ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FAN FICTION — EVEN THOSE BASED ON FICTIONAL PEOPLE — ARE ENTIRELY MADE-UP. ALL DANTE 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. _|_|_|

Kenny

Sometimes, a change in routine can be most helpful, especially in the way of keeping one step ahead in the League. The use of Token's van serving as a mobile base, for instance… or the upgrading of our arsenals, which had not birthed a bad idea yet—Stan, Clyde, and Craig constantly experimented with new ideas; Kyle had perfected his handling of new butterfly knives; Butters, or, well, Marjorine I suppose, seemed to have settled on workable ideas.

One thing that never changed, however, even with location, was the way I interacted with the Goths. When I was a kid, there were four of them who gathered to smoke in solidarity with their dark poetry, synth-ridden dark '80s music, and their mutual hatred toward living, in Henrietta Biggle's bedroom. They had long since left that place, the three that remained, for the flat above the coffee shop. Conveniently, the living (or what have you) room was situated around a window that led straight out onto the building's fire escape, allowing me easy access.

Henrietta and her roommates did not lock that window, ever. Oh, they could complain about my preferred entrance all they wanted, they could scoff and scorn every time I appeared to gather information from them, but I knew they secretly did not care… maybe even wanted to help from time to time. Henrietta had been willing from the start, during our middle school days of hunting down the secrets to the Necronomicon; these days, the other two were good for information, as well. And I had to start off with my most trusted resources.

When I arrived in the window that night, with Angel keeping watch from the roof and Marpesia and Toolshed stationed on either side of the building, the three Goths were on their own. It was not uncommon for visitors to be there, now, considering the Goth bands they found to play at their shop at times, or varied members of the crowds that felt that the art on the walls 'spoke to them' in deep, ethereal ways. I suppose I wasn't much different—I just wanted to know what the art was supposed to be telling me, and why.

"Ugh," the tallest one began, with a put-off, phlegmy cough, "here we go. Nancy Drew's back."

"Mysterion," I corrected for the millionth time as I leapt from the windowsill down onto the cracked wooden floor of the main room. The Goths nicknamed me—usually either sleuth names like Nancy Drew or Sherlock Holmes, or else dumb send-ups of my actual name, or the occasional jab at my outfit—so I nicknamed them right back, knowing that the two men were not fond of using real names anyway.

"Digging for clues, Nancy?" the Goth snorted.

"Shut it, Voltaire," I dealt him back. "Where's Henrietta?" Voltaire was a nickname that both Karen and I had devised when we'd discovered that particular Goth's apparent hidden affinity for the novella Candide… plus the leather antique briefcase he'd acquired in recent years for shop dealings, which had come embossed with an ornate white V above the lock. He could chide me for the nickname all he wanted, but I knew that the guy was a writer himself, in secret.

He jabbed a thumb behind him and took a drag from the clove cigarette that had been hanging out of one corner of his mouth. (Let me tell you, doing League laundry is never fun, but it's especially gruelling after a visit with the damn Goths—fuckin' smell takes hours to get out.)

The flat that the Goths shared would probably have been spacious, had they any less interest in collecting weird shit. To me it was shit, anyway; I tried not to judge. It was essentially an extension of their shop downstairs… or, maybe it was more like the shop was an extension of their home. Coming in from the window, the main room sported two Victorian side chairs and a long sofa upholstered in black and sporting no pillows. Pillows of dark violets, blues and reds were strooned about the floor, though, in a circular formation around a circular black rug stitched with a white spiral stretching from the large outer rim to the exact center.

A TV that had to have been from the mid-1990s was shoved in a corner; atop it draped a black lace runner, and perched on that was a bat figurine quite clearly the mate to the one that had been severed and turned into a tip jar on the coffee counter downstairs. I could not imagine the Goths watching much television. They were music people, as evidenced by the various posters on the walls, several of which I recognized from Henrietta's bedroom from years before. Goth bands through the decades were represented up until the segment of the flat that divided into other rooms.

A small kitchen was situated off to the left of the main room, and behind the sofa was a hallway, papered entirely in old newspaper articles. One section of the wall was labeled Nazi Conformist Fucks, and bore cutouts of the latest political disasters… or, more poignantly, the latest from Hollywood and gossip magazines. I never saw two of the rooms past the hallway; I knew only where the bathroom and Henrietta's room were, and the only reason I'd ever visited Henrietta's bedroom in this dwelling was to make double sure that she was indeed filing, locking, and not sharing any of the dregs of the Cthulhu Cult we were finally (hopefully) done sniffing out.

Lining every part of the walls not otherwise covered were bookshelves. Several were stocked with CDs, tapes, and records, particularly those near the stereo and victrola the three had situated on the wall that divided the main room and kitchen, and some displayed various little sculptures of Gothic icons (bats, more bats, several Dia de los Muertos figurines, and one saved sculpture of Cthulhu that Henrietta hid when there was company, but wanted to keep around in remembrance), but the books. Did those fuckers ever have books. And I mean several copies of one particular thing. I didn't even know there were that many fucking editions of Frankenstein or Dracula, but those Goths, man, they collected like mad. In that collection, too, were plenty of tomes containing information on dark mythologies and weird folklore.

So I was pretty damn sure I could count on them to have one they could loan me this time around, too.

"Henrietta!" I called into the back of the apartment. The Goth on the sofa muttered something about wondering why I'd bothered asking where she was at all, but I ignored him.

Because the Goths do not yell (either due to their thinking that doing so is vulgar or to the fact that their lifelong smoking habits have diminished their ability to raise their voices at all), I waited a minute for Henrietta to emerge from the back, clad in a black corseted dress that swept the floor and carrying a stack of three old dusty books and one large, and much newer, portfolio. "Remind me again," I commented as my long-time liaison shelved two of the books and set the other items on the floor as she sat on one of the violet pillows near the sofa, "d'you guys run a coffee shop or a library?"

Henrietta sneered up at me, eyes sharp under her smoky makeup, and held one hand out to her fellow Goth, who dug into his black trench coat pocket for his pack of cloves, and into the sofa cushion for a lighter. Henrietta slid the cigarette into her signature quellazaire and licked her black lips in anticipation for the stuff she and her companions went through like candy. "Keep it up," Henrietta warned me as she lit up and took a drag, "and you're not gonna be walking out of here with anything tonight."

"No striking deals after you've offered me something," I said, refusing to sit, though pressure seemed to be on me for doing so. "What've you got? I'm on duty tonight."

"Patience is a virtue," said Henrietta.

"Considering all the sins you've got on your walls downstairs, I'm surprised you'd say that," I noted.

"Oh, effin' a, this guy's back?" The raspy voice of the red-haired shop owner cut out whatever snide remark Henrietta was going to come back at me with. The Goth pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and slipped one between his teeth.

"You're the one who keeps the window open," Henrietta pointed out.

"Smoke's gotta go somewhere," the other said in his defense. As he lit up, he kept his eyes on me and asked, "What do you want?"

"Just one question."

Prior to leaving the base, I'd asked Red Serge to print out a good-quality image of the helicopter decal, not feeling like I'd do the right justice to it by drawing it out from memory when inquiring after it. I withdrew the decal from my utility belt and unfolded it in order to hand over to him.

"This decal look familiar to you?" I asked on a growl.

He sneered, blew smoke out his nostrils—and, incidentally, into my face—and stepped back, but snatched the paper from my hand. The Goth tucked his lighter into the inner pocket of his black vest, and studied the decal after flicking his red bangs out of his right eye. "Nope," he said on a puff of smoke.

"No?" I repeated.

"Can you superhero idiots not take that word?" he grunted, passing the paper back to me. "No means no on this planet."

"Thanks for clarifying," I grumbled back.

"Give me that," Henrietta said, begrudging herself to stand. As she did, she gathered up the larger of the two things she had brought in from her room, and traded me that for the print-out. She slipped the quellazaire between her lips and took another drag, then breathed out a spiral of smoke off to the side I was not standing on. "Yeah, no clue what this is, but I guess I'll let you know."

"Now that you've pleased him, princess, can you get him out of here?" the tall one complained.

Henrietta merely flicked him off with the hand that held her quellazaire, and after she folded the paper back up, she tapped the large black volume she had handed me. "That's for you," she said. "Reading material, kinda."

"What is it?"

"You can read."

Fine. I did just that, to discover a white card slipped behind a small plastic covering on the front cover as a nameplate: Wilcox. Collected works. 1985-c.] Well, this was helpful; more so than I was expecting, honestly. "You'd better come on the sixth," Henrietta told me. "Gallery thing. Cash bar."

"Me?" I wondered, "Or…"

"Doesn't really matter, but he's gonna be here."

Good enough.

With the Goths on the lookout for any instances of that decal, and a new collection to scan through, I had a good start to my evening. Unfortunately, with TupperWear not on the field that evening, I didn't have the van to just drop the portfolio into. Thinking fast, I made contact with Toolshed as I was on my way out from the Goths' flat.

"What's up, you get something?" he asked me.

"More or less, but I've gotta run back to the base," I said, realizing that was the best thing for that portfolio for now. "Can you head with Angel to the asylum? Have Marpesia stick around to back up the other guys if they need it."

"On it, Mysterion."

Heading back to the base would put me a little behind on time, but in the end, it was the right call to make. I slipped through my favored dark corners and back roads to the base to leave the portfolio in the meeting room, knowing others would understand why it was there if they should beat me back, then dashed out again, heading toward the asylum.

"Any luck, guys?" I asked my sister as I ran.

"You haven't missed much," she told me. "Toolshed and I ran into a couple Infra-Reds doing some late-night stalking themselves, but we took care of 'em. Hurry over, though, we've just been given clearance to go in."

Good, good—at least we weren't going to be met with opposition there. For the remaining three minutes of my run to the asylum, I did wonder, though, if I shouldn't have paired Marpesia with the Guardian Angel instead. After all, Toolshed had his hang-ups about that place: Randy Marsh had done a good deal of time there four years ago, not to mention both Gerald and Sheila Broflovski. I knew better than to ever send Clyde there unless absolutely necessary, due to Bebe's internment; Craig could talk about it a little more easily, despite his sister's stay as well.

But Toolshed stuck it out, and was right at Angel's side when I made it to the site, where orderlies gasped at my arrival and instantly shuffled toward a hallway on the east side of the building, beckoning the three of us to follow. The asylum was a large building, with floors and wings enough to house and help patients of varying mental ailments. It had become a calmer place in recent years, its staff kinder after the Cthulhu shock and its walls slightly less stark and garish.

We were led, however, to an older wing, that looked like it had not been touched in at least a decade. "Mysterion," said one orderly, a man in his late thirties, I assumed, who had seemed plenty rested and relaxed when we'd gotten there, but exhausted as we approached the hallway for which his partner, a slightly older woman, was unlocking with jarring motions of her hand. "Are you three sure about this room?"

"I'm not sure what my League partners have told you," I answered, "but we've traced a lead here, and we need to see if we're on the right track."

"A lead to what?" the woman asked Toolshed, as she opened the door for us.

"That's classified," he answered swiftly. We began a walk down a short hall, at the end of which was only one door, left slightly ajar. As we drew closer, I made out the plate to the right of the door, bearing Scott's last name and first initial. "Tell me again, though, the man in this cell didn't just escape?"

"No," said the male orderly, "he was transferred."

"Where to?" the Guardian Angel questioned him.

Before either of our guides could answer, the man opened the door completely. Shock set in, but the three of us were able to bite it back in the presence of civilians. To my knowledge, Tenorman had gone, since the age of eighteen or so, from institution to institution, never making it through school and never putting to rest his grudge against Eric Cartman. He had been at the South Park asylum for quite some time, and had apparently put that time to use by decorating his walls.

Chalk, Sharpie, crayon, marker, all manner of media other than sharp pencils and pens adorned the walls, spelling out words and phrases of hatred and revenge. Every single wall. Even bits of the floor.

But what got me the most, and the other two as well, it seemed, given how quickly Angel pulled a camera from her belt, was the back wall, behind the small regulation white bed. On the solid white wall, overlapping Tenorman's many other words, were two sentences spelled out in letters at least a foot tall each, all in capitals and shaded in so that everyone who entered the room would see that bolded proclamation:

WE SHALL RISE.

That was the first of the two phrases. Angel snapped one photograph, and took a breath. Toolshed didn't even have to catch my attention for our mutual discomfort of the second sentence, though. It wasn't too far a cry for us to figure out what it might relate to:

WE SHALL BUILD THE NEW BETWEEN.

Tenorman had been here when Nyarlathotep's madness had started sending dozens and dozens of people into this very building four years prior. He could very well have caught it. He could very well have not been able to let it go.

R'lyeh had been a space not of our own dimension. Not of Earth, nor Heaven, nor Hell, nor even Purgatory, but it was accessible, for those that dwelled there, by innumerable Spaces Between. Passages between our world and Theirs. Passages I had been able to find in both life and death, and which I had assumed were gone, now that the land itself had converged back again with the Void it had come from.

Perhaps not.

Leading the Ginger rebellion all the way to possible still-existent pockets of another world? Seemed extreme, but then again, Tenorman was probably desperate. At almost thirty, he had had half his life, now, to prepare for a good, seething revenge against his half-brother.

We had to locate that bastard. And fast.

"Where was he transferred, again?" Angel repeated, sterner this time.

The orderlies donned the same apologetic look, and admitted, "We don't know."

– – –

Marpesia and Craig had made it back before us, but only just recently, and were contemplating the bullet points on the whiteboard when we arrived. Angel handed the camera immediately over to Red Serge in order to get the photos onto his tablet and into our database. I greeted Craig and Marpesia when I walked up to the whiteboard as well, listing Asylum data under the bullet point already reading Scott Tenorman.

Mere seconds passed before Mosquito arrived as well, slamming the door behind him. Clearly put off, the first thing he said was, "You guys are not going to believe this."

"What'd Yates want?" Marpesia wondered, turning to face him.

"Yates?" I repeated, giving Mosquito my attention.

"Yeah, that jackass opened his letter," my teammate complained.

"What the hell is his problem?" I exclaimed. What a fucking moron. I don't warn anyone against something for no reason, and he damn well knew that. Sure, maybe our work tended to overcast his and the force's, but for fuck's sake, they got the recognition. They got paid. I figured that would've been enough for him. I had tried to tell him before, too: the force was great for the everyday. Leave the unnatural to us. "I fucking warned him!"

"Well, this isn't good," Red Serge remarked.

"No shit," I snorted.

"No, really," he said emphatically. "This isn't good."

"Mysterion, the photos aren't scanning in!" Angel said.

WONDERFUL. A good evening gone weird gone stupid, just what I wanted. "That's just great," I complained.

"Dammit, should we contact the asylum?" Toolshed wondered. Thank God someone could be rational; I hadn't thought of that yet. "I mean, I get that that's asking a lot, but, guys, the stuff we saw—"

"What did you see?" Craig wondered.

"Tenorman's cell," said Toolshed. "It was fucked up, guys, really. He'd written on every wall, and we got photos of all of it, but…"

"Stupid thing, is this the camera's fault? Better not be my iPad," Red Serge muttered, smacking the side of his tablet. "If I can't get this scanning, I—"

Suddenly, the door burst open.

"FELLAS!"

We all turned our heads at the same time to see that Agent Harmony had burst into the room. She then slammed the door behind her, and a defiant, "AYE! Asshole," could be heard from the other side.

Harmony ignored the Coon, as he entered with an unimpressed look on his face, and sprinted forward. "Camera," she huffed out her breath, thrusting a hand out to Timmy. "Camera. Take it." In her hand was his slim, pink camera, which I'm pretty sure she'd had forever.

"Timmah?" Timmy wondered, taking the object.

"No time!" Harmony exclaimed. "Just… load it up into the computer, please? It's real important."

"Why're you outta breath?" asked Mosquito. "This have to do with why you guys're late?"

"Yeah, what's going on?" I wondered. I tightened the cap back onto the marker, but kept it clenched in my hand just in case something huge came up. I had the feeling a nice pile of information was about to be shuffled our way.

"Sally," said Harmony. Behind her, the Coon was muttering obscenities, probably for having to make such a boring entrance himself.

"Sally who?" the Guardian Angel asked.

"Turner!"

"What?" Marpesia exclaimed. "Red Serge, is the visual working?"

"Gimme a second, eh?"

Angel muttered something in a whisper, but was smiling as she did, her focus on Red Serge, currently hidden beneath the brim of his wide-brimmed RCMP hat as he scrolled through the images the camera displayed on his tablet.

"This camera's pretty damn old."

"It can read, though, right?" Harmony wanted to know. "Guys, it's crazy!" She splayed her arms out to either side, almost in the way a toddler will try to tell of an enormous piece of news. "The Coon and I staked out until this one girl showed up and…"

"Got it!" Red Serge exclaimed.

"Timmah," Iron Maiden echoed.

Onto the large computer screen overhead was then projected the image of a young woman, her red hair and blank expression recognizable anywhere. I could have sworn Yates had brought her in. That was the very girl we'd unmasked during the previous GSM attack.

"That's her!" Toolshed yelped.

"Yates fuckin' arrested her!" I added.

"Wait, what?" Toolshed wondered.

"Hold on, what're you talking about?" I turned my attention on him, remembering that only my sister and I had seen the girl's face.

"Mysterion's right," Angel backed me up. "Sargeant Yates brought this girl in along with all the other Infras we sent in when—"

Toolshed shook his head, and could not take his eyes off of the image on the computer screen. "Arrested or not, she broke out, and now I know this whole damn thing isn't normal. That's her. That's fucking her."

"Her who?" the Coon demanded.

"The survey girl…" Toolshed shook his head again before he explained. "She's the first person who passed a letter to Kyle. She had that freckle pattern. Is that really Sally Turner? I haven't seen her in forever, I didn't think she had freckles."

"She doesn't," Harmony and Marpesia answered together.

"Guys, are you seeing this?" Red Serge asked. "Her freckles're in a really specific pattern…"

Indeed they were. They were lined under each of her eyes in a very precise, almost triangular grouping, and then in a near circle on her forehead. Purposeful marks? Had to be. Drawn? Didn't look it, but without seeing her up close again, I couldn't tell for sure. One thing was clear, though: we had one hell of a new lead.

"Damn, guys, good find," I said. "Harmony, can I have you follow up on this? You know Sally Turner. Try to track her down, and I mean during the day. Talk to her, see what she says. This is good." I grinned, glad to have so many leading points come out of the evening. "This is good." On the whiteboard, I wrote down Sally Turner-Harmony mission.

"Oh, gosh… thanks, Mysterion," said our latest addition, beaming behind the black mask that covered her eyes. "I won't letcha down."

"And, hello? Aren't we forgetting something?" said the Coon, haughtily. Onto the table, he presented the duo's second find: a pair of Infra-Red goggles. "Took 'em from her when we were fighting. You're welcome."

"Holy shit!" I laughed. "Nice. They bugged?"

The Coon shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not, can't tell."

"Right," said Red Serge, already one step ahead. He scooped the goggles into a metal box that Iron Maiden presented to him from beside the computers. One thing Iron Maiden had added to his own persona-related collection was an assortment of metal holding containers, true to his namesake, that only we could access. Bugs could not be read through them; the goggles would be safe until Red Serge could give them a good look over and possibly de-bug the device. "We'll get to work on these once we've got all the photos sorted and searched."

"Great. Good work tonight, everyone," I congratulated the team as I slid back my hood and untied my mask. "We got a lot done today."

Stan slid off his goggles and gloves, and began wiping off the charcoal around his eyes. "I'm still kinda—" he started warily, then sighed and began again. "I mean, look," he said, addressing all of us after casting a quick glance over at the whiteboard and up at the computer screen, "I agree that tonight was good, but—"

He looked directly at Clyde, similarly unmasked, who nodded, and continued on the same thought: "We still don't have anything on that Carnival."

"Exactly," Stan affirmed. "That seems huge, so what the hell is it?"

"Obviously the decal from the helicopter and on the goggles is a hint," Wendy pointed out as she un-braided her hair. "Clyde, Craig, was the decal on any of the posters you saw?"

Craig, closest to the corkboard, walked over to the poster the two had earlier brought in, and scanned it a few times. "Huh," he commented after a second. "Yup, I see it, but it's real tiny. In the corner."

"What's the point of that?" Karen wondered.

"Just enough so they know, I guess," Stan said, chewing his lower lip as he stood in contemplation of the Carnival idea.

"Let's see what results we get from the asylum photos," I suggested. "There's obviously a tie between the GSM, Scott Tenorman, and the Carnival… but I'm willing to bet that Wilcox here might give us some answers, too." To aid my point, I patted the portfolio Henrietta had given me. "I think this guy still has a strong connection to weird shit like this."

"Those paintings, man…" Stan muttered.

"I'll give this thing a look through," I assured him. "They freak me the fuck out, but I mean, as of now, we've all seen worse."

That much was inarguable, and we ended the evening agreeing that, despite several lingering worries, we were coming along in terms of piecing things together. The guys returned to their respective personal rooms to change clothes before departing under the agreement that we'd keep one another alerted as soon as we noticed anything new. Butters had his mission, trying to get in touch with that Sally girl—man, she'd been so normal, back in elementary and high school, and so quiet; I wouldn't have expected extremist involvement from her, but, hey, there had been Cultists we'd known from seemingly normal walks of life. Clyde would be keeping a diligent eye on Sargeant Yates (that idiot; honestly—I had warned him not to open that damn letter). And I had a nice big portfolio to leaf through in hopes of piecing together the madness Scott Tenorman had left behind on the asylum walls.

After changing, I made my way to the kitchen and downed a couple of glasses of water before I heard Stan call in, "Hey."

"Hey," I said in response, glancing over at him. "You heading out, dude? Are you the last one?"

"Yeah, but can I talk to you real quick?" He looked nervous. Ready to take on whatever was to come, yes—Stan was just like that… he'd approach cautiously, but once he had a set track, he stuck to it.

"Sure thing, man," I said. "What's up?"

I gave him my full attention, and did not interrupt his brief thinking process. He drew in a long breath, and made damn sure we were holding eye contact. There was one thing Stan and I shared that the others had only barely graced the surface of: death. Death, Purgatory, R'lyeh. He'd been the first one to remember my several Immortal deaths from my childhood and adolescence, and was one of the first to check in with me whenever reminiscences of R'lyeh came up. "So is it true, Kenny? Tenorman's nowhere in the asylum."

I shook my head. "No, and other than that decal and radio station—" which Ike was practically tearing his hair out with frustration trying to locate— "I can't figure out exactly which breadcrumbs'll lead us to him. That's why I'm gonna study up on whatever the fuck it is Wilcox has been painting lately."

"But that particular madness is done, right?" Stan checked. "I mean, dude, Kenny, it was years ago now. That shit can't resurface, right?"

"It'd take a lot," I admitted. "The Gate's gone, Stan, it's all fuckin' gone."

"You're worried, too, though, aren't you?"

No shit. Of course I was worried. Karen was worried, Red was worried. Shit, even Henrietta seemed worried. "Look," I said, as evenly as I could, "we are onto something with the paintings."

"So we're on the same level with that," Stan deduced.

"I'll tell you the second I find anything," I promised.

Stan nodded stiffly and stepped back a little, then winced, ran his hands through his hair, and shook his head. "Sorry. I—jeez, okay, look, no use hiding it from you, but Kenny, I'm kinda…"

"Don't freak out," I tried, quickly.

"I know, I know," Stan said, almost frantically, "but to be honest, I mean—yeah, most days I can drown it out and pass it off, but I fucking died once. What if that was supposed to be it, huh? What if I'm fucking something up by being here?"

"Is that what you're worried about?" I asked. Which was kind of stupid since the answer was so obvious.

"Yes!" Stan tried not to yell. He calmed himself a little by taking in and letting out a deep breath, but still looked on edge.

"Sorry, dude," I said, hoping to placate him. "If it makes you feel better, though, I'm pretty sure you weren't supposed to die then. If you really were, I doubt R'lyeh would have been so forgiving, allowing me to bring you back."

Stan chewed his lip, mulling the thought over. "I guess that's true," he said. "I just… don't want to be too careful. I kinda like this being alive thing."

"Oh, no, believe me, so do I," I managed to grin. "We'll be fine, we'll all be fine. We'll watch our step, yeah, but I honestly don't think you need to worry too much about space-time wanting to get you back, okay?"

Stan nodded.

"Listen," I said, setting my hands on his shoulders. "Go home, get some rest. We're gonna figure this all out. We're the Shadow League, dude, we will."

After another heavy breath, Stan nodded, quickly at first, and then more evenly. "Got that right," Stan said. "Keep me posted on how stuff works out, but I hope you get some rest, too, man."

"Will do," I said, grinning as I stood back. I held one fist out, and Stan crushed his knuckles against mine before taking his leave.

He was right to be worried, though. Plenty of things still felt off. The pace at which the GSM was moving, for one, and whether or not something from R'lyeh had managed to elude our diligent cleansing of that sordid bit of history.

Karen hung back with Ike in the meeting room for a while, but eventually the two tired and called it a night. No sooner had Karen left to spend the evening with her boyfriend than I received a text from Red, ensuring a pretty good end to my own night.

Good day?

Her texts always make me grin. No matter how I'm feeling and no matter how simple the message can be, I just light right up every time I see a message from her. She leaves me notes, sometimes, too. I've just been, from the start, in awe of the fact that she always takes the time and care to check in on me. It's wonderful. It's home.

All good, I texted back. You?

Long! Can I come over?

Oh, hell, yes she could. I couldn't keep my brain focused on work much longer that evening, anyway, and besides, I was always in want of her company. Sure thing. Wanna wind down?

Yeah. See you soon!

I was still grinning, right up to the last text. Confusing as any of the missions could be, a night with my girlfriend could get me in a wonderful mood, make me feel ready for anything. I felt a boost in my confidence around her. She'd been so amazingly patient, so wholly reassuring, through every step in our relationship from the very first date. My first truly steady girlfriend, and we'd kept it up for five years. Karen knew that I was thinking of… well, next steps with Red, but my sister kept her mouth shut. (Other than stifling girlish giggles here and there whenever Red came by. Karen would laugh knowingly, I'd send glares, and Red would either not notice or do very well pretending that she had no idea what was going on.)

Someday. When I knew I had a job, when I knew I could truly support Red without fucking up, I'd ask her. We both wanted it, we both had a feeling it was coming; we just weren't in the same position as, say, Clyde and Bebe, who were diving right in after graduation.

For now, I'd take and love these sweet, impromptu visits, these nights of my place or yours. Moments to make the best of an otherwise oddly busy summer.

As soon as she arrived, Red tugged me into a minty kiss and suggested we spend a little time outside, while the breeze was still warm.

"So what's up, babe?" I asked Red as I led her out to the field, my right hand on her lower back. "How's your day?"

"Oh," she said, leaning into me, "long, like I said, but just with that kind of 'brain too preoccupied to concentrate on work' feeling all day. You know?"

"Mm. What's on your mind?" I wondered. I kissed her hair, and Red turned to nuzzle my shoulder.

"I mean, lots of stuff," Red confessed. "I'm worried about you…"

"Really?" Red nodded. "Nah, don't be," I said, more confidently than I should have. "I'm fine, Red, I'll be fine. What we've gotta do is stop this stupid uprising before those extremists can bother you again—"

"Kenny, I mean, I'm worried about…"

Red tugged on my arm, just a little, just enough that I caught her suggestion that we sit down. We sat for only a brief second before deciding to lie, instead, on our backs. The moon was only a sliver in the sky, when I cast my eyes above the trees, and I squinted a little to make out constellations as my girlfriend nestled into my side, using my right shoulder as a pillow. I kept my right arm around her, hoping she was warm enough, and her right hand clasped my left on my stomach.

"Is it out there?" Red asked in a whisper, as if someone—something—unwelcome could hear her and react.

"Hmm?"

"What's left. You know."

"The Gate?"

"Mmhmm."

"I guess so," I admitted, staring out through the stars, from almost the very place in which I had been pronounced free of my curse of Immortality by destroying the Shadow. "It doesn't lead anywhere. There's that thing, or place, or whatever… the Void…?"

"What's out there, Kenny?" Red asked nervously.

"Yog-Sothoth, I guess," I said. Henrietta and I had done some speculation on exactly how the Old Ones were continuing on now that R'lyeh was gone from Earth. All I cared about, honestly, was that we on Earth were doing just fine. I didn't like thinking about the Old Ones, or feeling any obligation to do so. I'd earned my life, and I wanted to live it free of constant reminders of the curse I once had. "There are more of those old gods, too… Henrietta's keeping one Necronomicon around, just in case, but our planet's not a portal anymore. We're safe."

"That madness isn't coming back?" The way Red spoke made her question sound more like a demand, as if she had just placed a threat against the Old Ones themselves.

"No. Nyarlathotep's gone. Cthulhu's gone. Whatever's out there is… I dunno," I said. "Different somehow. And hopefully pretty set where they are. Why, what's up?"

Red sighed, and cuddled up closer against me. "Oh, I don't know. This whole thing is just kind of upsetting to me," Red told me. "I mean, you guys have been back to the asylum. Insanity doesn't just come from weird old Spaces Between, sweetie, madness has been with people forever. From what I hear of this Scott Tenorman guy, he's, like… what, functionally out of his mind?"

"I dunno," I said with a sigh. "Until we make actual contact with him, it's all speculation. We got photos of his cell tonight, though." I felt Red shiver, and pulled her in closer. "He wrote all over his walls. I mean, yeah, safe bet he's functionally crazy. What I'm waiting to hear is how he re-rallied forces from the inside like that."

"Well, if the group's always been there…" Red groaned. "This stuff is all so scary to think about."

"It's late," I gave her. "Let's not think about it. Okay?"

"Mmhmm." But as we lay there, worry gnawed at Red's mind, and she asked, just to make doubly sure, "You don't think the Shadow could ever come back?"

"No way, babe, don't worry about it. I killed Cthulhu. R'lyeh's gone. Without Cthulhu, there's no Shadow."

"So it's not possible?"

"Snowball's chance in Hell."

Red nestled in, left a warm kiss on my cheek, and said, "All right."

"You okay?" I checked.

"Mmhmm. I love your confidence, Kenny," she told me, shifting to be leaning over me a little. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, providing a curtain all around our faces, tunneling my vision away from the stars and only to her. I worked one hand up to the back of her head, and pulled her down for a smooth, satin kiss.

Conversation was done for the evening. Moment built upon sweet, sweet moment as we lay out in the grass, until Red tugged at me to stand, and we raced inside until I had her pinned to the inside of my bedroom door, my fingers drumming against her waist as she stroked my sides.

There isn't much of a window in that room, but even with that thumbnail moon in the sky, we had enough light to keep our eyes on each other as we pushed from the door to the bed, where she soaked in every bit of the light from the night sky.

Maybe the Void was still out there, but I could not obsess over that forever. Because my life was right here.

– – –

Karen and Ike returned the next morning to continue their work on searching the tablet for a way to show the photographs we'd taken, and to begin analysis of Sally Turner's confiscated goggles. While the two of them set to work in the meeting room, Red and I sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal and glass of orange juice each as we flipped through Wilcox's portfolio.

It was a large, black, leather-bound volume, containing prints of varying sizes that chronicled his works from the mid-1980s to his current exhibit at the Goths' coffee house. We did not spend much time looking at his older paintings, though they were worth the look simply to track how frequently and vividly that man felt the need to scrawl out dark, almost apocalyptic visions. Nightmares. Paintings of conflagrations, of rotting buildings and wastelands. Wilcox's head was most certainly not the nicest place to be.

Almost instantly came visions of R'lyeh. There were representations of monstrosities the world was now in the peaceful process of forgetting, but which could never, ever leave the minds of a select few. Across four pages were beings labeled Dagon, Yog-Sothoth, Nyarlathotep, and, lastly, Cthulhu. Wings, tentacles, burning bright eyes—all but the first were very familiar to me. I had known them all too well. Known Yog-Sothoth, the Gatekeeper; Nyarlathotep, the Messenger from the Void; Cthulhu… yeah, fuck him. Note to self to never let Butters see this, I thought upon noticing the lightning storm present behind the pharaoh-like Nyarlathotep. Lightning: an agent of Chaos.

On the page after Cthulhu was a black, snaking mass that I turned away from as soon as I'd laid eyes on it. Cthulhu's Shadow. The basis for my Immortal curse: that had once been me. My fate. The living, aging, human Immortal that the Cult of Cthulhu had tried to awaken. But I had won. That was over.

I had won. We had won. The Shadow League had undone R'lyeh's madness.

There were blank pages separating the Shadow from the recently-added segment of Wilcox's latest works, which allowed me some space to breathe. Red inched closer and tightly grasped my hand. "Hey, Kenny?" she whispered.

"Hmm?"

"I'm here for you. No matter what."

God, could I love that girl any more than I already did?

I thanked her, my tone barely audible—but I knew she'd heard me, and that she'd always understand. We shared a soft kiss, each ensuring solemn protection to the other, and turned the page together.

There, right away, was that painting that seemed to have upset Kyle more than the others beginning to hang on the coffee house walls. Wrath, with its broken, disorderly mirrors. Opposite that was a print of a charcoal etching depicting two large urns, one tied with a red sash painted in oil. Its title was interesting: Lust.

"Huh," Red breathed out, perplexed as I was.

"Yeah," I agreed.

"Not what you'd usually think, with that word," she added, sipping her orange juice. "At least the angry mirrors kinda make sense."

I looked those over again, then continued on to the next print. I knew that one, as well. Limbo. All that could be seen in that painting was mist meeting water, converging to a thin horizon line that made the water twine like a road, like the viewer had to step in and either sink or swim on a journey to wherever the other side was. At the horizon line, the water had a red sheen that bled up into the black and grey sky.

Sins, and a stage of death.

But absolutely nothing suggesting a Carnival, which I would have thought to be right up whatever alley both Wilcox and the Goths seemed to operate on. The only thing that seemed to tie the paintings to the GSM was that recurring, haunting red. It was certainly enough to convince me that there was a stable link.

"Dammit," I muttered, when the rest of the pages bore only tags that read, FORTHCOMING. "No Carnival theme. No decal."

"There's plenty here," my girlfriend offered. "Even if those titles are really objective. Did Henrietta say you could keep this for a while?"

"Yeah. Plus, even if Wilcox dreamed these up, there's gotta be something."

There was more. There had to be. Henrietta had given me this portfolio, and had suggested that we attend the gallery opening that they were hosting for the painter in a couple weeks. Dammit, that was our in. That was our chance. Wilcox had to speak directly about his works when they were the subject of the evening.

Confident that answers were on their way, I brought the portfolio back to my room and dressed while my girlfriend brushed out her hair in the mirror she kept near my work desk. She was filling in a few hours at the clothing store, from late morning to mid-afternoon, and had brought with her the night before a purplish dress with a feathery skirt that brushed her knees. As she labored over which necklace from the assortment I let her keep around in my room, I glanced over at her and asked, "How're you feeling, babe, really?"

"Hmm?"

"Few days ago," I recalled, "you were all for going by Rebecca for a while. You still want…?"

Red studied her reflection, then smoothed out her hair and turned to look at me. "No," she said, softly but defiantly. "I'm Red; you're right. I panicked that day, sweetie, sorry."

"It's all good," I grinned. "No harm done."

"I'm not going to let a little scare take away who I am."

Truer words, sweetheart.

I pulled her in for one last protective embrace before we set out into town. As we walked, we let ourselves go with a bit of a shift in conversation, beginning with me apologizing for having no car and therefore having to walk her into town wearing that expensive-looking dress. Red didn't care. "At least I brought different shoes for work," she laughed, though.

I kissed her at the door to her shop, and she promised to text me once she was out. Texts on the mind, I made contact with Karen as soon as I walked the rest of the block after the clothing store to check on her and Ike's progress. The photographs were infuriating both of them, so they'd moved onto the goggles.

Fearing possible bugs, I decided to give those two time; Ike was far ahead of me when it came to technology, and honestly so was Karen. I'd let them work it out before I got a good look at the device myself.

Since Red's shift wasn't a full one, I decided to hang out in town for a while, in order to walk her back at the end of her short day. To pass the time, I wandered the street on which Clyde and Craig had seen the posters going up. They'd done a good job cleaning up after the GSM: no more posters could be seen, just a few peeled corners, reminders that the propaganda had been there, and might return.

I thought to stop in and holler at Yates at the Park County office, only to realize that it would mean nothing if I wasn't Mysterion. That fucking idiot, for opening that letter. The activists would be after him now, I knew it. One step ahead, Kenny; we've gotta stay one step ahead.

Once we knew just what the fuck was going on, of course.

Oh hey, a text from Karen came through a couple hours after I'd left Red's store, just as I was wondering what the rest of my day would look like. Can you pick sth up for us?

Sure what, I texted back. Thank God Karen had not submitted to the shared Broflovski text in complete sentences with proper punctuation or else mindset while dating Ike.

Ike texted back some tech name for a wire I couldn't even make sense of, so I saved the screen, replied with a simple ok, and made my way to the best electronics store in town, sure that someone there could help me out.

Luckily, my search proved fruitful thanks to some highly knowledgeable high school kid working the camera section who spoke fluent computer nerd like Ike did, but I wasn't in line a minute before an easily recognizable voice coughed out from behind me, "Oh, hey, asshole."

I rolled my eyes. How the fuck did I keep forgetting that Cartman had achieved manager status at this place? Certain that he was going to attempt to make some tired joke about my being too poor to shop there, I turned, only to find him not nametagged and uniformed, but eagerly swinging a plastic bag full of a game-shaped purchase around his right index finger. "Hey, shitbag," I said, just as politely. "Flaunting your shoplifting capabilities?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Kenny?" Cartman dealt right back. "Nope, just takin' this home to test. You know. So I can talk it up and shit."

"New game?" I guessed, slapping at his plastic bag.

Cartman yanked the bag back defensively as I went through the blank motions of paying for my own purchase. "Yes, but it is for my eyes only."

"Bull," I snorted. "What is it?"

The cashier handed back my change and the wire, which I just stuffed, in its box, into my deep jeans pocket rather than caring to tote a bag around, and then I walked out with Cartman as he continued haughtily swinging his purchase around as if to taunt me. Years of knowing the guy had taught me exactly how to react to his tauntings (which was, essentially, to ignore), but curiosity was sure to win over. "Nothin' important," he answered my question.

"Come on, don't be a dick," I said, ramming my elbow into his ribs. "They don't give you advance copies of shit there, do they?"

"This may come as a surprise to you, but at work I am the 'they,' bitch," Cartman sneered. Oh, yeah. Fucking management, and he was twenty. Fuck. I'd get somewhere, I had to keep telling myself. I would get a real position, soon. "Still think I'm B-Team?"

I let out a harsh sigh, mostly so that he'd get that I was sick of his bitching about that. "Dude," I said numbly, "I just pass out assignments as I think of them. You know that."

"Then how come fuckin' Clyde's always A-Team?"

"Because Clyde is really organized," I said through grated teeth.

"What about Craig? Craig's an asshole."

"Craig is Clyde's best partner. Shut the fuck up. What's in the bag?"

"I'll tell you if you admit I'm A-Team material."

What a dick. But, whatever, I figured. At the end of the day, we were friends. Cartman and I didn't hang out all that much due to going to different schools now, but I'm not the kind of person who alienates friends without a desperate need to do so. I mean, shit, I consider everyone in the League my family. (Maybe Cartman was the estranged brother, or maybe just the irritating second cousin, but whatever, he was there and I respected him as such.) And, yeah, Cartman did get work done. He took his work as the Coon seriously, even though he was usually one of the first to break character, as it were. He had a hard time letting go of things, but he was always there for backup, and was pretty set on not letting the League go anytime soon.

"Look," I said, glancing around to make sure no one was listening in, "you do awesome work, okay? You really do, dude. I'm not blacklisting you or anything. I mean, yeah, I wish you'd talk a little more, but—"

"About what?"

"Tenorman, for one," I nearly snapped.

Cartman chortled indignantly. "As if I knew," he said. "Fuckin' asshole hasn't said shit to me in years. I's hopin' you guys'd get pictures at the asylum—"

"We did, they just came out black," I reiterated. "That's what I just got this cable for. Ike and Karen might've fixed it."

"Cool. Still, I've got no idea what the hell Scott Tenorman's up to. I really don't." Cartman hung his head and swung his bag around a couple more times, more in contemplation than anything.

"I-I believe you," I said. "Next mission, I'll make sure you're where you wanna be, dude, okay?"

"You sure?"

"Yes. Now let's stop talking about this in public and would you just fucking show me what game that is before I punch you?"

Cartman gave me a scrutinizing look over. I did feel kind of bad, I realized; Cartman didn't have all that much. Maybe I've just become more sympathetic, but the guy really did kind of have it kind of shitty, and to make things worse, he alienated people by being an asshole. I had no idea how he was faring at college. He probably lived for these summers, and this was the last one. Last one. Give the guy a chance. "Old time's sake?" I added with a large grin. "Remember when we were kids, and we'd lie our way into free or pre-release shit all the time?"

"Heh, yeah," Cartman said. "Fine, here. Just don't break the plastic."

"Oooh, touchy," I commented, grabbing the bag from him. The game hidden inside was entitled Zombiepocalypticorps 3.5, the threequel-and-a-half (however the fuck that worked) to a recent series of first-person shooters that we'd gotten into as part of a wind-down routine our senior year of high school. "Holy shit!" I exclaimed. "This isn't supposed to come out till like…"

"Mid-month, but they send pre-releases way early now," Cartman boasted.

"Bullshit you just got that so you can talk it up to customers," I laughed. More like he'd use it to lord over everyone else in the store, staff and patrons alike, even if they didn't give a fuck about the game.

"Wanna watch me play?"

"Give me like five minutes with the controller."

"You fuckin' wish!"

"Five minutes," I pleaded. Karen and I didn't have a gaming system at the base, meaning I was usually mooching off of some friend or other (Token if I was exceptionally lucky and he lent me his latest for a while from the house), so the prospect of so much as watching was great, but I figured I might as well push. "Come on."

"I'll really get the mission I want?" he baited me.

"Yeah, dude, honestly."

"I'll think about it."

That'd have to do.

I followed Cartman back to his house, forgetting if Karen had mentioned whether or not her getting that camera cable was of high importance. It wasn't just the video game that interested me in heading over, though. I hadn't had a good chance to really talk to Cartman lately. He'd been tied into the Cult's curse. Jack Tenorman, Scott and Cartman's father, had been a Cultist; I was convinced that there may still have been more that Cartman's mother, Liane, had not let on. She'd gone crazy, along with so many others, during the Cthulhu crisis four years prior, and it had truly crushed Cartman. He hadn't quite been himself for a while after that had happened, though he'd stepped it up once we made our way to R'lyeh.

This time, I just wanted to be a step ahead with him. He was unpredictable, and acted outside of orders in the League in attempts to accelerate his own acts of heroism. Sometimes it worked; more often, it didn't. But again, when it came down to it, he was worth keeping around.

But it really was Liane we had to keep tabs on. I mean, yes: I believed Cartman when he said he hadn't heard from Scott Tenorman. He wasn't one who'd keep something that huge hidden. His mother, though… she was just so hard to read.

"Mom?" Cartman called out into his house as soon as we walked in through the front door. "I'm back, Kenny's here."

"Oh, hello, there," a lilting, slightly loopy and detached voice came from the back. "I'm in the kitchen, boys, you make yourselves at home. Hello, Kenny."

"Hey, Mrs. C," I called back.

But something felt wrong. Not because Mrs. Cartman wasn't doing her usual bustling about in the kitchen, nor even the hush that fell over the house because of that. No, I could tell; I may not have that acute sixth sense, but I knew, as soon as we stepped into the house, that the rest of our day was going to head down a much, much different path.

I glanced around, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that was making me feel uneasy, and took a couple of strides toward the kitchen. Probably the most frequented room in that house, a small table was set up toward the middle, in case Liane had to entertain any sudden guests, and when I peered in, Cartman's mom was sitting with her back to us, saying something I could not hear to someone I could not see.

"Dude," I hissed, grabbing Cartman's arm.

"What?" he hissed back when my action caused him to stop abruptly.

"Does your mom entertain often?" I whispered.

"I dunno, she brings guys home, what?"

Rather than answer, I just let out a forced breath, then strained to see around the kitchen door; the wall of the living room divided my view, and when I caught sight of Mrs. Cartman's visitor, at last, I nearly tripped. Partially due to angle, but mostly because of the terrible, terrible feeling that hit my chest when I saw him.

I knew who he was, but I had not seen him in years. Not since middle school, maybe. His was one of those faces I would see from time to time, almost as if he were haunting me, just making damn sure I knew that he, or rather, what he stood for, was there.

The thin man had skin that seemed a stranger to sunlight; his paleness was offset by his high-collared black shirt, and his shortish, tangled black hair. Wisps of sideburns framed his face and gave his high cheekbones an even more appalling angle than what was natural. His eyes were downcast, toward a steaming china cup of tea.

Then, he saw me. I blinked, and then he was looking up, red eyes staring into and through me.

"Kenny, the fuck?" Cartman spat, which was the only thing that got me thinking on my feet again.

Liane was still saying words, but the man continued staring at me.

"Dude," Cartman commented, sounding put off. He'd noticed the visitor by now, too. He set his purchase down and took strides toward the kitchen; I followed two steps behind, trying to keep a steady pace of breathing. "Hey, Mom," Cartman said once he'd reached the kitchen doorway. "Who's that?"

"Hmm? Oh," said Liane, glancing back at us as she spoke. She looked tired. Nervous but content. "Kind of a funny story, hon."

"Funny? He your new boyfriend or somethin'?"

Oddly enough, Liane laughed. Her visitor continued staring at me; he took a sip of tea, set it down with hardly a sound, and grinned, showing a row of unmarred, white, white teeth. "Goodness, no," Mrs. Cartman answered. "That would just be awkward."

Indeed.

The pits of Hell were in her visitor's eyes, and for good reason. The last time I'd seen that guy had been in Hell itself, back when my frequent deaths had brought me to one of a few different stops of the afterlife. But Cartman had seen him once, too; everyone in the League had, other than Timmy, Karen and Ike. Back in third grade.

No mistaking him. His name was Damien Thorn, and he was the son of the devil.

I'd wondered here and there, usually in Hell, how he'd come to be. His father had, to my knowledge, never shown any interest in taking a woman to bed. I thought that I had glimpsed his mother, back in elementary school, though she well could have been a nanny or caregiver; I was not one to judge.

Not back then, anyway. I sure as shit was now.

"Awkward how?" Cartman demanded.

"Well…" Liane turned to her guest, and asked, "Would you mind? Oh, I'm sorry, I haven't introduced you. This is my son, Eric, and—"

"As honored as I am to have met you, I'm afraid I must be going," said Damien, rising noiselessly from the table. His voice was a high but listenable tenor, gliding more than grating, and he was very precise with words. "I'm sure you can do the story justice."

"Going?" Liane repeated almost sadly. "But—"

"Business. You understand." He passed his red eyes between the three of us, then patted Mrs. Cartman on the shoulder as he walked by, and said, "Thank you for the tea, Mother."

Time froze as he walked by. My ears were ringing as my brain tried to process the impossible words I had just heard. Damien's every light footstep seemed to echo as he left the house, and only when the door clicked softly shut did my capability to speak return to me as I blasted out, "WHAT?"

Cartman didn't even shoot me a glare. He could hardly move, himself. No, he just looked blankly at his mother, looking lost and helpless for a second before, too, becoming enraged.

But while he could not speak, I needed, needed answers. "Wait, wait, wait, what the fuck?" I spat out. Liane furrowed her eyebrows at me as she stood, displaying her dislike for profanity (amazing, for a woman who could write the book on being a no-holds-barred whore), but I ignored her. "Did D—did that guy just call you Mom?"

Liane glanced down at the table, at the delicate china teacups, and the void left in Damien's departure. She then lifted her eyes back to us. Her brown hair was in need of coloring, but I took the effect to be a shocked white, more than anything. Liane gave me a bit of recognition, but primarily focused her gaze on her son, who still had not moved. Cartman began to take heavier breaths, as his rage built. Any second now, he'd explode.

"I'm sorry, Kenny," Liane finally said to me, "but would you mind if I just had a talk with my son alone for a little while?"

"Uhh… yeah," I said, "sure thing…"

Liane nodded and bussed the teacups away, so I took the few seconds I had to grab Cartman and demand in a whisper, "By the kitchen window. Talk by the kitchen window."

He nodded, tense, understanding but still boiling over too much to speak.

I left the house in as normal a fashion as I could attempt, then bolted around to the back, where I stood against the outer wall by the window over the kitchen sink. What I wouldn't give, I thought, to have my gear with me and drop in as Mysterion right the fuck now.

This was impossible. Why this, why now? Why only just fucking now were we hearing so much as a murmur of this? During the Cthulhu crisis, it had taken a good deal of time for Cartman to get a word out of his mother about Jack Tenorman… and now this?

The first thing I heard from the kitchen was an eruption of, "Seriously, Mom, the FUCK?"

"Eric, please, it was a shock to me, too!"

"Shock to you?" Cartman sputtered back at his mother. I couldn't see a thing through the window, so I placed myself on lookout, ready to fight or run if someone came. "How the fuck could someone you went into fucking labor with be a shock to you?"

"Eric—"

"Why do you keep secrets from me?" Cartman hollered, sounding truly hurt. I had never, ever heard him confront his mother like this. Oh, he'd fought her. Plenty of times. Fought her because he didn't get what he wanted, or because he thought she was being unfair. But this was unchartered territory. I knew Cartman loved his mom; we all did. But that woman had secrets to fill a large library. "First you lie about my father to protect the Denver fucking Broncos, you lie all the fucking time, Mom!"

"Eric, stop—" Liane was pleading and fretting, probably seconds away from crying. Sooner or later, one of them would snap.

Everyone had their sordid family history. For some people, it could be normal things: addictions, splits, arguments, lovers outside of marriage. For Butters, it had been his parents, driving him over the edge and pushing him to choose insanity. For me and Karen, it had been domestic abuse, lies from our parents (greatest of all being their lie about knowing of my Immortal powers and the secret to how I had been constantly reborn), and an otherwise bad, unhealthy home that did not provide the love that my parents only claimed to have for us when stoned or desperate. For Cartman—lies, yes, plenty of lies, but lies that further and further seemed to justify his historically awful behavior, not to mention his own destructive leanings.

"No!" he hollered. "I've got one half-brother a'edy, how many family members do I have?"

"I'm sorry, sweetie, but I'd been told that he was still-born!" Liane screamed.

There was a pause, and the sink turned on as Cartman's mother began erratically washing dishes.

"Sti-still-born?" Cartman stammered.

"Yes." Liane was indeed crying now. Had I not been so fucking riled at that point, I might have seen where she could have been so emotional. "You know, Eric, I got a really nice Mother's Day letter a little while ago." Letter. LETTER. Fucking shit. "He said he'd pay a visit, I couldn't believe it. H-he showed me his identification, though, I know it's him…"

"Tell me what the fuck is going on, Mom," Cartman demanded, as evenly as he could. He was holding up pretty well, but that did not change the fact that he and I were going to have a long Goddamn talk, here, pretty soon. Cartman, who could command Cthulhu, who had a way with words enough to start mobs. Why was I not surprised he had a relation to the son of the very personification of evil?

Liane drew in a shaking breath and sobbed it out.

"Stop washing dishes and look at me! Look at me, Mom, or I'm leaving!"

Damn.

I knew he wouldn't, but the words were enough.

My own hands were shaking. I tried to grab out my cell phone when I felt it go off, but could not grip it.

"I told you, sweetie, I thought he was still-born," Liane started again, her voice still quivering as she turned off the faucet. "It was before you were born, honey, I—"

"I don't care. Who is he?"

"Look, I—I've done a lot of things with a lot of people, sweetie, you know that, but you know I love you…"

"Quit stalling."

His mother took a pause again, then let out a long sigh. "It happened in Vegas. I-I was young, and wanted to travel, and wound up there with some friends one night," she began. "I met a wonderful young man at a bar. He picked me right out from the crowd and we hit it off, and—"

"What was his name?"

"I don't—um… Thorn? Thorn, I believe?" I clamped my hands over my mouth to keep from shouting. "Lucifer was his first name, I think—" yeah I bet it was— "but I thought that was kind of silly, so I just called him Thorn.

"The evening happened so fast, sweetie, and I didn't know I was pregnant for quite some time. No usual morning sickness or anything. Thorn showed up again for the birth, but the doctors told me the baby didn't make it. He said he'd take care of everything, and I never knew what happened after that. I never saw him again. I tried to forget all about it."

"What, by fucking the Denver Broncos?"

"Well, that was part of it."

"GOD FUCKING DAMMIT MOM NO," Cartman shouted, his voice starting to go raw. I was so tempted to look in on the two of them, but I held my position. It was crazy enough just hearing this shit; I had no idea how the rest of the summer was set to go now. Forget the summer, the rest of the day, the week, the month. "No more of your 'oh, well' shit! Fuck! Just—FUCK."

"ERIC!"

"No, nope, I'm done, bye, done. Screw you, Mom I gotta go someplace."

"Where are you—"

"I just haveta drive and think for a while, kay?"

"Eric, wait!"

But the next thing I heard was the front door slam. Forcing myself to move, I sprinted around to the front of the house, where Cartman was opening the front door of the deep red sports car he'd owned since he was sixteen. "Hey!" I called over.

"Not now, Kenny," he snapped, sliding into the driver's seat. I was still kind of surprised that car could hold him, but he kept the front seat pushed rather far back. Whatever worked, I guess.

"Dude, we need to talk!"

"I just did talk. With my mom. Who's fucked up. No talking."

He tried to yank the door shut, but I stopped it before it could close and leaned in to growl at him, "This is fucking serious! We all have to talk!"

"NOT RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"

He tugged at the door again, and so as not to get caught, I backpedaled and had no choice but to let him go. He screeched out of the driveway and down the road too fast for me to follow him. "Ugh, fuck!" I shouted at nothing, wishing I had something to punch.

I knew what could remedy that, though, and worked my way back into a sprint as I took my back routes through town to the base. Every step I took felt heavier than the last as I tried to tie everything together in my mind.

It was not a task easily done alone.

The second I was back in the base, I hollered out to my sister but made for the meeting room. Remembering the possible problem with the goggles at the last second, I knocked rapidly and called in, "Karen? Karen, it's me, open up, I need to—something really fucked up just happened."

"Door's open and we're clear!" Karen called out.

I shoved the door open, and beelined it to the whiteboard, where I yanked the cap off of one of the markers, and managed to chicken-scratch out, as the latest bullet point, DAMIEN.

"Kenny…?"

My sister's concerned tone got me to turn and face her. Worried, she patted Ike's arm while she still stood beside him at the tablet, then walked steadily up to me and placed her hands on my shoulders, getting me to lean down and look her in the eyes. "Kenny?" she repeated, softer this time. "What just happened?"

Unable to put it all into words, I just grabbed Karen and hugged her.

Yes, this was a new lead, but not a very inspiring or promising one. Damien Thorn wouldn't show up out of the blue only to peg down Liane Cartman as his mother and have a good laugh at that small family; no, I figured that the kid who'd spoken in such grand words about the Apocalypse and his father's influence would have grown up into more than just a demon who fucked with people just because. We had ourselves a new opponent, I was sure of it.

"Who's Damien?" Karen asked. "Kenny, what happened today?"

"I—I'll explain soon," I told her. "Here," I added, giving her the cable I'd nearly forgotten I had bought. "We've just gotta get those photos back. Fuck. That and find Cartman."

"Find him?" Ike wondered. "Where'd he go?"

"I don't fucking know, but all of us have got to talk," I said.

"A bunch of people're working today," Karen reminded me, "but—"

Just then, I noticed movement at the door, and whipped my head in that direction, only to notice that the newcomers were Stan and Kyle, the first of whom had a hand raised to knock. Stan lowered his hand when he took in the state of panic I was in, and the two exchanged a quick look before stepping inside the room. "Yo," Stan said in greeting. "What's up?"

"Hi," I said. "What're you guys doing here?"

"Thought we'd, uh…" Stan started.

"Get some training time in," Kyle finished. Well, that was good to know that Kyle was working on that quirk of his again, but even that was something I could not bring myself to think about at present.

Stan nodded. "But maybe we could help out in here if something's up," he offered. "Everything all—"

"Damien?" Kyle read off of the whiteboard. His eyes widened, and he took a few more steps in, with Stan following half a step behind. "Wait, wait, like, Damien-Damien? Third grade Damien? That little asshole who—"

"Is the son of Satan? Yeah," I spat out, my anger at the situation finally catching up to me.

"SATAN?" Karen cried, her eyes snapping all the way open. Ike started toward her, then cast a look at his brother and made the choice to hang back by the tablet in favor of business for the time being.

"What the hell?" Kyle spat, grabbing at his hair with both hands. "Are we fucking serious? Scott Tenorman wasn't enough, now we've got the son of the fucking devil on our hands?"

I snorted. "The devil and Liane Cartman."

"That a book?" Stan muttered. "Wait, son of—honestly?"

"Apparently," I sighed.

"Dude, what the fuck?"

"Look, no time to explain right now, but I was hanging with Cartman earlier, and saw his mom talking to Damien—"

"You're sure it was him?" Kyle checked.

"No mistake," I said firmly. "Plus I overheard Cartman and his mom talking afterward, and now he's all pissed off about it and drove off somewhere. I figured he might come here, but apparently I'm wrong."

"I'll call him," Ike offered.

"Thanks," I managed.

The next hour was a whirlwind. When Ike's call earned us nothing but the knowledge that either Cartman's phone was off or he just was not answering, Stan and I sent out texts to Clyde and Token, who were off work by now, and the two agreed instantly to be the search party, taking one side of the town each. Karen had the right idea, too, to call the coffee house and ask that the Goths keep an eye out for him, and though of course she was given nothing but a snarky, clipped remark, I was sure we'd find out some way or another if any of them saw him go in.

Red's shift ended as the rest of us continued brainstorming what we could possibly do while waiting to hear back from Clyde, Token, or Cartman himself. When I got her text, I called to explain that we were faced with a crisis; she ended up walking to her house and driving back over. When I'd told her she didn't need to, she insisted, "I want to be there to support you, Kenny, okay? No matter how dark things get."

Kyle and Ike, both needing an activity to occupy them while we were all attempting not to panic too horribly, worked on restoring the photos from the asylum. After a few tries, and Kyle spewing out a few new profane nicknames for Ike's tablet, an image shot onto the computer screen overhead, causing all of us to yelp at the sudden flash of a visual, having been faced with a pitch black screen for so long.

WE SHALL BUILD THE NEW BETWEEN.

That was the photograph that finally appeared. The rest remained blank.

"New between?" Kyle read off. "What does that mean?"

"Couple guesses," I said, "but I'm pretty sure it's got to do with R'lyeh. Or something. I mean, there's no knowing when he wrote that down."

"I dunno if it matters," Stan added. "I mean, if Damien's here, anything's possible."

"Okay," I said, attempting to keep things calm, despite my own state. "I mean, at least things are starting to seem more linked, but I honestly don't think R'lyeh still has any influence. It's gone."

At least, you want it to be, my own brain chastised me.

That was kind of true. For a place built on madness, wouldn't it be just the kind of thing to live on in people's heads…?

I had to leave the room while the brothers continued trying to retrieve photos, since Red texted me from the gate. I let her in and made damn sure the gate was locked, and that the front door to the base was as well, and filled her in as I led her back to the meeting room.

"Damien…" my girlfriend read off of the whiteboard. "Oh, jeez, what was his last name, again?"

"Thorn," I recalled.

Kyle let out a shout, and I turned, wondering if maybe he and Ike had discovered more photos. Instead, however, Kyle bolted over to the cork board and ripped off the envelope he had received from the GSM. "I'm so fucking stupid!" he exclaimed. "Thorn. Fucking THORN, that's the initial on this Goddamn letter!"

The Gothic-script T of the red wax seal: Kyle just might have been onto something with that. "But why would Damien care about Gingers?" I asked. "Not to play devil's advocate, but—"

"Given the situation, could you maybe choose a different term?" Kyle asked.

"Good point." I shuddered. "But honestly, I mean… yeah, it's the same initial, but Tenorman did break out of the asylum, and he's the one who was leading the Gingers before, and besides—"

The conversation stopped abruptly when there was a knock at the front door.

I checked my phone, to see if Clyde or Token had texted or called with any news of Cartman, only to find no new messages.

"Did that just happen?" Kyle asked quietly, speaking for all of us.

I held up one index finger to get the rest of the room to stay quiet. Another knock. Holding my breath, I nodded to the others to signal that I'd check it out, and made my way down the hall to the front. I'm not entirely sure what I was expecting to find. Cartman, maybe; ready to talk. But that was doubtful. Damien? He'd been glaring at me, he obviously wanted something from me.

He wasn't going to get it, though. Sure, it'd be great to know just what he was doing back here in South Park, but no matter what his reasoning was, I knew we'd be leading a fight against him, and soon.

I hated throwing blind punches. I wanted to know exactly what we were up against, and why.

Ike hung back in the meeting room to continue work on the photographs, but Stan and Kyle staked out in the living room in case something unfortunate or unexplainable should happen once I answered the door. Red, knowing and feeling safe with the two of them, stayed in the living room as well, but Karen insisted upon shadowing me.

Another knock.

"Who are you?" I asked through the door.

"This is the physical residence of Kenneth and Karen McCormick," a nasal voice came from the other side of the door, "is it not?"

Karen grabbed onto my arm. Nobody was truly supposed to know about that. If anyone asked, I mean, yes, we said we lived on Token's parents' land, but his mom was cool enough with us to allow our mail to be sent to their box, and Karen would usually sort and separate it in thanks for that. If I needed a package delivered, I sent it to Red's. Nobody made fucking deliveries, nobody came here to ask us dumb voter poll questions.

"Who are you?" I asked again.

No answer. And no more knocks.

Karen hugged my arm as I asked, "Hello?"

Silence.

My heart jumped, and I held my breath so that I could listen to activity outside. I heard footsteps leading back down the path to the gate, and gave it another minute before I opened the door and took a few steps out to look around. Nobody, nothing. Not even wind.

"Huh," I remarked, turning back to look at Karen, "that was—"

"Kenny!" my sister screamed, pointing behind me.

I whirled around again just in time to see a figure standing in the space behind me, and once I was fully facing him, he pushed two envelopes against my chest. Reflexes forced me to take hold of the envelopes, but I stumbled back. "Fuck!" I yelped. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Just a messenger," said the letter-carrier. He was shorter than me by several inches, and wore a hooded black sweatshirt, bearing the circular GSM decal on both sleeves. He wore dark glasses, but I could see a line of freckles underneath.

"You fucking asshole, what is this?" I demanded. "What are these? How'd you get past the gate?"

"I needed to deliver those to you. Orders from the top, you understand."

"No!" I hollered. "That's exactly it! I don't!"

"See that your sister gets hers, as well," the messenger commanded.

"My what?" Karen asked, nervously walking up beside me. In a movement I could barely even follow, the hooded man removed one of the letters from my hand and dropped it into Karen's instead. Karen yelped and swatted the man back. "One of these?" she exclaimed. "Why? Kenny's not—and I'm not—"

"You carry the gene," said the messenger as he began taking a couple steps backwards up the path.

"Gene?" I hollered. "What gene? Is this about my fucking—"

"Kenny—" Karen started. She placed a hand delicately on my shoulder; I kept the messenger in my sight while giving Karen most of my attention as she said, cautiously, "Mom." My little sister's eyes sharpened and narrowed, and she clung to me as she threw her accusation at the person who had delivered the envelopes. "Is this about our mom?"

"We need all the numbers we can acquire," said the man, drawing his hood further over his head. That one simple action conjured up too many scattered memories of my years tracking the Cthulhu Cult. All I wanted to do in that instant was beat this person to the ground, but that would accomplish nothing, and I needed to hear out whatever it was he had to say. "Your friends who have received letters already have not responded. We are turning to those who carry a latent gene."

Meaning anyone with a parent with red hair. Meaning me and Karen. Meaning Wendy and Craig, whose fathers both had red hair. Meaning my brother, who I hadn't bothered to think of in a very long time.

Meaning Cartman.

"You get the fuck off of this property," I warned the man. "Now."

He merely grinned, and did as I asked. He disappeared down the long, winding walk, and I heard him scale the fence that surrounded the property. "Remind me to get Ike to electrocute that fucking fence," I muttered to Karen.

"I-I can ask him, Kenny," my sister offered. "Kenny, are you okay?"

Only when she asked that did I realize that my hands were shaking. I stared down at the stark white envelope that trembled with my involuntary movements. It felt heavy. Burden-laden, thick, and unwelcoming. There on the flat front surface was my name, elongated, painted out in flowery script.

Kenneth McCormick.

It felt like a new burden, having one delivered to me. They were indeed personally addressed, but mass-produced. What was the point of that? Hand-selection, I suppose. Someone did the photocopying, and another person entirely was charged with deciding who should be approached to join the new insurrection of the Movement. And if Damien really was the T in question…

But there was no reason for him to be. Right? That was absurd. And still, where the hell was Scott Tenorman?

"Don't open it," I told my sister, sternly. Karen only stared down at her envelope. "I mean it, Karen, don't open it! No matter what, sis, no matter how many letters these fucks try to bring you, don't open yours, please."

"Well, you're gonna open yours, aren't you?" Karen berated me. "What's the difference? Kenny, I'm seventeen! I can—"

"Just please don't," I pleaded. "Something tells me they're tracking which ones are opened. I don't know how, but I'm going to find out."

Karen was right, though. Yes, I was planning on opening the letter, only to compare versions of the propaganda contained within. To see if my letter was any different from Red's or Kyle's… and then I'd pay a nice visit to Sargeant Yates and confiscate his before he could make any other movements.

"Kenny!" The call of my name was from Stan, who, with Kyle, led a very shocked and concerned Red out of the base.

"What happened?" Red wanted to know. "I just—we just heard you shouting at someone, and—"

"You didn't hear what that guy said?" I wondered.

My girlfriend shook her head, looking highly worried. "We couldn't hear anyone else."

"What?"

"I-I mean, not really," said Kyle, trying to sound comforting. Whether he was doing that to ease up my mind or Red's, I wasn't sure. It was nice of him to try, but none of us could really be comforted by the fact that the situation was getting more out of control. "Did you—dude, did you just get one of those letters?"

Dismissing my concern over the fact that Karen and I had apparently been the only ones who'd been meant to see or hear anything of that strange man, I nodded and held up my envelope. "I'm going to open mine just to see what it says," I told the others. "Karen, I'm really begging you… don't open yours."

"You got one, too?" Red asked her.

"They're giving letters to people whose parents have red hair, now," Karen explained. "It's ridiculous. Kenny, I don't want to have to confront Mom again…"

"We may not have to," I said. "Let's just… see what this says, and go from there."

My sister nodded stiffly. I looked over at Red, who tightly wrung her hands; there was a sad, pleading, beautiful look on her face as she both feared for what my letter might hold, and prayed for the best. I nodded to her with as calm a smile as I could manage, so as to assure her that, no matter what continued to happen, I would make damn sure that things were going to turn out okay. Her safety and Karen's safety were priorities for me. As long as the two of them could be given a safe and complete life, I was happy; to ensure that they got just that, I had to push myself to make the right calls, to do the right thing.

It was bad enough that Red was being targeted. I didn't want Karen getting harassed more than any of us already were, too.

"It… might just be the same old letter," Kyle offered. "Just, you know, with a couple word adjustments."

"That's what I'm hoping," I admitted. "It's a little disturbing, though, guys, that—you honestly didn't hear that guy talking?"

The other three shook their heads.

"So I'm guessing this might be a little different."

Glaring down at the letter again, I turned it over. The wax seal seemed to be staring up at me, with the intensity of Wilcox's paintings. I did not like the feeling of being followed through the use of intricate inanimate objects. It had been one thing to feel put off by the presence of a Necronomicon… another entirely to have that same awful sense of unease slithering out of something as simple as a red wax seal.

It looked like burnt blood and carried no scent, yet there was an air around the envelope I just did not like. Perhaps it was the seal itself, or something about the ink on the front that was getting to me. I wouldn't know until I read the letter.

I was expecting a letter, anyway.

The envelope was slightly weightier than one that might carry a simple slip of paper, but I'd had the feeling that the person who'd sent it had a few extra things to say to me. To Kenny, perhaps—definitely to Mysterion. But when I broke the seal and lifted back the flap of the envelope to peer inside, there was no letter to be found.

In fact, there was seemingly nothing. Nothing anywhere. Black. Tar black. Pitch black. As if the sun had been sucked out of the sky and we had all been plunged into a deep, cavernous hole in which there was no air, no light, no breath and no sound.

No sound but a whisper.

I wanted to scream, but the second I opened my mouth, a rush of dusty air shot like a snake down my throat and clenched my insides. I still could see nothing; I was surrounded by darkness. I couldn't even feel myself holding the envelope. It must have fallen. It was not important. Only the contents were.

Whispers without words drummed dissonance into my ears, and a language the world had forgotten and never should have known screamed terror into my brain and pulsed its way into my heart and ran thick with my blood. Then, the silent raucous mayhem ceased, and I could breathe.

The air was heavier. My eyes stung. I was sweating; my palms felt cold. Dust seemed to have nestled into my lungs, so to counter the odd kind of burning I began to cough. As soon as I doubled over, arms caught me, hands pulled me back. It took my ears another moment to register sound, but the first thing that I heard was Red frantically repeating my name.

"Kenny? Kenny! KENNY!"

I opened my eyes, not realizing I had even closed them, and watched darkness swirl away and bring my surroundings back into my vision. I could feel Karen's fists tightened around the back of my shirt, while Stan held me up by my right arm, Kyle by my left. And there was Red, directly in front of me, her hands, palms flat, on my chest, her face fraught with terror.

"Kenny…?" she asked tepidly. Red pushed against me a little, to try to get me to stand up straighter. I discovered that I couldn't, not without thinking about how I was able to breathe, not without feeling something else moving around within me.

"What just happened?" I asked her.

"I'm not sure," she said in a near whisper. "There was just… it was like a sudden eclipse, and this… I don't even know how to describe it…"

"Serpent," Karen said nervously. "An enormous black serpent."

Oh no. No, fuck, no.

"Guys," I began slowly, "was it—"

"I don't want it to be," answered the ever-logical Kyle.

"I mean, I know how it looked to the four of us," Stan said, attempting to stay rational and composed, "but what happened to you after it shot out?"

I shook my head. "I don't—I don't fucking know, it was really fast. Just… dark…"

"Kenny?" my sister tried.

"Just dark," I repeated. Before I could say any more, I coughed. Coughed and coughed and half expected to spew blood, my throat felt so dry. I brought my hands up to cover my mouth and staggered, relying on the other four to catch me.

"We've got him, Karen," I heard Kyle say. "Can you go get some water?"

Karen was off in an instant and back as soon as she'd gone, handing off a bottle of water to Red, who could barely hold it herself. "Kenny?" Red checked on me as she uncapped and held out the water. "Kenny, can you breathe? Are you all right? Can you breathe?"

I nodded, only to cough again from irritation in my lungs. I managed to get a few sips of water into me, which helped, at least enough to allow me a full breath, but when I breathed out again, it came out in a puff of black smoke, as if I'd just been inhaling pure coal. Red was startled but did not cry out. I did, however.

"NO!" I shouted, as I watched the smoke dissipate into the air.

Stan and Kyle tried to hold me back, but I found my footing again, and took one step toward the gate. I was going to kill that fucking messenger, and I was going to fucking kill Scott Tenorman if he was indeed involved. Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this. "What the fuck?" I hollered at no one in particular. "Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, this is not happening!"

Terrified, I held my hands out in front of me. My heart beating much, much too fast, my breath at half its normal speed, I pressed my palms further out. Took in a breath. Let it out. And watched my shadow move. I held my right arm out to the side, and every shadow surrounding that of my arm began to converge toward it. I yanked my hand away and spun back around, only to find that all other shadows, regardless of the position of the sun, seemed to be closing in on mine.

Not possible.

Not fucking possible.

"Oh, shit… oh, shit…" I heard Karen say in a frightened murmur. She held up the envelope I had dropped to cover my mouth, and held it out. "Kenny…? A-a note just showed up on this."

"What?" Enraged, I stepped back over to her and took the envelope from her trembling hand.

Words had indeed appeared on the back of the envelope, in the same script as that which could be read on the front. With regards, it read, —D. I felt my eyes narrow and my teeth grate together as I flipped the envelope over to read the front, where my name now appeared crossed out. Underneath it, still in that writing, was the note, Immortality is but for the dead, but shadows serve us all. Take this first gift, and you could yet have both.

"FUCK HIM!" I shouted, ripping the envelope in half.

And just like that, fate screwed me over again. Check that, not fate. Not fate, just somebody who seemed intent to fuck the lives of everyone in the Shadow League, one member at a time. Damien Thorn had sent letters to Kyle. To Red. To Liane Cartman. To Karen.

At present, I didn't even care how he had done it. The devil's son had twisted some fabric of space-time around in order to give me my own dose of Hell.

Because to me, he had sent the Shadow.

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Authors' Notes:

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

Ah, here we go. :3 We've got the intros out of the way; I had so much fun writing and working this one, ahh… And now that Damien's in, the pace should start to settle, too.

Thank you so much for reading! We hope you're enjoying the story thus far; we'd love to hear what you think~ ^^

Next week, Stan will get a chance to narrate, and the week after… not sure, may go into dual-narration for a bit; it all depends. See you next Wednesday, July 18th! :3

~Jizena and Rosie Denn

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