was less of a shock than it would've been if we'd walked out in just our sweatshirts, and Stan stuffed his hands in his coat pockets for extra warmth, letting out a long, visible breath into the brisk atmosphere as we began a slow trod around the little-used area. There wasn't much back there but some untrimmed hedges and a stone bench that had been added in just in case someone wanted to go back there for recreation, but the truth was, most of the school forgot that area was there (even the Goths, or I was sure they'd probably have used that corner for their hours of Cure and cloves).

We'd been out there walking for a few minutes before either of us spoke. It was Stan who broke the silence, by saying, "Hey, Kyle?"

"Huh?"

"I really hope you don't think I was forcing anything on you. Yesterday."

"I don't, Stan," I assured him. "Don't worry. Honest to God."

"All right," said Stan, looking guilty nonetheless. "I just, um… I can tell you're thinking about it."

Thankfully, I was able to laugh. "I'm that obvious, huh?" I guessed. Then again, Stan just plain knew me, so it wasn't a surprise. He just shrugged, which told me I wasn't projecting anything too much to anyone who didn't know. Which meant anyone but him and possibly Kenny.

I thought back to about two minutes before, when I'd been watching Kenny and his girlfriend interact. Those two were really just together by now, just very complimentary, very real, and, something I'd never earlier have expected of Kenny, very wholesome and honest at the same time. Oh, sure, Kenny was still dirty as shit, but he was a sweet boyfriend to her.

Huh. Okay. Maybe that was my issue. Labels. Yep—plain and simple, that was it. Assuming something started, between me and Stan, obviously, labels would have to come into play somewhere, at some point. Another reason I'd broken up with Nelly was because I just simply didn't want the pressures of being someone's boyfriend. I felt like there was a lot of this weird, expected responsibility that came along with labels like that. And if it came down to it, if I realized I did have a thing for Stan and I did decide to pursue something with him, I wouldn't want there to be any of that kind of pressure or expectation.

And, deep down, I knew he wouldn't want it, either. I was just over-analyzing again. Neither of us wanted anything to change too much, but sooner or later, things were going to move in one direction or the other. And whatever it was, as I kept thinking, that decision had to be exactly right.

Fuck. Sometimes I really hated being such an over-thinker.

Okay. No labels, no pressure, just get your mind to shut up, Kyle, and what's there? I asked myself. What's there, in regards to Stan? Well, obviously, I cared about him. He helped me out a lot. I liked knowing that he knew he could depend on me. There was a lot to admire about him, too. He had strong qualities, he was a good speaker, he was very adamant about his morals.

Looking directly at him, I noticed (where probably I'd been neglecting to) that his thick black hair had grown out a fair amount, now that Wendy wasn't clipping it so close all the time. Stan liked it shaggier, anyway, and it was getting to that point, now; that purposeful mess really did seem to suit him more than the shorn cut that Wendy had preferred. It stayed out of his eyes, though—and, oh, shit, that was when I figured out I'd almost been staring, getting all analytical, so I looked away.

I still had a lot to sort out. A lot of my own inner rantings I had to get over. But I'd keep entertaining the possibility. Of. Whatever. Whatever it was. God, shit, I was so hung up on words. Until certain words or phrases or labels or what have you clicked in my mind, I wasn't going to be satisfied with any of the roundabout thoughts I'd been having. So until I figured all that out… whatever. Right?

"Kyle!" Stan's voice shocked me out of my current round of over-analyzing.

"What?" I wondered.

"I asked if you wanted to go back in."

"Oh. How much time do we have?"

"I dunno, like seven or eight minutes."

"Huh. Maybe a few more?" I suggested.

Stan agreed with a simple, "Sure," and the two of us continued walking, ambling just a little further from the brick school wall before turning around to slowly head back.

Once again, the tension was too thick for me.

Fuck it.

Maybe I really did just have to stop thinking, around and around in circles. Maybe I just had to start up a new idea instead.

Okay, something about me: I don't flirt. I don't. Not really, anyway. I just kind of talk, and a couple times, things sorta worked out. My girlfriends had done the flirting. The hand-grabbing, prompting the little gestures. I just talk. According to Kenny, from what he's observed of my 'tactic,' I can smooth talk, but I've never really thought about what or how I do that kind of thing, I just do. I'd never really tested out any normal, attention-seeking flirting tactics.

So—deep breath, Kyle, deep breath—this was a time to try that out. Right. I'd just… see if this was the road I wanted to take.

As we walked, I nudged Stan's right arm with my left. When he didn't show much of a reaction, I nudged him again, hoping he could at least take a hint. Which, that time, he did. He drew that hand out of his coat pocket and let it fall to his side, where, just testing out the thought again, I let my knuckles brush against his, giving myself a second to process exactly what I was doing and how I was going about doing it. It felt fine, in the moment, so I took hold of his hand, keeping a light grip, just in case I second-guessed. But when Stan, after a little beat, brushed his thumb against my skin, as just a calm, kind little gesture, I relaxed and was able, for now, to stop thinking. I tightened my grip a bit, and he, in response, tepidly wove his fingers through mine, so that our hands were clasped and locked, which was how they stayed for the next several minutes as we continued our walk.

We went back inside with the silent understanding that it… might happen. Maybe it'd happen soon, maybe not. I just had a little more thinking to do. Which Stan knew. Both of us knew I needed to take my time. No rushing. Logic. Make it work if it was meant to. Sort out the words I couldn't quite place yet, and make sure that if and when it happened, it would be absolutely right.

– – –

Into the afternoon, now in the 'maybe… not yet, but maybe soon' mode of the whole 'should we?' issue, something totally set me off. As the calendar crept into December, it had now been almost two months since Stan's breakup with Wendy. Almost a full month of him being alive again after the Halloween scare. Two months, I guess, was enough for some people, and I saw in the hall, that afternoon, one of the girls in our class, Millie, issuing a couple flattering compliments before asking Stan out for coffee (and potentially other dates as well).

I watched as Stan let her down easy, explained that she seemed like a very nice girl, that he appreciated her compliments, but that he didn't want a girlfriend right now. Didn't say anything about why, just that he didn't want a girlfriend. And, even though I knew the reasons, even though Millie truly posed absolutely no threat to me, I felt an odd surge in my chest, and had to look away.

Jealousy. Was that seriously jealousy? Something that petty? No way… no way. It was more. Protectiveness. That's what I'd been doing, that's what I'd been acting on, this whole time. I was just… being protective.

I pressed on through the hall toward my next class, heart pounding, mind going absolutely fucking nuts.

What's going on? I wondered. He comes out to me, and now all of a sudden I'm all confused?

Oh, that was a lie and a half, and I knew it. It sure as hell wasn't all of a sudden, not at all. That morning wasn't 'all of a sudden.' That walk after lunch was like the antithesis of 'all of a sudden.' And I certainly wasn't confused. I was processing. If anything, it was more like I'd been granted the freedom to start sorting out what was already there.

Oh, God…

"Oh, God…" I whispered.

It was already there.

That appreciation. That respect that had no name. It was attraction. Pure, simple attraction. Devotion. Great, I set the thesaurus off, but really. That's what it was.

The attraction was mutual. I still had feelings to sort out, to weed through and extract exact words and meanings from, but they were there.

What a time to figure it all out. Right on the cusp of finals. It was awful, awful, awful, awful, but I couldn't let anything really distract me from that right now (and there was plenty else distracting me within the League, too). Not if I was going to stay in my own house through senior year, anyway. Okay, so… goal. Goal: get through finals, study hard, keep all this in mind, but just get through that week of finals first. Then, I'd have the freedom to dive right in and keep searching.

Even so, even with that goal in mind, that didn't stop me from taking hold of Stan's arm when we left school together that afternoon. Didn't stop me from grabbing his hand once no one was looking. Didn't stop me from feeling that surge, again and again, day after day, wondering when the hell I'd wise up and just say something.

Because, honest to God… starting something might just be, I realized, one of the safest, sanest things we could do.

– – –

Butters

Insanity was the only logical option.

Whenever I tried to create order in my life, it fell apart. No matter how big or how small a foundation I started to build, it would always crack and crumble into dust beneath me. So, with that in mind, the deductive solution was to abandon these futile efforts and, instead, work to create its opposite. Disorder. Destruction.

Chaos.

And that was my entire focus now. It was freeing actually, in an even more complete way than I had yet experienced in all the years I'd been Professor Chaos. Because I wasn't distracted anymore. Though I had become Chaos out of a need to act out my darker impulses, I had still continued to pander to popular expectations and tried to function within the standards set by society and my idiotic parents. And my feminine persona had distracted me even more, leading me further away from Chaos' true potential.

No longer.

Now, I had one single goal before me: to bring insanity to the world. And I had a specific means to do just this: with the flute and the twisting influence of Nyarlathotep.

I had never been more singular in my outlook on life.

And I was happy to give back to the world what I had been given all my life (turnabout and fair play and all that, right?), but my partner had been harboring even grander thoughts.

It came out during one of our information briefings. General Disarray had recently gone back to that bookstore to obtain some more information for us. He hadn't told me exactly how he was able to do that. He as much insinuated that he threatened tidbits out of the Cult members that frequented there, but I had started to suspect that he might have an actual 'in' with them somehow, since what he came back with was usually too good and detailed to have been threatened out. He usually even had a book or folder of clippings. But he never went into detail, and I never pushed the issue. His results were too good, and my sights were focused on our goal and immediate practical work.

Disarray was showing me a rough sketch of R'lyeh he had obtained from his last visit. It had been drawn by a man from the early nineteenth century who claimed to have seen this place in a fevered dream, and, shortly after creating it, had fallen completely mad (surprise) and been condemned to a sanatorium for the rest of his life. Disarray was pointing out an area almost in the center, marked simply, 'where They sleep.' "That's where the Old Ones are," he said, "where they lie 'dead but dreaming.'"

"But Nyarlathotep doesn't sleep, right?" I asked, confirming my understanding of the mythos. "He can move between the worlds."

"Right," Disarray responded, "but when we get there, we'll have to know where the others will be."

"'When we get there?' What are you talking about?" I asked, glancing up at him. That was the first time I had heard that thought mentioned by my partner.

"After we bring chaos to this world, it stands to reason that we'll want to leave it behind. They'll be nothing left anyway. Plus, if we go into R'lyeh, then the chaos will have an even greater effect and it'll spread even quicker."

I blinked at him. I knew what we had been working toward. I had been under absolutely no false impressions that what we were doing would not leave the world in desolation, altering it forever with no hope of reversing the effects. I knew we were dealing with things much bigger and older than we were, and giving those powerful, evil forces the means to destroy human civilization. Even the animals would start to go crazy, and there would be no sound mind left on the planet. But that was the first time I had thought of an 'after.' What we would do after the world was overtaken by chaos. It honestly had yet to cross my mind. What Disarray was saying made sense. We would leave the ruined world behind and cross over into a new world.

And, honestly, I didn't care what was waiting for us there. It couldn't have been any worse than here, where nothing I ever tried to do, say or create ever ended in anything other than desolation anyway. Many said this planet was already dying. Why shouldn't I help it along? Let the world drown in its own chaos, I would remove myself from it even further.

I would leave it all to rot, and I would not look back.

– – –

We determined that, to get into R'lyeh ourselves, we had to build a gate to get there. My deal with Nyarlathotep would get us through, but we needed a physical doorway to contain the portal that would open for us. We drew up a diagram of the gate on the other side, compiled from various accounts and documents from Disarray's files and a few pages of the Necronomicon itself. We decided to build it in the woods behind my house. That way, it was close, but also well concealed. There was an area back there that had once been cleared for one reason or another, and then abandoned (that's stellar city planning for you). No one ever went back there. The road leading to it had long since grown over with shrubs and small trees, so there was no risk of people finding it. The crews had left huge piles of dirt and chunks of rock, which they were probably going to use to create a foundation for something. We could use those same materials to build our gate. I had found the clearing years ago during a few particularly bad events during seventh grade. It had been my own private escape then, and it would serve as the setting for a more definite one now.

I had borrowed a couple tools from my dad's shed to aid in our construction. It being early December, and not really fix-it season, I didn't think he'd miss them.

I should have known better.

Only my obsessively anal-retentive father would check his shed a month into winter just to check that everything was in its proper place even when he was typically the only one who ever went in there.

And who was the first person he naturally accused when something was out of place?

"Butters!"

I couldn't help but appreciate the banal predictability.

I was in my room when I heard the familiar shout. "Yes?" I called back.

"Butters, come down here, we need to talk!"

Oh, joy, I thought to myself. Talks with my father never ended well. For me.

I reluctantly put away my textbook. I had been having a momentary lapse of normalcy, studying for finals the next week. It was intriguing that my life now revolved around the contents of another, much older, text which I found significantly more worthwhile than calculus. I headed downstairs to face the accuser. Half of the time my father punished me for things, I had had absolutely nothing to do with whatever issue he had invented. Three times out of ten, he'd changed the rules on me or added a new one, so I really had no chance of defending myself then. The rest of the time… I was actually guilty. The last percentage was noticeably small (proof of how often I was 'in trouble'), but in reality it had gone up over the years. This was thanks in large part to my feminine persona appearing and reappearing later in my teenage years. But, it was also because I didn't care if I got in trouble that much anymore. I used to be paranoid as anything, at the time still desperately trying to please my parents.

But I had grown out of that delusionary state.

Besides, they would find reasons to punish me regardless, so why should I waste my energies trying to avoid the inevitable?

I expected that this time, knowing what I had recently done, was one of the actually guilty occurrences. But this instance was further unusual in that I had to lie about it. Outright lying was relatively new territory for me. I, in any sense, always favored half-truths and word play as opposed to outright lying. It began as younger Butters not wanting to do anything against the rules and progressed into Chaos enjoying the thrill of manipulation. With more of Chaos' influence on me lately, I had been exercising that talent more as well.

I made my way into my father's study. This room was understandably his favorite place for these confrontations. Here, he had the power, and I was simply a pawn to be sacrificed. Or however it was he saw me. The rules in this house had never been fair.

Oh, just you wait, dear father, till you see what I've got planned.

He stood next to his armchair rather than sat. I had nearly reached him in height, and I was pretty certain that bothered the hell out of him, since he could no longer lord it over me physically as he had once done. His only tool now was his voice, which came out as always, clipped, succinct, and the words hardly ever varied:

"Butters, do you know why I called you down here?"

"No," I muttered. Lie number one.

"Well," my father said, lifting his chin in an attempt to maintain power, "would you like to tell me why I am missing two things from my shed?"

"If I knew," I said blankly, "I would tell you." Lie number two.

"Don't play coy with me, Butters," my father snapped, his face flushed red with rage. "I suppose you think you're being very clever, but this is serious." I personally thought there were much more serious issues going on in the world than an absent shovel, but maybe that was just me. "If there's one thing your mother and I can't stand, son, it's this constant disregard for order!" You don't say. "This house is to be run neat," Dad shouted, slamming his hand down on the back of his armchair, "and tidy," he finished with another slam. "And when things go missing—"

"Can we be done?" I interrupted. My father stood back and blinked in alarm. Oh, dear, oh, dear! Had I opposed him? Oh gracious, what ever would happen to his perfect home now?

"Did you just talk back to me, young man? If you did, you're grounded!"

Hadn't I heard that before. "Really?" I shot back. "I'm seventeen."

"As long as you live in my house under my rules, you will do as you're told mister."

Oh, he was just asking for it now.

My parents had stood in my way long enough. Badgered me long enough. Tried to sculpt this perfect child out of little Leopold, and in so doing had created a monster. Their tactics had all failed. Their minds were—

Their minds were—

Perfect targets.

"Whatever," I muttered to my father, to end the first of what would become a few sessions of rising up against him. The tool thing was never resolved. Let Dad go crazy over a couple missing things for now. We'd see just how crazy he could get.

I had my plans for that evening, and they couldn't go undisturbed. But he'd get his. He and my mother both. They'd see. They'd soon know the consequences of their actions. I was gonna enjoy this.

– – –

There was one immediate obstacle in my path – the Coon.

The guy had been following me lately like a very annoying pest, much more persistently than he ever had before (Butters could only dream of receiving this much attention). I supposed the rest of the League heroes had appointed him as my personal wrangler. Though I had tried to work with them for a short period, the League and Chaos were, and always would be, naturally opposing forces. Their group wanted to maintain order; I wanted to annihilate it. However, my greatest, and first true, adversary was the Coon. We had been performing this dance the longest, before the rest of the former "Friends" appeared on the scene. Even before Mysterion. Thus, we both knew best how the other operated, which meant he could most easily thwart my plans, validating the League's choice. But, of course, conversely, I could also predict his moves and prepare counter-measures accordingly. Little did the League know the mistake they had made in setting the Coon on me – a familiar obstacle was also the most easily overcome.

Case in point: I had a plan this evening to try and shake him from my trail.

Not being the best at physical prowess, I utilized my mind for personal defense. I was really good at evasive strategies (what does that say about my level of patheticness?) and setting traps. Tonight, I played the part of the poacher.

I planned to catch a Coon in my proverbial net. Now, if this was simply Cartman, I'd throw a bag of Cheesy Poofs under a suspended cage and wait for him to show. But, unfortunately, the Coon tended to be a bit more... discerning. So, I had to be more cunning than that.

Of course, there was also no reason why I couldn't secure a few more items for my evening's cache.

So, that night found me standing at the corner of an arbitrary rooftop downtown, picked for no other reason than it provided an open view of the neighboring vicinity.

It was a rather cold night, even for Colorado at this time of year. I breathed out into the chill night air, and saw my breath curl out in front of me like a miniscule ghost, lingering just long enough to claim it existed, then vanishing as if it had never been. That's how I felt about my feminine persona now. She had existed for a time, but now she was gone, vanished without a trace. Disappeared back to wherever she had come from within me.

And, as far as I was concerned at the time, she would stay there.

Still, I couldn't deny her residual influence on me, however small. After all, I wouldn't have been able to accomplish this task without her.

I extracted the flute from the loop on my belt, and brought it up in front of my lips. The metal was cold even through my gloves, and just about burned my lips with its icy touch. (All the moisture in them had been sapped by the frigid air, so I ran no risk of them being stuck to the mouthpiece.) I drew in a deep breath, the coldness stinging my lungs. Then, I played.

Tonight, there was no target. Tonight, I would let chance decide who would fall next into insanity's embrace. Chaos was random after all.

I stood up there, playing, for almost ten minutes before I heard any consequences of my efforts. But it wasn't maniacal laughter or crazed screams that I heard; it was a screeching, a piercing whine of metal on metal coming from behind my back. It succeeded in breaking my concentration and I moved the flute away from my mouth, the last note still lingering in the night air, as if the cold gave sound ephemeral substance as well, and gripped it instead in my right hand. I turned around to locate the source of the heinous noise.

The screeching stopped, and claws swung forward after leaving deep gashes in the heating unit perched on top of the roof. "That tune's getting old, Chaos."

There he was. The Coon. I guess what you'd call the source of my greatest frustration. And not just in this facet of my life, but all of them. The whole cliché 'unrequited love' thing didn't really suit me, but wasn't that what I had? Or, more accurately, lacked?

But I wasn't acting that role tonight. I had given that up, shoved it into the back of my closet with my make-up and skirts. Tonight, I was focused on different reasons for wanting to catch him unawares. And I refused to submit to any of the bull crap he usually dished out.

But that didn't mean I wasn't making it personal.

He had undoubtedly heard the music, and determined its location, finding me as well. I hadn't exactly made it hard for him, but I didn't care. I wanted him to find me. It even appeared as if he had me literally cornered as I stood at the exact point of two sides of the building. Still, I acted as if I had nothing other than the usual planned.

"Why must you persist in following me, Coon?" I asked, maintaining my charade.

"Psh," he rolled his eyes, ever the mocking menace, "because it's my job, dicks for brains." He pointed a pudgy thumb toward his chest, drawing attention to the giant 'C' emblazoned there. "Superhero," he said, as if explaining shapes to a baby, then switched to point his index finger of the same hand directly at me. "Supervillain. Do the fucking math."

The fact that he thought I measured up to the 'super' standard did not go unnoticed in my mind, but I quickly moved past those implications. The simplicity with which he stated our roles made it seem like he still viewed this whole affair as just a game. A couple of kids running around the town in costumes trying to out-do each other. Well, I had moved beyond that now. My recent goals were much more serious than they had ever been as a lost little fourth-grader.

Now, I really was trying to bring the world to its knees.

Letting the irony drip as thickly as it could, I addressed him, "I appreciate the attention, Coon, but I've more important things to do than play games with you tonight." That said, I slipped the flute into its secure loop, and broke into a run, heading straight along the nearest ledge, feigning that I was trying to escape past him, down the only ladder that reached up there. He ran to cut me off, but, at the very last second, I twisted and went down, ducking underneath his reach. I immediately straightened up again and ran in the other direction, toward the far wall. I heard him stumble and shout after me, but I didn't pause. I reached the far corner of the building and flipped over the side, grabbing onto a large pipe I knew was there to guide me down, where I landed squarely on my feet. I looked back up toward the ladder at the opposite side of the wall, where I could make out the Coon's face, annoyed and incredulous. I grinned, gave him a little wave, and ran off down the alley. I thought I vaguely heard a curse and the phrase "little fucker!" before the clanking of metal rungs, which meant I was being pursued. That didn't matter; I had a good head-start, and, if there is one thing I could be sure of, it was that I was a faster runner than the Coon.

I bolted down the alley and made my way between the adjoining buildings. I kept a fast pace, but made sure that the Coon could still follow me. I could hear him puffing along behind, his stubbornness winning out over his need for oxygen. He was about one city block behind me.

Perfect, I thought.

I turned into the next alley, this one a dead end, and used my momentum to jump over a large section of space just past the opening. I landed on the far side and skidded to a halt, turning around as I did. The Coon appeared at the opening a few seconds later, clearly winded, and stopped there for a moment to catch his breath. Again, I was seemingly trapped.

"You're not getting away this time, Chaos!" he yelled, already acting victorious. "This time, I'm taking you down!"

I grinned wickedly. "Come and try it, then. I dare you."

The taunt worked, and he barreled straight toward me. I stood my ground, apparently in preparation for his attack, but before he could get to me, my trap sprung into action. He stepped onto the patch of ground that I had jumped over, and immediately his foot was caught.

I had set up the elaborate mechanism the night before, when I knew I wasn't being observed. I had in my possession one of those tools you use in a shoe store to measure your foot size (an old gift from Bebe that she had procured from Clyde's dad's store when I had been trying to determine the difference in male and female shoe sizes). Having no further use for it, it had become the main snare in my trap. As soon as the Coon planted his right foot in the contraption, it spring-loaded shut, pinning his toes and the back of his heel in its vice-like grip. Then, two other metal panels that I had added flipped over, wrapping around his ankle, further securing him in place. That done, I reached out and tripped an invisible wire directly to my right, and two cables shot down from either side of the roof and perfectly snared the Coon's wrists, pulling his arms out to his side so he couldn't maneuver his short claws.

And that was it, I had him. I had caught the Coon in my trap.

The music had no effect on him, for whatever reason, so I had to get creative with another way to bring him down. Something that would stop him being a throbbing thorn in my side. Disarray didn't know about this part of the plan. I was simply supposed to go and play the music to spread more of the insanity. This victory was all mine. I knew the Coon would be on patrol alone, and he wouldn't call for back-up; his ego wouldn't allow it.

I had him all to myself.

He was mine to do with as I saw fit. But, before I went through the end of my plan, I wanted to have a little fun with him first.

So I did what any villain worth his salt would do with his adversary trapped in his clutches: I gloated like hell.

I laughed wickedly. "Impressive, isn't it, Coon? Amazing how something so simple can be so effective."

He was struggling back and forth, trying to free himself from the wires, but they were construction-grade. Only steel-cutters could tear threw those filaments. He glared daggers at me. "You fucking bitch, what the hell is this?"

"A trap. And you fell for it." I was on a high. I had won. I planned to leave him stuck out there in the cold all night. He wouldn't freeze to death, not with all the layers to his costume, but he would come close, and then he and the rest of the League would know that once-playful Butters meant business now.

But, then the unthinkable happened.

He got loose.

He reached his index fingers to the side of his thumbs and flicked the base of those respective claws. A hidden panel extended and those claws became twice as long, long enough to reach the wires ensnaring his wrists, and they sliced clean through.

My mouth dropped open in shock. "You shouldn't be able to cut those!" I yelled, appalled.

He shook the wire remnants off his hands, then bent down and sliced the metal panel off the back of the foot contraption, allowing him to simply pull his foot back and out from its hold. He straightened up and wiggled the metal-tipped digits of his right hand at me. "New modifications," he stated simply.

My bubble of euphoria burst and I crumbled.

I dropped to my knees, my gloved hands clutching at the hair I could reach through the gap in my helmet, pulling on it so hard I almost tore some of it out. "NO! No, no, NOOO!" I screamed. Why? Why could absolutely nothing I tried to do ever come out right? All of my plans led to ruin, all my ideas turned to dust. I was a complete and utter failure as a villain, as a person.

I couldn't even create someone worthwhile.

I couldn't keep dealing with this, I couldn't keep facing my failures over and over and over again. It had to stop. I had to make it stop.

I looked up. The Coon stood there, facing me, almost as if he was waiting for me to get over my momentary breakdown so he could attack properly.

If it was a fight he wanted, well then, by God, I was going to give him one.

"Fine, then," I whispered, my eyes narrowing underneath my silver helmet, "let's make it personal."

I rushed toward him, and saw a flicker in his eyes, betraying his surprise at my offensive action. But it only lasted a split second, then he barred his teeth like his animal namesake, and prepped his metal claws to defend himself.

I was too quick for him though. I ducked under his first swipe with his claws, and blocked his second, though the points did dig into my arm. I winced slightly, knowing the pain was much more severe than I was currently feeling, but I was too focused on my objective. I quickly pulled my free right arm back and punched the Coon in the face as hard as I could manage.

"OW!" he yelped as I pulled my injured arm away from him. "You fuck, you broke my nose!" There was indeed blood dripping down his face, but I wasn't sure if I'd punched him that hard. Oh, I had wanted to, but I honestly wasn't sure if I was that strong, and Eric did tend to blow things out of proportion. Still, I had hurt him; that was all that mattered.

I was at a severe disadvantage though. I didn't carry any weapons with me, as I never (typically) engaged in hand-to-hand fights. I cursed myself now for not at least carrying something as a back-up, a tool of last resort. I had to make do with whatever I could get my hands on.

Unfortunately, what was at hand was not much. The alleyway was essentially empty except for the remains of my failed trap and an empty garbage can at the far end.

I made a dash for the can, planning on using the lid to knock my opponent unconscious, but I hardly made it two steps before the Coon had his wide arms around me. He'd grabbed me from behind and pinned me in a bear hug, crushing my arms to my sides, even lifting me off the ground a bit. I growled out loudly in frustration and did the only thing I could do and swung my head backwards, connecting his unyielding head with my equally unyielding, but also very hard, helmet. He let out a groan and dropped me. I landed in a bit of a heap, trying to recover from nearly being squashed and, unfortunately, a bit dizzy myself from the cranial collision. I finally managed to recover enough to scramble to my feet and attempt to run for the garbage lid again, but, just as my nonexistent luck would have it, the Coon had recovered first, and this time, he grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me to the side, slamming my back firmly against the brick wall of the alley. I gasped for breath, but he made it even more difficult for me by pressing his forearm against my neck, right under my chin. His other hand grabbed and held my wrists together in front of my stomach. He leaned his substantial weight into me, pinning me securely to the wall.

I started to unreasonably panic.

I attempted to struggle free, but it was like I was in a vice. I couldn't get away. This wouldn't stop, he wouldn't let go. No matter how many times I tried to break his grip, he wouldn't give an inch. I couldn't break his hold on me.

"Why?" I shouted, desperate, almost pathetically pleading at my adversary. "Why won't you just let me go?"

"Because I want you to give me some fucking answers, asshole!" he yelled in my face. "Tell me what you're planning!"

Mysterion's words, coming out of the Coon's mouth. Maybe he was just their puppet now, their errand boy sent to handle the trash while the rest of the League took care of the real threats. I stopped thrashing and gave myself a moment, looking straight down at the space between us, breathing hard, and told him in a dark tone, "Mysterion already knows. I'm bringing real chaos to this town now."

"How?" he demanded, "with that shitty music?"

I let out a small laugh, in spite of myself. "Tch. It's not just a bunch of notes. It's a call. To Nyarlathotep. I call, he hears it, and brings his madness to those caught in its wake."

"That Nyar-guy again?" he asked incredulously. "So, what's the deal, Chaos? How'd you get in cahoots with the likes of him?"

"I did just that – made a deal. We both want to watch the world fall into true madness." Why shouldn't I simply confess the whole plan to him? It's not as if he was really going to stop what I'd already set in motion.

And then a thought occurred to me, one that I hadn't planned but seemed just crazy enough to be plausible. Crazy was the theme of late, anyway. I couldn't help myself, I had to tempt him.

I glanced up, catching his eyes with my own and ventured to reason with him. "I thought you would understand that, Coon. Don't you enjoy making people squirm?"

"Yeah, when I'm doing it, not when it's little bitches like you."

I ignored the insult. "Then help me." I stated. "Help me make the world drown in its own insanity. Then, we'll head to R'lyeh ourselves, and leave behind the chaos we've created." I'd just given away more of my plan, but that didn't matter now, not when I was suddenly clinging so firmly to this wild possibility.

"You're trying to get in to that creepy place?"

I tried harder, trying to catch him in my words. "Tempting, isn't it? A place where you can get away with anything. Where morals have no meaning. Where you're free to do anything you could ever want."

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze never faltering, and then, "Any... anything I want?"

I smiled. He had loosened his hold on my wrists, so I reached up to grip the front of his outfit, pulling him ever so slightly nearer to me. I hardly dared to consider what I was so close to achieving. "Name it and it's yours, Coon. You could have masses at your feet. Cities crumble beneath you. If you come with me, you'd have the world."

He was hesitating, I could see it. For a moment, he was lured by my proposition, into the fantasy I'd painted for him.

Then, the glorious moment was passed, and he snapped back into his obnoxious tone. "I don't want your world, Chaos. I'm the motherfucking COON!" What that was supposed to argue, I really had no idea. If anything, I supposed it would have strengthened the argument for him to join me. But, Eric being Eric, his words did not always follow logical conclusions. At least to sane people.

But that list was slowly shrinking.

He unpinned me and instead grabbed my shoulders, throwing me to the side. I landed hard on the ground.

I slowly got to my feet. I saw the Coon staring at me, taking in my appearance, and he seemed a little sickened by what he saw. I didn't blame him. I probably looked like how I felt: a mess. I was dirty and scratched from the concrete and the brick wall, I could tell I had several bruises forming, my hair was wild from when I had grabbed it, sticking out at odd ends from my helmet, and I knew I had huge bags under my eyes, a result of my considerable lack of sleep lately.

I didn't need a mirror to know that I looked like hell.

I saw the Coon's eyebrows rise up underneath his mask. "Dude," he said, "if I didn't know better, I'd say that evil god or whatever is starting to drive you a bit more unstable than usual, too."

I glared at him and spat out, "Why would you care?"

I had obviously lost this fight. I was done, beaten. There was nothing left for me to do but make my dejected retreat.

But, before I did, I wanted to get in one last kick.

And I did just that: I ran up to him and kicked him with the force of all of my boiling frustrations, my embarrassments, my inadequacies.

I kicked that fucker right in the balls.

He let out a loud wail, but I didn't stay to bask in the satisfaction of the pain I'd caused him. I turned on my heels and ran. I ran away from that alley, ran away from him, wishing I could outrun my failures so easily.

– – –

I heard reports on the news later confirming that seven people had suffered symptoms similar to Tweek that evening and had been taken to the asylum for containment and treatment. None had any history of mental illness. The only thing they all had in common was that they had been in the same area of downtown earlier that evening and, gathered from their mad babbling and screaming, kept referencing some kind of music.

Seven. Well, at least the evening hadn't been a complete loss.

Though I'd divulged a good portion of my plans, I hadn't admitted that Disarray and I were already working on a version of the gate. That part would remain a mystery to the League. So, we would keep working on it, and I would continue to play the notes, bringing more and more people to their wits' end. I didn't care who I caught in my net, they all deserved it. They all deserved nothing more than the purity of sheer madness. I was doing them all a favor, really, sending them into insane bliss.

It was more than I'd ever received from the world.

– – –

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Authors' Notes:

South Park is -c- Matt Stone and Trey Parker!

Oh, me, oh, my. Looks like the theme of this week is juxtaposition! ^^ And, man, I actually really like how these chapters work off of each other. Kyle is this story's voice of normality—logic, reason, functionality; Butters, on the other hand, is literally Chaos. Something positive and heartfelt begins for one… things slowly start to crumble in the wake of the other. Man, when Rosie Denn first sent me that Coon/Chaos fight… Goooooddddd damn I love Chaos. D: And I love when RD writes Butters. I really, really do.

Wow, can Kyle ever ramble (just like I ramble in these authors' notes, I'm so sorry). XD I love it, though; he's so fun, and he's one of the only narrators I do completely stream-of-consciousness… ly. Because that's just how he works, and things just sort of fall into place. ^^ With Kyle's narration this time around, I can pretty safely say that this is the last time (for a very, very long time) we're going to be seeing the school, as it's one of the last little pushes of normal, average life before we begin—yes indeed—the final arc.

And damn, am I excited. XD We've loved writing this so far, and we're fully committed to bringing about, after next week, the big reason for beginning this story: delving into Kenny's past, deep into the Mythos—maybe even into R'lyeh… :3 (a;sldfkjhg seriously I'm crazy excited to get there…) Next week, we'll definitely be seeing three narrators, and let me tell you, it's gonna be a weighty chapter. All three arcs intersect next week, and we'll see exactly where things will be going from here~

(Also next week Rosie Denn and I are actually going to be in the same state for once, eeeee. I kind of maybe want to do some kind of livestream or something while she's here… maybe a midnight SP viewing on Wednesday? XD If we do, I'll post it to my tumblr by Tuesday morning.)

Have an incredible Halloween, everyone! Favorite holiday aaghdlksf;h. Don't go down any Cult-infested alleys. D: As always, thank you all so much for your support of this series! ^^ Hope you've been enjoying the story so far… (20 chapters aaahhh!) Hang tight, because things are about to get pretty insane…

See you next week, on Wednesday, November 2nd!

~Jizena and Rosie Denn~

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