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. _|_|_|

Butters

Living with Eric Cartman was, to put it as nicely as possible, a challenge.

But that was how any interaction was with him generally, challenging, so, of course, my offering to let him sleep over in my basement for a few nights was no exception.

He'd come out of the meeting room looking so lost on the day we had all found out about his connection to the current threat we found ourselves up against. And, honestly, I was still having a hard time believing it; Eric had another half-brother who happened to be the son of the devil? It was just too weird. But it was obviously hitting him really hard as well. And damn it all if I didn't feel bad for him. So, I offered an olive branch of sorts, an invitation for a place to stay. He told me he didn't want to go home and face his mother so soon after learning the news. Kenny had given him permission to stay at the base, but I could tell Eric wasn't too keen on that idea either, probably because Kenny had just spent the better part of the evening yelling at him and giving him a hard time for running away like that without staying in communication with the group. So, I stepped in as a safer alternative. One where he wouldn't be in danger of getting caught in more shouting-fests.

Well, not that Eric and I hadn't been known to get into high-volume arguments in our past. But I hoped that it wouldn't be that awkward between us now. We had both more or less agreed that we at least needed to remain decent teammates. Hopefully, that peace treaty of ours could extend a bit beyond League bounds.

I'd checked with Wendy, of course, before I gave Eric the final okay to come over; it was technically still her house and all. I admit it was a little odd, me still referring to my residence as 'Wendy's house' even though I had been considering the place home for the past four years, but it didn't seem right otherwise. Her parents and I had had more than one pseudo-argument over my offering of rent money, so I just helped out around the house a lot, bought some groceries every once in a while, and kept calling the place in conversation with other people what it was, really – my friend's house where I also happened to live. It worked itself out. I just hoped that my offer wouldn't seem too forward of me. Wendy seemed reluctantly accepting of the idea when I'd phoned her from the base, and still after we drove there in Eric's car (we hadn't had to worry about a vehicle of mine since I didn't have it out that day) when I met her at the top of the stairs for a private word. The only thing she warned me against was making sure Eric wasn't going to "eat all the food in the fridge or something." I promised, thanked her again for agreeing to allow him to stay over, and returned to where I'd left Eric in the living room.

Before I could show Eric to the basement, however, he asked if he could use the bathroom, so I waited while he used the guest one in the hall between the dining room and kitchen.

He'd been gone about a minute when I heard a cell phone ring. My hand instinctively went to my pants pocket, but it wasn't my ringtone. I looked over at the side table next to the couch, and noticed Eric's phone lying there next to his car keys, vibrating as well as ringing. I knew it was his as it was the latest model on the market, and he always got the upgrades as soon as his service company would let him. I picked it up and checked the screen. It read "Mom." I saw in the top-right corner that there was a numeral ten next to the symbol for voice messages. His mother must have been calling him all evening trying to reach him.

In a wave of sympathy for the woman, I made a split-second decision and pressed answer on the touch-screen. "Hi, Mrs. Cartman. This is Butters."

"Oh, Butters," I heard Liane Cartman's high, breathy voice respond on the other end of the line. Obviously she hadn't expect me to speak. "Is my little Eric there? Is he all right? Can I speak to him?"

"He's fine, Mrs. Cartman," I assured her, "but he's in the bathroom right now. We're at Wendy's house and, um, Eric was planning on spending the night over here."

"Oh, I see." She sounded sad, but relieved to at least hear of his whereabouts. "I've been trying to reach him. He left here so fast and I didn't get a chance to-" she stopped herself, probably because she didn't know how much I was aware of their family situation. "Well, I'm glad he's with you, dear. You were always so good to him. I was sorry when you two stopped being friends." That was nice to hear. I hadn't had any reason to talk to Liane since Eric and I had broken up, but she had always been really nice to me. Making me cookies and letting me stay the night a bunch of times. Even though I knew what the entire League did now, I still had nothing against the woman. "Will you at least tell him that I'm sorry, and try to send him home as soon as you can?"

"Yeah, of course," I assured her.

"Thank you." And with that, she hung up.

I had just brought the phone down from my ear when I heard the door of the hall bathroom open and Eric came out. "What are you doing with my phone?"

"Oh, uh," I began, and then felt incredibly guilty that I'd gone ahead and answered his phone while he was out of the room and talked to the mother that he was currently furious at. I didn't want to start an argument with him. Mentally assuring myself that I would try to keep my promise to Liane to send him home soon, I scooped up his keys off the side table and held them both out to him, saying, "I just noticed you left your stuff in here and didn't want you to forget it."

Eric gave me a look but took a few steps forward to retrieve his belongings from my hands. "Okay, thanks then." I then hurried past him, a little clumsily, and led him through the door under the stairs and down another set to the basement where I helped him set up the pull-out sofa. He said as few words as possible, only providing minor confirmations of 'yes' or 'no.'

Once the makeshift bed was set up, and all the instructions I could think of had been given out, I awkwardly took my leave. I still wasn't opposed to talking with him, but I figured that maybe the best thing for him right then was to be alone, at least for a little while. I figured that's what he'd been trying to find since his mom's confession earlier, and the League forcing him to be a part of the meeting and Kenny having to talk to him had been preventing him from just being by himself. So, I felt the best thing I could do right then was to allow him the space he'd been looking for.

I ended up giving him space for the whole day after the incident. Eric was mostly unseen around the house during that time. I stayed home and went about my average routine, but I only caught peripheral glimpses of him, stepping into the kitchen to get a snack, only to hear the door closing to the basement stairs minutes later, a dish or two in the sink when I went to look. I let him alone, assuring Kenny by texts that he hadn't gotten into any trouble under my watch. (I was officially his keeper now. Super.)

However, by the next night, I couldn't let him alone any more. I had been lying awake in my bed for an hour or so, contemplating what he must have been going through. I admittedly felt bad for him. I had watched him a bit during the meeting, and I could tell he was disturbed by the news he'd received. Not even he could deny how messed up his family tree was (though, obviously he wasn't the only one in the League; my parents weren't actual demons but they sure weren't angelic). I figured he must be really confused. And, dang it all, I felt the need to talk to him. We were still having our share of troubles in the civility department, but I felt like a great way to help repair that was to at least let him know that I was here to talk to him if he needed it.

I got out of bed and made my way downstairs to the living room. I saw through the crack under the door that the basement light was still on, so that meant Eric was probably still awake as well. I decided to check on him with the pretext of offering him a snack, in case he was still in a bad mood and snapped at me.

I opened the door cautiously and peered down the stairs. Wendy's parents had decorated their basement so that it was half utility room, with a washer and dryer on the right-hand side, and half alternate sitting area, with a sofa, rug, and television on a little rolling stand on the left. I had moved the television farther away when I'd helped Eric pull out the sofa. I couldn't see the whole of the room from my vantage point, but I did perceive one half of the sofa-bed. And Eric wasn't in it.

"Eric?" I called out, a bit concerned now. He hadn't left the house without my knowing, had he? I hadn't heard his car start up earlier. I opened the door fully and walked down a few steps, so that I could view the whole room.

It turned out, that my fears were premature. Eric was sitting on the opposite side of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped. He looked up as I came down to halfway on the stairs. "What do you want?" he asked.

All right, this was going to be difficult, I knew it. Thankfully, though, I'd had plenty of experience dealing with Eric's unrelenting stubbornness, so I figured I was probably the most qualified member of the League to deal with him. "I was just seeing how you were doing and all. Are you sleeping okay?"

"It's two o'clock in the fucking morning and I'm sitting up in bed, Butters, does it look like I'm sleeping okay?"

"Well," I retorted, "since I'm up checking on you at two a.m. it's probably pretty obvious that I'm having trouble sleeping myself, isn't it?" Eric blinked and made a clicking noise with his tongue as he turned away from me again. To most people, it probably would have seemed that Eric hadn't relented at all, but I knew him well enough to discern that I had his permission to come down more into the room. That was the trick with Eric, the one that had taken me so painfully long to figure out; if you kept up with him and basically evaded his attacks at the same time as coming at him yourself, you could gain some ground. It sounds really complicated, but I knew what I was talking about, since I'd managed to perfect Eric-battle tactics over the years.

Proceeding on my gained territory, I went to the bottom of the stairs and walked over to the end of the bed, so that I was closer but still behind Eric. I ventured to advance farther, asking, "Do you want to talk?"

"No," he answered.

I ignored this response completely and sat down on the rug against the foot of the bed, with my back turned to his side. I couldn't see him anymore, and he'd only be able to see the top of my head if he turned to look at me, but we were close enough to carry on a conversation without me overstepping any boundaries Eric had mentally constructed. While I wanted him to work through stuff, I recognized that he was still in a real fragile place right now, and I didn't want to lose the trust we'd only just recently obtained again.

We sat there in silence for a while. I was content to wait. I had no idea what exactly he'd most want to talk about, anything from the anger or disappointment he felt toward his mother, to the identity of his new relative, to the inconvenience of sleeping in an unfamiliar basement. With my luck, it'd probably end up being that last option, as that would be the least productive.

I realized that I was going to have to begin the conversation, so, remembering the phone call I had intercepted the night before, I settled on the topic of his mother. I asked, "Have you talked to your mom at all?"

"No," he said again. I figured that he hadn't, since he most likely would have gone back home already if he had, or, at the very least, I would have heard him shouting into his phone from two flights up. I'd just been attempting the break the ice. Obviously, it hadn't worked as I'd hoped.

"Well," I tried next, "what are you going to do?"

"I dunno," was his response. I rolled my eyes knowing he couldn't see me. It was like trying to pull teeth from a brick wall… if brick walls had teeth.

There was silence again for a little while before I said, "It's okay, you know, whatever you want to say, I'll listen. I won't say anything back if you don't want. But you really should talk to somebody, Eric. It's not gonna do you any good to keep it all inside."

I didn't get a response. I was about to give up and return upstairs when I heard him say quietly, "You started calling me by my first name again."

I quickly turned my head to look at him. It wasn't at all what I had anticipated – leave it to Eric Cartman to say the unexpected even when expecting the unexpected – but he'd finally commented on something, so that was good. I had always been one of the only few people who ever referred to Eric by his first name. When we were little, it seemed like common courtesy to me to call everyone by their given name; I had never really understood why the other kids thought 'Cartman' was exempt from that rule. As we'd gotten older, I hadn't felt any need for me to change my behavior. And by then, I'd recognized my crush for him, so I kept it up, hoping the uniqueness of my treatment toward him might get me noticed. Then, we'd actually been in a relationship (and we had, we really had achieved that deeper connection with each other, no matter what Eric might argue otherwise). But later, he hurt me, and we broke up. It was then that I began intentionally calling him by his last name. I saw it as sort of our final break in familiarity. He had denied any connection we shared, so, out of pain and anger, I ignored it as well. Yet, when I saw him so hurt over his mother, I wanted that familiarity back, so I used his first name again. This was the first time he'd ever addressed my name for him, though. I asked in reference to his observation, "Is that… okay?"

Eric shrugged his shoulders in place of an answer. I noticed that he was still wearing the clothes he'd worn yesterday. I had forgotten that he'd left his house in a hurry, so, of course, he wouldn't have thought to pack an overnight bag. I would have offered him some pajamas or something if I had anything that would fit him.

I pushed myself off the floor and tentatively approached his side of the bed. With just a hint of hesitation, I sat down next to him, still about an arm's length away. "It's true, you know," I told him. "You can talk to me."

Eric was still staring at the wall. He let out a vocal sigh before saying, "It's no big deal. I'm just pissed at my whore of a mom for sleeping with the fuckin' devil."

I couldn't help but laugh a little bit at how simply he'd put it. "Average family therapy stuff then, huh?"

I saw the corner of his mouth crack into a grin. That was something we'd always kind of had in common; unusual family units. My parents had been near insane before it was in style, and I'd cast them off in favor of a friend and her parents as surrogate guardians. Eric had a single mother, gone through a whole gamut of possibilities for a father, and then discovered his actual, slightly insane, half-brother. Another half-brother being the son of Satan almost just seemed like an absurd amendment. But still not outside the realm of possibility.

Content that he was okay, but recognizing that we wouldn't have any more of a 'conversation' that evening, I reached out my hand and patted his shoulder twice. Then, I used my other hand to lift myself off the bed. I was at the other side of the bed before I heard a soft, "Thanks," from behind me.

I smiled and said, "Welcome," as I mounted the stairs to leave him, hopefully to get some sleep.

I returned to my own bed and lay down, staring up at the ceiling. I still couldn't get my mind to quiet down, though. I just kept thinking of everything that had been happening since summer vacation had started. Although, we weren't in as bad a predicament as we had been during the R'lyeh crisis, it was definitely the worse we'd seen since then. Life had actually been fairly normal, for the most part, in the interim years. I'd had three relationships, and I'd changed a lot as a person.

My memories of that time of crisis weren't the best, since I hadn't been fully in control of my own mental faculties, but I knew they were bad. I also knew that I wasn't that person anymore, the one who'd played the notes of madness on my flute (which I also hadn't touched since), not caring who I condemned with their influence. But, with the help of my friends, I'd beaten the hold they'd had over me. Though I'd had my fair share, that had been the time when I'd been the most lost, when I'd been the least myself. And, hopefully, I'd never be that person again – another reason why I had cast Chaos aside at the end of that series of events.

I realized that Eric was going through that same kind of time right now. But his dilemma wasn't a persona he could cast off. His foundation, his constant anchor in his life, was at stake. Aside from the rise of the Cult, when she'd fallen under the insanity's sway as well, his mother was his rock, and he didn't feel like he could rely on that right now. And that was scary.

I knew what scary was. I knew what being alone was. So, I knew that I could at least sympathize with what Eric was going through.

There had been a time when Eric had confided in me. And we'd been close. We'd shared one of our first kisses on the front steps of this very house. I hoped that now, so long after that time, we could still have something resembling that connection again, since I really did believe that it had been good for both of us, just as Liane Cartman had said.

I finally went to sleep, wishing that Eric and I could stop being exes, and instead be something closer to friends.

– – –

Token came over the next day to see Wendy. His presence alerted me to how extremely unusual it was that Eric was staying under our roof. Eric and Wendy had sort of dated during our junior year of high school, so that meant that she was kind of his ex as well. It may have been awkward for anyone else, but Wendy and I knew that Eric was harmless in the 'old boyfriend' department. He could be infuriating no matter what your past with him was, so it wasn't like it significantly changed our dynamics.

I could tell that Token wasn't too comfortable with it, though. I wasn't sure if the two of them were officially together again or anything, but Token still retained a certain amount of protectiveness for Wendy, which I thought was really sweet.

I let him in the front door, dressed as Marjorine that day, letting him know Wendy was waiting in her room, when he saw Eric sitting on the couch in the living room watching television. He didn't seem too surprised that he was there (I figured Wendy must have let him know), but he definitely didn't look too pleased with the arrangement. I stood by him, prepared to defend my case if I had to, but Token just glowered at Eric's back before tilting his head up to me in acknowledgment and taking the stairs two at a time. Just prior to Wendy's door closing, I thought I heard him say, "Does he really have to stay here?"

I felt another wave a minor guilt pass over me. Eric staying over had been my proposal, and while Wendy had assured me more than once that it was acceptable to her, I acknowledged that it was a pretty big favor to ask. I told myself that I would have to do something to show her my appreciation when this was all over. Though I wasn't sure how big a cake I'd have to make that would be equivalent to tolerating Eric Cartman in the house. God bless that girl for being such a good Samaritan. And teammate. And friend. And just generally an amazing person all around.

Later that evening, after Token had left and I was back up in my room sitting at my desk reading, my phone beeped with a text message. I picked it up and saw that it was a mass text from Kenny, or, rather, Mysterion, since I recognized that it was a coded message for us League members. It mentioned that Clyde (Mosquito) had some more information to share on the Ginger Separatist Movement. That seemed both ominous and promising.

Then, my phone beeped again, this time with a private message from the same sender. It read, Saw ST downtown. Thought she was with you. Does she have a sister?

Well, that was odd. 'ST' stood for Sally Turner, my friend who had supposedly joined up with a potential terrorist organization. Mysterion was referencing the mission he'd given me to try and come up with any information on her whereabouts. But 'downtown' was our code-word for the police department. So, that meant she was still in jail? How could she be? The Coon and I had definitely fought with her that night after the rest of the Infras had been captured. Maybe she had some way of getting in and out of the holding cell, although that didn't make much sense.

I knew Sally was an only child, so there was definitely no possibility of us mistaking her for someone else. Who else in town but Red had such unique, pretty hair?

Then again, it all kept coming back to red hair.

Concerned, I decided to try Heidi again as a source of information. I'd already asked her about Sally, and she unfortunately didn't have much to share, but, just in case, I figured I'd better follow up all my potential leads.

I punched her name into my speed dial. Thankfully, she wasn't otherwise occupied and picked up. After a bit of small talk (to make this seem like an average, no-I'm-not-trying-to-covertly-aquire-information-like-a-secret-spy-person conversation), I asked her if she'd heard anything new from Sally. I hid my worries from her, though, saying I just wanted to ask Sally about summer reading for a class we were both taking next semester, though there was no such assignment. It was the simplest story I could come up with. Just as I'd anticipated, her answer was negative.

"I'm sorry, Marj, but I really haven't been able to get in touch with her," Heidi told me over the phone. "But I wouldn't worry too much. She's probably on vacation with her parents and just forgot to mention it."

"Yeah, probably," I said, thinking, if only it were that simple.

"I'm glad you called though, I wanted to ask you something."

"Oh, what is it?"

"Well, I got these kooky-looking tickets in the mail for a carnival, and I wanted to know if you wanted to come with me?"

I leapt to my feet, horrified. "WHAT?" I yelled.

"I…I got these tickets in the mail—"

"I'm sorry, Heidi, I-I saw a spider," I made up quickly as an excuse for my outburst.

"Oh, okay." Heidi still sounded unsure.

"Listen, don't go to that carnival, all right? I've heard some things and it's actually a scam. They just want your money." I figured that wasn't too far from the truth, but I had to put my warning into average terms instead of supernatural ones.

"Oh. Was it on the news or something?" Heidi asked.

"No, but… I heard it from someone who got ripped off in another town. Just, don't go, all right? Promise me."

"Yeah, sure, Marj."

"Okay, I've gotta go now, but, just stay inside and don't open any more odd mail."

"Okay…"

I hated to leave Heidi like that, but I was just too anxious to pretend to be ignorant about what this meant.

I said goodbye as calmly as I could, which I didn't achieve very well, and dashed out of my room to Wendy's. I literally pounded on the door while I called for her inside. She opened it quickly, looking understandably concerned and asked, "What's wrong? Did Eric do something?"

"No, but—"

It was then we heard and incredibly loud and an incredibly pissed off, "GODDAMMIT!" from downstairs in Eric's voice.

Wendy and I looked at each other for a beat, then, my previous dilemma momentarily forgotten, we both ran down the stairs to the kitchen. We found Eric still cussing at the microwave. There was smoke coming from inside it and he was trying to pry something out with a pair of tongs. It looked like one of the burritos left over from when we'd ordered lunch earlier that day, but it was still wrapped in its tinfoil packaging. Which meant that Eric must have been trying to microwave the food while it was in the tinfoil.

That boy was impossible.

Wendy stomped over and snatched the tongs (also metal) out of his hands. "You idiot!" she screamed. "You just fried my microwave!"

"Well, I can't help it if it just exploded on me!" was Eric's stellar defense.

"It's your fault! You're not supposed to put metal in a microwave, everybody knows that."

Before they could argue any further, I cut in, "Eric, you're gonna get us a new microwave from your work, but right now, I've got something really important to tell you guys."

I related the news I'd received from Kenny and Heidi. Wendy's eyes went wide and Eric gave an annoyed vocal inflection.

Wendy asked, "She's not going, is she?"

"I told her not to," I said, "and I think I freaked her out enough, but I'm really starting to worry. I didn't know Heidi had any connection to a redhead."

"Maybe she's got the gene like some of the others," Wendy looked extra worried at this thought, and it made sense; she was one of those 'others.'

"Listen, I'm going to go over to Sally's house and try to get in there. Maybe I can find a clue or something."

"Okay, do you want some help?"

"No, I'm okay. Kenny gave me this as my mission, so I'll see it through."

"Good, cause I still haven't eaten my dinner, yet," said Eric. Wendy glared over at him and whacked his hand with the tongs she was still holding. "OW!" he whined. Knowing that the two of them would probably be at it for a little while over the ruined kitchen appliance, I excused myself and went upstairs to change into my Harmony gear.

I'd been over to Sally's house a few times already, as one of my day-time personas, hoping to talk to her. However, when I had knocked at the door, no one had answered. I knew her parents were out of town, but she should still be there, right? She definitely hadn't left with them, as Heidi had postulated; I'd seen the proof of that myself. But, if she was out roaming the streets, while also still being locked in a jail cell, there had to be something more to this lack of communication than I had previously considered.

Now, I was worried about Heidi as well. I didn't want my other friend any more involved in this dilemma than she already was. I hoped I at least might be able to save her from this still mysterious threat. I was getting more and more worried that something very wrong had happened to Sally…

I went around to the back door and removed lock-picking tools from one of the pockets on my utility belt. I was technically breaking-and-entering, but desperate times and all that.

It only took me a few seconds to work the door open. I'd been in Sally's house a couple times over breaks, but never extensively. We had mostly hung out in the living room, but, thankfully, we had also gone up to her bedroom a couple of times, so I knew which one was hers. I gave the downstairs rooms a quick once-over and, finding nothing suspicious, made my way upstairs.

I checked Sally's bedroom first, naturally. Nothing appeared too out of the ordinary. It mostly looked like she'd just gone out for the day. Her bed was made, a habit she always had, but nothing significant was missing, nor any sign of a struggle. The only thing that appeared like it didn't belong was on the desk, next to her closed laptop.

I couldn't turn on the lights without compromising my mission, so I took out a small flashlight I carried in another of my utility pockets and turned it on, to verify if my suspicions were correct. And, boy, were they. The piece of paper closest to me was an exact copy of the one Kyle and Red had each shared with the rest of us, an invitation to join the GSM. The only difference in Sally's was that the bottom portion requesting compliance was missing, which meant that she must have sent it back. But why would she do that? Why would she agree to join this group? She'd never been a sensationalist of any kind. She was fairly mild-mannered actually, which was one of the reasons why we were such good roommates at school, since we shared that quality.

There was no physical evidence of her motives, however, so I checked the other piece of paper. It was another letter, with the same logo. It read:

Ms. Turner:

Your application has been processed, and the Carnival thanks you for your compliance. You have made the wise choice, and your information will be most helpful to our mission, and, as promised, you will be given proper remuneration for your efforts. As your price has already been collected, along with your signature, your next step involves only your arrival at the location marked below. Take care that this information stays only with you, Ms. Turner, as the town is not yet ready to be given our location.

What is yours may yet be returned to you, but only with your acceptance of our Movement's guidelines. What is yours, you see, is also ours, but as one of us your cooperation is invaluable.

We welcome you to the Carnival, Ms. Turner. You are truly helping to build a dream.

Yours most sincerely,

Red Devil/Red Hair

I looked at the bottom, excited that I had discovered some amazing information for the team, only to notice that a portion of this letter was ripped off along a perforation as well, presumably with the promised address. Aw, dang it, I thought, so much for outstanding leads. Still, now we had a copy of the reply letter, and knew basically what was expected of those who wished to join, at least initially. I picked up the papers and tucked them away in my skirt pocket; no way was I leaving them there at my friend's house when I had no idea where she was.

I found nothing else in her room, so I made my way to her parents' bedroom. I needed to be thorough. I found essentially the same thing; nothing was significantly out of place, and everything seemed to still be there.

Wait a minute, everything was really still there. I looked at the vanity. It held a brush and everyday jewelry. On a thought, I hurried into the master bathroom, among the usual sink countertop items, two toothbrushes rested in a stand to the left. I hurried back into the bedroom and opened the door to the walk-in closet. I didn't find what I was looking for in there, but I noticed there was no empty space; no row of hangers without clothes, no bare carpet for missing shoes aside from one pair on each side. I whirled around and fell to the floor, checking under the bed. There, I found what I had been searching for – suitcases, a complete set of them.

There was nothing missing from this room other than clothes for a day, what would be expected if someone was leaving for work in the morning. If Sally's parents were 'on a trip,' then why were all of their clothes, everyday items, and suitcases still here?

They could have been recruited by the GSM as well, but, the thing was, neither of Sally's parents had red hair; she'd inherited it from her grandfather.

So, then, the question was, where were they really…?

Confused and concerned, I took my leave, finding nothing else incriminating or helpful around the house. I had at least gotten a copy of the second letter this group was sending out to its recruits, that had to be beneficial to the League.

I still couldn't figure out why Sally had been spotted in two different places. I knew she was one of the ones in jail, but that person I had fought definitely didn't look like an imposter. I could say with a fair amount of certainty that, if there was such a person, they weren't using her house as a base of operations.

I kept mulling things over as I made my way back home. If one of them was a imposter, which one was the real one? And why were they using her visage as a cover? Sally didn't have any particular connections with anyone in town, so there'd be no great strategic gain in it, not that I could see. Maybe both of them were posers.

But then, where was the real Sally Turner…?

I could only hope that the League would find the answers soon. Maybe Mysterion had more information that could shed some light on this… mystery.

I did make a firm decision in my mind, though, and that was to be much more watchful of all the people closest to me whom the GSM might have an interest. I would still try to figure out what was wrong with Sally, but, in the meantime, I had to protect those I didn't want to get hurt. People like Wendy… and Eric.

Eric probably needed the most looking after. He was still in rough shape, and, from past experience, I knew he wouldn't function well without her. He wouldn't have his guard up as much as he should when he was being specifically targeted. I promised myself, in tandem with the promise I'd given to his mother, that I would try to protect him.

When I returned to my room, I removed my mask and brought out the letters I had taken from Sally's desk. Reflecting on it, the house had kind of creeped me out a little; it had just been there, like houses you see in horror movies when there was some catastrophe and everyone had left in a hurry and just never come back. It had looked abandoned. Where would they have all gone? Had they been kidnapped?

Then, I focused on the words toward the bottom of the second letter.

What is yours may yet be returned to you… What is yours, you see, is also ours…

And I realized: they had taken her parents.

– – –

Kyle

There are, apparently, laws of the universe that standard human logic cannot touch. I knew, from events of my childhood, that there was much to be said for the power of the imagination, and of course we had proven the existence of dimensions other than our own. The pocket of reality confined to dreams, however, was something that scared me.

As far as I know, unless one trains and trains, there is no way to control what comes in dreams. Some people are lucid dreamers, some people have nightmares, some people can only dream in black and white—it varies and varies and varies, and I had never put much stock into studying dreams, since I myself rarely think about what I dream at night after I've woken up.

Given the new information that Kenny picked up from Henrietta, however, I started thinking more about the concept of dreams and the subconscious. I ended up spending a fair amount of time at the base with Clyde and Bebe after Kenny and Henrietta put forward the notion that Damien might have his sights set on places not much unlike R'lyeh known as the Dreamlands. Clyde and Bebe had begun rooting through the League's archives, of the records recovered from the early part of the 20th century: accounts of people—many of them artists—having vivid dreams of Cthulhu. It happened again and again through the century, right up to the man Wilcox we were still dealing with now.

And while maybe the Dreamlands and Spaces Between, left unaccounted for after the closing of the Gate and the disappearance of R'lyeh, defied mortal logic, the rest of the universe was balanced. That much, I could understand. It was tough, but I felt scared and proud all at once.

After all, I had a visual of the universe.

Kenny copied down to the exact specifications a diagram of various geometric laws of the universe, straight out of a book from a place that should not have existed on any sphere. One point led to another, and another, and another across the ancient mandala, connecting planets, stars, Earth, Heaven, Hell—

This was knowledge that perhaps man wasn't meant to understand, but it became our job in the Shadow League to begin to make sense of it. To find the remaining Spaces Between and stop whatever plan Damien Thorn was going for before it could start.

So I used the chart to my advantage. Thinking of things in terms of circles and triangles made sense to me when it came to the astute way I managed to lock onto the world around me. The more I practiced, the more I could sense connections; the more open I was to acceptance, the faster I'd be able to build back my abilities, and hopefully expand upon them.

Odd as it seemed from the start, the best place for me to begin my hypothesized 'reading' of life rather than just objects, was the bookstore at which I worked. Due to our abhorrent lack of security cameras, I already knew that I was safe to test out my psychic quirk in the back storage rooms when I got sent on re-stock duty, and since there was a fairly steady traffic flow of people through the store, I figured I might as well attempt to see if what Kenny had suggested had any real merit.

It really was all about honing versus ignoring. I'd wanted normal for the past few years, and normal was what I'd gotten. Now that that was no longer an option…

I'd come to the realization, partially thanks to Stan and partially thanks to Kenny and Karen, that I shouldn't lay my ability to rest anymore. Even if I strained my mind to the point of exhaustion again, I couldn't just rely on that quirk to come in and help me out in times of major duress, as it had more or less been from the start. At the very beginning, I'd only been able to cause any kind of gravitational re-arrangement or burst light bulbs when I got pushed to my limit. When I got really, really fucking angry. Which, generally, I was, out on the field. Or, it was aggression when it came to fighting. I had opponents: I'd take them out. The quirk had been there to help me.

When Kenny began stressing that this was becoming more of a covert operation, though, I went a different route with training myself. Stan loved helping me figure things out, and I valued his input more than anyone's. He knew me; I trusted him. He knew what would push me, and when I should stop, he could tell what I was struggling with and where to help me out.

We started small, of course. Whenever I so much as thought about what I needed to do to hone my mind, electric lights were bound to react. The electric flow in the air, it seemed, reacted to my focused brainwaves. Easy enough for me to accept. Logical.

And now I had that chart. I had a visual of solid connections between logic and illogic, between reality and… who knows what else. The chart was at least a stepping stone to understanding, which was all I could really ask for. (Happy twenty-first birthday to me, I guess: here's some secrets about the webs connecting everything in the universe.) (Actually, that's pretty cool, come to think of it.)

After what happened to Kenny, with the Shadow (or whatever this new 'gift' from Damien truly was), I really wanted to step up my game. It's a really fucking good thing I get competitive, too, let me just say that. Even if it's a fight with myself. If I doubt something, I have this dire need to figure out the truth behind it. So when both doubt and interest arose in my wanting to see if I actually could psychically tap into the static-electric, or gravitational, or what have you, readings of living things, I took advice from Kenny and Clyde and took a little trip down to Park County Station to see, first of all, if I could read anything from those Ginger clones.

There was this weird, unspoken Coon wanting to do everything-slash-Mysterion not wanting the Coon to do any missions alone thing going on lately, so the mission had ended up being me, Mosquito, Mysterion and the Coon, who honest to God would just not shut the fuck up about the fact that if I could prove that the clones weren't alive, he'd be right about Gingers not having souls.

"You know, this shit is already getting old," I chastised him before we had quite reached the station, "and I really don't need that 'no souls' bullshit right now."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the Coon scoffed. "I've just been over here having to live with the Wonder-Girls and dealing with the fact that I've got two evil half-brothers—"

"That doesn't sound like coping," Mosquito cut in, "that sounds like gloating."

"Agreed," said Mysterion, putting a cap on the whole thing. "Come on, Murphy's letting us in through the back."

"Is Yates really being that much of a dick right now?" I wondered.

"He's gonna be a problem." Mysterion nodded.

"Is the GSM seriously blackmailing and kidnapping to recruit?"

Butters had touched on some weird shit, discovering the weird disappearance of Sally Turner's parents, coupled with her apparently multifarious involvement with the current opposition… and apparently Mrs. Yates wasn't 'noticing' anything strange about her husband lately, which we pretty much assumed meant that Damien had her in some kind of grip.

"It's looking that way."

"Then what the hell are the clones?" I had to ask.

"That's what we're hoping to find out."

They definitely weren't human.

When Murphy showed us to the Gingers' holding, they were all lined up, sitting, awaiting instruction. Or just… waiting. After letting the initial eeriness of that sight pass, I drew in a deep breath and closed my eyes, letting my mind tap into everything around me that was within my possible reach to move.

I had been able to fly before, by manipulating not myself but my glider. With practice, I probably could again. I could sense that, my weapons, the others' gear… and a couple dozen things that may as well have been large rocks or sculptures. My head started throbbing, buzzing with sudden activity as I opened my eyes to find the cells full of only those incredibly human-like Infra-Reds.

Once I realized exactly what it was my quirk was reacting to, I winced a little, but I refused to show any kind of confusion around Murphy, who had always had so much faith in the Shadow League. I'd vent it all out to Stan later, I told myself; right now, I just had to focus and be practical. Practical—right. Logical about something that defied logic:

False life.

That's what we were dealing with. Animated, passably human clones created using patterns of the 'volunteers' the GSM was collecting through their letter efforts.

"Anything?" Mysterion wondered.

I managed a sturdy enough nod. "They're not real," I announced.

"The hell do you mean not real?" the Coon demanded. "They're right there."

"Right," I said, "but…" I drew in a breath in order to buy myself a couple seconds of gathering my thoughts. Nothing about this felt moral. But if we were dealing with dreams and either sub- or ultra-reality, here… "I can read them," I confirmed for everyone present.

"And?"

"And I can't read people," I said as a reminder. "I have zero psychic connection, that I know of, to living things. Whatever these guys are, they're not alive."

"Are… are they robots?" Murphy ventured to ask. "This is incredible news."

I shook my head. "No, if they were robots, they'd be made up of different parts. I can read machines, and these are more like—"

"Wax?" Mysterion offered.

Oh, shit.

Shit, that would figure, wouldn't it? None of us said it, but the four of us were immediately on the same page. Time to start putting more stock in that Carnival, I had to admit. We could very well have been fighting nothing but a moving, breathing wax museum.

Which was exactly why I was now spending half of the shelving hour of my shift at the bookstore sneaking looks at books about the history of carnivals. I'd looked so distracted during my register shift, apparently (sorry to my managers, but I was concentrating probably too hard on trying to see if I could get my brain to react to… I don't know, body heat or something from the customers), that I was asked to do shelving in the lesser-visited sections of the shop. Luckily, the US History section was one of them, and while nobody was around, I could steal glances at helpful literature and photography.

It was all I could do not to form essays in my head about the history I was digging into; I told myself to instead just focus on things that might help us. Wax museums. Of the Vincent Price variety. I had to believe that Tenorman would go to any lengths necessary to make this a memorable Carnival in the history of those in his and Cartman's history, and with Damien involved, the horror-movie route seemed right up the madman's alley.

In addition to wax museums, too, I started pouring over the various other attractions this secret Carnival might try to host. The possible prospect of a sideshow was what disturbed me the most.

Suppose Damien was keying in on these 'gifts' and 'prizes' just to exploit them…?

As I was thumbing through a few sepia-toned prints of carnival grounds in the 1920s Midwest, I began to get the sense that I wasn't alone. Which, for a second, got me excited and nervous that maybe now that I wasn't even thinking about it, my mind had been able to actually lock in on something. Well, someone.

I didn't believe it anymore once I felt myself get tugged back into a stealthy hug. Of course I'd know if Stan was right behind me, I told myself. I knew his footsteps, I knew how he'd try to hide his breath when he wanted to sneak up on me. There were logical excuses for everything. I hadn't 'read' him. I'd just known.

Not that I was complaining.

"Hey!" I let myself laugh out.

"Hi, Kyle!" Stan exclaimed, kissing the side of my neck from behind. "Happy birthday!"

Now I did let go and laugh. "Oh, my God," I realized, "it is, isn't it?"

"Oh, yeah, right you forgot," my boyfriend grinned. He kissed my cheek this time. "Twenty-one! You can sit at the big kids' table again."

"Oh, boy, I've been waiting for that," I joked back at him, grabbing up at his hair with my right hand. "You still wanna celebrate, though?" I wondered. "You know, even with all this weirdness going on."

Stan let out a little sigh, and rested his head on my shoulder. "I'd kinda like to," he admitted. "I hope we can, anyway. Come on, don't tell me you don't want to. You're twenty-one, we should do something… other than… stand around in a bookstore."

"Well, welcome to Exciting Dates with Kyle Broflovski," I said as I turned to face him. "Today's topic is the ISBN."

"Oh, come on, I bet you I can do better than that," Stan grinned.

"I'm sure you can," I said. "Sorry," I added, smiling for him. "Just getting to that point where, uh… day job and evening job are overlapping."

"I hear ya." Stan smirked, ruffled my hair, and gave my forehead a quick kiss before he stood back and knocked the knuckles of his free hand against the book I realized I was still holding. "So what's so important you forgot it was your birthday?" he ventured to ask. I glanced at the book I'd grabbed briefly before holding it up for Stan to take a look at the title. "Woah, dude. Carnival sideshows are fucked up."

"Yeah, no kidding," I sighed, glancing at the cover once again before sliding the book of antiquated oddities back onto its oft-neglected shelf. "I can only imagine what this particular one might try to offer."

I saw Stan eye the book again. "Here's hoping we can do something before we need to find out," he said.

"Please," I breathed out.

I stole a glance at my watch, immediately disgruntled to find that I still had another hour and a half of work to go, and I had to switch to inventory within minutes. Stan shrugged it off, and picked up where I had left off, spending the full hour and a half in the book store. While I was doing numbers—which occasionally required me to take a manual count of shelved stock—I noticed that he'd shift around (look around at the music section, or magazines just so he wasn't giving himself away) now and then, but by the time my shift ended, Stan had compiled a short list, in the pocket notebook he'd been keeping on him since the Carnival fiasco started, of new ideas and questions pertaining to the situation at hand.

"How's your head?" he asked me as we left the store.

"Mm… fine," I decided on saying, adding in a little shrug. "Sorry you're looking after me like I'm some manic something-or-other."

"Don't even worry about it," he said, fussing with my hair again. "You wanna stop thinking for a little while?"

"That'd be amazing," I admitted. "You got a plan?"

"Depends. You hungry?"

"I could be."

We took a long walk around town, and then he treated me to an early dinner, during which we managed to have a perfectly normal conversation about the upcoming semester, covering topics that were easier on my mind than wondering how the fuck Damien was churning out clones of people from town and why the fuck Tenorman was still nowhere to be seen and whether or not I'd ever be able to psychically identify human bodies. Other guys my age may well have avoided topics like, oh, apartment situations for the coming school year, and academics, and home life, but fuck me if I didn't like taking some opportunities to squeeze that dose of normal back into my own conversations.

Neither of us were up for much after that. Other than perpetuating normality for a little while. Since any gathering with the guys would have pretty much turned into a work-related meeting, I sent out a mass text saying that I was holding off birthday things until after we'd driven the Carnival out of town. To which Clyde, a great hero and a great leader but as college as they come nonetheless, responded, END OF SUMMER KEGGER. Which I rolled my eyes at and would ignore until I was in general conversation with Clyde again. I could deal shit back verbally much better than I could over texts, and I assumed the others probably had a few things to say on the 'kegger' matter themselves.

Or the sheer idea of 'end of summer.'

Still wanting to do something, though, Stan and I bought a bottle of pricey wine at the liquor store where, honestly, they'd dole shit out to twelve year olds with fake IDs, but whatever, I had to celebrate a milestone birthday somehow. Then, with no word of missions or meetings coming through either of our phones, we managed to relax for a while on the new sofa in Stan's living room with the well-chilled wine.

And a lot on our minds.

God, even with it being just the two of us, I realized, we had too much League-related work to talk about, other conversation fell aside.

"Anything else we need?" Stan wondered, reaching an arm across the back of the sofa to invite me to sit against his side.

"Other than something actually resembling a party?" I tried to joke.

"Oh, come on, do you care all that much?"

I let out a sight sigh, and relaxed against him. "No," I admitted, "not really. I mean, I wasn't exactly expecting that this kinda stuff would be going on right around now, but we can't help that, I guess. Besides," I added, shifting so I could take the wine glass Stan was now offering me, "hopefully we'll have done something about all this by the end of the summer. Kenny said he wanted to do a thing for July Fourth. 'Course, that was before any of this."

"Gives us a month," Stan offered. He picked up his own glass of wine, but watched me before taking a sip.

I shivered, considering his deduction. "A month," I repeated. "Dude, these guys seem organized, but are you getting the feeling like they're just buying time? Like… I don't know, it's kinda pissing me off."

Stan was silent for a few seconds, then moved so that his arm was more firmly set around me, and suggested, "Use it, I guess."

"I guess," I sighed. "I just—I really hope we can beat these guys before summer's out, you know?"

"Mmhmm. We all do," Stan consoled me.

I stared down at my glass of wine, letting myself fall deep into thought as if I were holding a cup of tea instead, trying to find answers in the leaves. Bring down the son of the devil in a month? Hopefully we could manage that. There was a balance we had to maintain. That was our mission.

Keep things as they are. We couldn't let Damien or Tenorman create any kind of rift between the balance kept between Earth, Heaven and Hell as it was known now; if the Spaces Between were breached, and made accessible, we could probably very well be risking seeing some of Cthulhu's old friends show up, and everything we had worked toward would have proven—

I took a sip of wine. It stung my tongue until the sweetness trickled through. The sensational drink felt warm going down my throat, and after another sip, the warmth spread throughout. "Man, this is really good," I commented.

"Yeah?"

"Oh, jeez," I realized, glancing at Stan, mid-sip on his own glass. "Sorry, did we want to toast or anything?"

He grinned after giving the idea a shot, then said, "I think anything we'd toast to is just… I dunno, stuff we've already been talking about."

"Okay, so, let's do that now," I decided, turning to face him in profile. Ceremoniously, I held out my wine glass, and declared, "We can and will beat these bastards before that Carnival can open its fucking doors."

"Amen," said Stan, clinking his glass on mine. We drank to that, and to un-voiced but heavily understood wishes for success. "Oh, one more thing," he added.

"Hmm?"

Stan refreshed our glasses, and as he set the bottle back down on the floor, he leaned in to kiss my cheek. "Happy birthday, Kyle."

"Thank you," I said, smiling as I initiated a proper kiss back.

"Mm. We'll do something fun for it soon, too, I promise. Once this is over."

"Mmhmm." We each took a couple more sips, which got a buzz going in my brain of a much, much different variety than the kind that gave me such a mental workout. "Who says we don't have time for a little fun now, though?" I suggested, brushing up closer to Stan. Another rush of wine with another kiss.

"Yeah?"

"Mmhmm."

No interruptions. We didn't even finish the bottle of wine, but we had no need to.

We were able to pass the night, making the most of having a full evening together with no other responsibilities to attend to. It was always immeasurably comforting to me, even long past the afterglow, to just lie awake with Stan for a while. Even if twenty minutes passed between either of us said anything, it didn't feel like silence. It was kind of like meditation, honestly. I just got so fucking relaxed. My mind got to rest for a while, and we could just exist.

Of course, with lives as full and hectic as ours, even sleep couldn't keep us from active conversation. Despite feeling pretty damn rested and relaxed, I slept rather erratically that night. Not as bad as he did, apparently, since the next thing I knew, we were both fully awake again, Stan catching his breath after waking from an admittedly strange dream.

Maybe the problem was that we were both over-thinkers, in our own right. I come about it from an analytical perspective, while Stan tends to thrive on creativity. He's not the biggest fan of visual art, no, but nor is he the biggest fan of social media and that sort of thing. He's un-plugged, in other terms. He likes things to be real, to promote human talent and potential, rather than buy into the dumbing of society. Creative minds, though, sort of have a history of acting upon dreams.

Just look at Wilcox, and his family tree. Many of them visual artists, many of them prone to nightmares. More vivid nightmares than the ones it seemed my boyfriend started having, sure, but there was still that connection. And I didn't like it.

"You're not dreaming about Purgatory, are you?" I dared to ask him once the topic inevitably came up.

"No." Stan latched his left arm around me, and when I shifted to touch his back with my right hand, I felt a small gathering of cold sweat. "I don't think so, anyway. I'm not really dreaming about anything."

I grabbed onto his shirt. "So… wait, really?" I wondered. "I go plenty of nights without dreaming. That's kind of a good thing, yeah?"

"I don't know," Stan sighed. "Even if there're no images, I get the feeling while I'm asleep like there's just… something. Something I overlooked, or déjà vu or something."

"Déjà vu?" I repeated, shifting again. I held Stan's face in my hands and looked him straight in the eyes. When he'd had a little brush with madness, his eyes had started to wander, and then stare at nothing. At things that did not exist. "Stan, talk to me about this shit! Jesus!"

"I—but it's the kind of thing where I can't tell what it is," Stan said it his defense. "I'm sorry, I just… and I do talk to you, you know that." I held my breath for a moment, still studying his eyes. Nothing seemed wrong. He looked a little tired, but I don't know anyone who wouldn't, under even just the simple circumstance of getting a little over an hour of sleep. When I felt myself relax, Stan showed a smile, and began to pet back my hair with his left hand, grabbing at curls only to smooth them down. "What I know, you know, Kyle," he said softly. "If I leave out details, it's shit that even I don't understand. Okay?"

I sighed, settled in, and said, "All right."

"It's a weird time for everyone," Stan added.

"That's almost an understatement."

"No kidding. But we're good?"

"Yeah, Stan, we're good," I said, hoping I hadn't acted too rashly. "I just get worked up."

"Lots to think about lately," he offered.

"Mmhmm. Just… watch yourself, though, okay?" I said. "Let me know if shit starts bothering you."

"Will do," Stan smiled.

Whatever happened, though, I readied myself to do whatever I needed to should Stan's discomforts with dreams and proneness to nightmares become something of a curse in its own right. I didn't want to think about things that dark, but I had to be prepared. We looked after each other, simple as that. I'd been through R'lyeh with him, and I'd go to Hell and back with and for him, too. That was all either of us needed to know, and all that mattered.

If only for that reaffirmation, too, I was glad I could say that I pretty much did have a pretty good birthday, all things considered.

– – –

The following day, however, was a whirlwind of headaches. Some were perfectly normal, brought on by regular old stress, but a fair deal of them were not. And by the end of the day I was left with a few disturbing images quite literally burned into my mind.

I went through the motions of waking up at Stan's: shower, find something to wear, accept Sharon's kind offer for breakfast, weather the fuck out of Randy's attempts to make sex jokes at me, reassure Sharon that, no, Randy wasn't bothering me all that much, gather belongings, and head to work.

Stan drove me, and offered an end of the day ride as well, since none of us knew when something might come up. I thanked him with a swift but warm kiss, wished him a good day, and stepped out of the car and into another day of attempting to both hone and conceal my quirk at work.

I was not allowed to check my phone at work, but every single one of us employed at the book store ignored that rule at least twice. When I did check, I noticed five from Ike. He'd been up to something all day, but I couldn't let his obsessions become mine for the day, so I ignored the texts until I got home. Stan dropped me off, and drove home only to park his car for the evening, since our plans would most likely involve some kind of mission.

Good call. The moment I passed through the door of my house, I knew that I had the rest of the day cut out for me.

It started with my brother darting down the stairs, iPad in hand; the second he'd reached the floor, he glanced up from the screen briefly to say, "Hey. Awesome. You're home. Let's go."

"Uh, hi, and what the fuck?" I said in return.

Ike shook his head. "Missions all day, buddy," he said, sounding short of breath. "Scanner's goin' nuts, Yates is definitely hiding something, and we've really gotta—"

"Can I, like, get some water first?" I interrupted crossly, holding up a hand. "And can you catch your breath, wait two seconds, and put down that stupid tablet?"

My brother frowned, squinching his unreadable black eyes up at me. I just lifted my eyes skyward and brushed past him to the kitchen, where I poured myself a glass of filtered water. I took a couple of calming sips and passed back into the dining room, where I noticed—and had neglected to before—my brother's girlfriend, looking a little bored but a little dejected from where she sat in Ike's usual seat.

"Uh… hey, Karen," I said, lifting my free hand in a bit of a wave. "What's up?"

"Your ridiculous brother," she answered.

"What? Ike? Why?"

Karen glanced over toward the front door, from which Ike had barely moved before he'd started checking something on his tablet again. "Ike, we're talking about you!" she called over.

"Uh-huh."

"Ike, for fuck's sake!"

"Sorry, I'm sorry, sorry!" Ike stopped what he was doing, flipped the cover around to close his tablet for the time being, and jaunted into the dining room. He seemed to be much less worried about the fact that he'd essentially been ignoring his literal angel of a girlfriend in favor of one of his many League-related devices than either Karen or I were. "Stuff's just getting real heated right now, you know?"

"Did you finish running whatever you had to run?" Karen asked him, tiredly.

"Yeah, Kar, sorry."

Karen gave him a little look over, then smiled a tiny bit and managed to get in a mocking whispered, "Soo-rry." Ike got in a little grin, and Karen stood in order to slowly step over to where he stood. "You tell Kyle yet?"

"Tell me what?" I wondered. I almost made a, You guys finally gonna get married or something? jab, but given Karen's nearly-sorry state, I passed over it, figuring this wasn't the time.

"So those goggles, right?" said Ike, flipping back the cover of his tablet.

"You can say it without showing it," Karen encouraged him, flipping the tablet closed again. "Go ahead."

While half of me was still wondering what was going on between them, I focused on listening to whatever Ike's discovery was. Big, apparently.

"I tried them on," he announced, showing a broad, quintessentially Canadian grin. "And I cracked them."

"Cracked them, as in…?" I prompted.

"Figured out what else they do, other than flash information. Did a whole outing with 'em!"

I nearly dropped my glass of water. "You what?" I yelped.

"I tried on the Infra-Red goggles and got 'em out on the field."

"WHY, Ike, why the hell would you do something so fucking—why?" I sputtered out. "That's fucking ridiculous, it could—I-I don't know, why didn't you check in about this?"

"I was texting you all day, Kyle."

"Fuck," I growled, pulling my phone out of my pocket.

Yeah, sure enough, the second text from Ike read, Gonna try out those goggles in mission mode. Don't freak out, I know what I'm doing. The one following that read, Courtesy text because it worked. Just saying.

"Dude, Ike, what the fuck?" I said, slipping my phone back into my pocket before taking a less-than-calming stress sip of water.

"Come on," my brother said in his defense. "Look, the goggles didn't have any kind of jack or USB; I couldn't rig 'em to the system to get any data. You can't deny that we need as much help from the GSM as we can get, so I tried 'em on, and I'm glad I did."

If nothing else, Karen's rather serious nod made me sigh out my nerves and give my brother a little slack on the situation. It was easy for me to forget, sometimes, that Ike was fifteen. That I'd seen a fair deal of weirdness in League situations when I was fifteen, and that I had to give him more credit. I just got protective and nervous.

"All right," I said, evening my tone. "What'd you find out."

"Kay, so…" Ike tried to open his tablet again; Karen rolled her eyes and just nudged his arm, which got him to close it and keep his eyes on me. "We already know they give off mission information. Who else has tried 'em on, Butters? Cartman? Well, here's the thing, they, like, jump-start react to anyone with Ginger DNA."

"Ugh," I scoffed, "really?"

"Yeah. Which Cartman's got, so I'm pretty sure the info got back to whatever their main system is. Butters should be safe, and so am I. I was gonna get started seeing if I could search through the goggles' computer to see if it gives any kinda location for where they actually did send Cartman's info—"

"Oh dear God, Jesus, fuck, please tell me they're not going to clone him," I groaned. That would have been all we needed. That really would've been the fucking Apocalypse.

"Ike was thinking if we find the system, we can stop them before they do," said Karen.

I nodded. "So, you find the location?"

"Not yet, which is why I've gotta keep checking this thing," Ike told me, holding up his iPad. "But I found out that the Infras're called for a mission tonight," he added more positively. "Guess they hadn't hit up the Harrisons yet; that address came up as the key target for tonight."

I almost dropped my water again. "Th-the Harrisons?" I repeated.

In Gary Harrison's immediate family, though, I realized, three members had red hair: Gary's mother, his elder sister, Jenny, and his younger brother, David. David, who just happened to be Karen's ex-boyfriend, had, according to Gary, left Mormonism at the age of fifteen, out of both anxiety about the Mission work he would have had to do when he turned nineteen, and differing beliefs on a few subjects. He was now out of state, as far as I knew… so was Jenny, come to think of it. She and her young family had settled down outside of South Park.

But Gary and his younger sister, Amanda, still fit the bill for GSM targets, though I did have to scorn Damien in my head for going after such moral, devout people.

"Yeah," said Ike. "So while Mysterion's heading a little thing in town tonight, I got Token agreeing to head a B-mission at the Harrisons'. You in?"

"Uh, of course," I nodded. I could pretty much sign Stan right up, as well; he and Gary had a good friendship, sure, but a damn important working relationship, too. Gary was still Toolshed's go-to for arsenal building and re-stocking.

"Great. I mean, of course Gary and Amanda wouldn't ever answer those letters, but I wouldn't put it past maybe David—"

"Ike," Karen warned through her teeth.

"What? He'd be the one most likely to—"

"Shut up if you're still jealous, Ike," Karen demanded, stepping in front of her boyfriend in order to get full eye contact. "I'll have Kenny take you off your own mission if this is gonna turn into something driven off fucking jealousy."

"Who—who says I'm jealous?" Ike argued, un-convincingly.

"You are, Ike, and I don't want you making any stupid, unfounded claims about David!"

"Well, maybe it's not unfounded, Karen," Ike said. He then glanced over at me, requesting, "You mind, buddy?"

Oh. Huh. I passed a look between the two of them. Karen's arms were folded, but it didn't take a second to realize that she wasn't cross; her hands gripped her upper arms as if she were enfolding someone in an embrace. She was keeping herself enclosed. Ike, on the other hand, leaned back against the table, long fingers clamped around the edge, back rigid.

"S-sure thing," I said, starting to take my leave.

Weird, I thought as I hid myself in the living room, allowing myself enough of an angle to glance back at the two of them. I'd thought that things were going pretty well for them, honestly. Kenny and I had both been a little skeptical when Karen and Ike had started going out, but I'd been growing increasingly positive about the influence the two appeared to have been having on each other.

My brother did have a tendency toward jealousy, though, and this started to come through as his voice carried out from the kitchen: "He's not like the rest of the family, Kar, that's all I'm saying."

"No," Karen corrected strongly. "Maybe David left the LDS Church, but he's not a fucking—he wouldn't, all right?"

"Yeah, well, where is he, then?" Ike wanted to know.

"In Seattle! He was at a Buddhist retreat and now he's—"

"Yeah? That a fact?"

"Yes, Ike, it is! Jeez!"

"He tell you that?"

"We text, Ike, we're friends, can you please…"

Curiosity got the better of me. Well, all right, curiosity, plus older brother protectiveness. Karen and Ike were the League when the rest of us weren't around… I wondered how smoothly things had been going during their school year meetings and missions. I'd been hoping for their relationship to get stronger, not cause a kind of greedy strain.

I looked around the corner, just as I heard the front door open and close. I whipped my head around to find that Stan had returned, and I quickly lay one index finger over my lips, shook my head, and waved him over to where I was standing. He looked confused, but obliged, only to whisper, "What's going on?"

"I dunno, but I think Ike and Karen're fighting."

"Really? Shit, that sucks!"

"I know! Ssh."

I peered around the corner again, feeling bad for spying on my brother, but wanting to see just how serious the current spat might be.

"Would you look at me, Ike?" Karen smacked Ike's wrist when he went to issue a command on the tablet's screen, and Ike's head shot up. He was suddenly aware, and heavily apologetic. "I swear, Ike, you are chained to that thing," Karen said disapprovingly. "And I really, really wish you wouldn't get jealous. David's old news, Ike, really. Can we focus? On… o-on the mission, yeah, but on us, and…

"I'm worried about you," Karen continued. "I just… I really, really care about you, and I get worried when you check out and plug in. I want you to be careful, okay? Please, just promise me that?"

Ike took a pause to gather himself, for there to be nothing but silent direct contact between himself and his girlfriend. I knew that Ike really cared for her, and that a breakup could tear him. I certainly didn't want to see that happen; Ike just had to wake up and be a little more responsible in his relationship, just as he was about work. "Yeah," Ike said, pulling Karen in for a hug. "I'm sorry, Karen," he added.

"I'm sorry, too," Karen sighed out. "I mean, if I give you reason to worry about that stuff."

"Sounds like it's all worries right now, eh?"

"Eh?" Karen teased back, lightly tapping his shoulder.

"Anyway," said Ike, and I saw him squeeze his girlfriend in tighter to him, "I promise not to get jealous, 'kay? We've got stuff we've gotta do."

"And then can we talk about us?" Karen asked hopefully.

"Sure thing," Ike told her encouragingly.

"And lay off the tech, just a little, baby, please?" Karen requested.

Asking Ike to 'lay off the tech' was kind of like asking me to not over-analyze. While not blood-related, Ike and I were creatures of very similar habits. Hell, he'd even taken over for my old place as primary tech for the League when he first joined on. We were both tech-savvy, so I knew that Karen had reason to be worried about Ike's habits. Which, again, got me worried, but which I could not get involved in.

"Yeah," Ike said. "I really will."

The spat was signaled to be over when Karen tugged Ike in to kiss him. Seeing how much that little action seemed to comfort them, I turned away and signaled for Stan to follow me further into the living room, where we could wait for the other two. I did hope that Ike would kind of get the hint that Karen was really not impressed with his attachment to devices; hopefully the fight wouldn't have to be repeated.

He'd gotten me charged about the mission we'd need to embark on that night, which was exactly what conversation became once the four of us were together in one room. Stan made the effort to, as Toolshed, call Gary to give him the warning about the GSM attack, and advised him to take as many safety precautions as necessary before night fell.

While it may have been a last-minute plan, I was glad to be getting more field time in. After all, we had that reception date approaching, and had to spring at any opportunities the GSM gave us to push them back, if not gain further understanding, or the upper hand.

– – –

While Mysterion, the Guardian Angel, Mosquito and the obnoxiously persistent Coon worked on setting up checkpoints and parameters around Tenth Circle in preparation for the upcoming event—and while Marpesia and Harmony were putting in time at the base with Iron Maiden on connecting the rest of the information we had gathered thus far—TupperWear, Red Serge, Toolshed and I were on stakeout at the Harrisons' home. Red Serge had taken on the mission with the Infra-Red goggles fixed in place, wanting to keep up with the opposite side of the attack. Which, I did have to admit, was probably a good call.

Despite the pleasant weather we were granted that evening, I couldn't help but feel that, in some way, the elements were stacking against us. The air seemed heavy, and not from humidity.

I started feeling kind of sick. If we were being tested, I was more than ready to learn what exactly the subject was. A test of our abilities? Seemed logical. But was Damien going for logical, or not?

And forget just Damien. Scott Tenorman was nowhere to be found. He had not reared his head yet. The answer seemed pretty obvious, though: find the location of the Carnival, find Scott.

Who was playing who, here, though? Did that Carnival actually exist or not?

"Good to go, Kite?" I heard Red Serge ask through the wire, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Huh? Yeah. I'm in position," I said. "You guys?"

The other three responded in the affirmative, and thus began the waiting game. Which just perpetuated my unease.

"What could they possibly want with any of the Harrisons, anyway?" I wondered.

"They're targets," Toolshed reminded me. "If they're going after everyone with a red-haired parent…"

"I know, but, even going after the nicest family in town…" I grumbled.

"Well, we are kinda dealing with a devil, here."

I felt a shiver run down my spine. "We sure are."

I thought about the letter Harmony had found, and wondered again what on Earth that 'price' could have been, and whether or not Red or I would be dealt more letters of our own, soon, too. Plus, I thought, what about Angel? Damien couldn't have been her biggest fan, that was for sure, and after what had happened to Mysterion…

No. No, Kite, thoughts on the present. We were here to keep shit from getting out of hand.

Red Serge had taken the South of the house, while Toolshed stayed West and TupperWear staked out at the East; I, as was my general routine, took the roof. But I had to give the idea a shot. I'd been able to get a weird, buzzing 'reading' from the many clones at Park County… maybe the guys we'd be up against tonight would come off as readable, as well.

To pass the time, I decided to keep my mind going. Constant practice was the best kind, after all. There was plenty of fodder up there on the roof: pinecones, a couple of shiny objects dropped by unmindful birds, a hammer probably forgotten after a day of shingle repair. I wasn't exactly out of sight, up there on the roof, but I stayed out of the moonlight as best I could as I exercised my mind with the simple task of lifting those few objects from the simple, peaked roof; I raised and lowered the objects, then brought up a couple of the pinecones to spin about a foot in front of my face.

I liked having that solid justification of circles, now; God, it was helpful. It was nice and simple… like an orbit. I'd felt that before, but somehow, that chart from Henrietta's book had been the last thing I'd needed to really kick myself into accepting that gravity rearrangement was as natural as true gravity itself. A shift in orbit…

Was it a shift we were needing to watch out for? Flicking my fingers back and forth, I got the pinecones to spin faster, and studied the movement. How many different pocket dimensions existed around Earth? How many did Damien know about? All of them? Probably. I didn't exactly want to think about how we could even go about finding places rumored only to exist in dreams.

I thrust my hand forward, shooting the pinecones off into the trees past the house. Shadows fell around me; the lights had gone out inside. Any minute now.

…And that was when I felt it.

My head started to ache and buzz as if being shocked by a direct current of electricity. I winced, but shook myself of it quickly, steadying myself on the roof. Once I was confident that I was secure, I closed my eyes, and focused on what I could feel around me. Each individual shingle of the roof—unimportant, but all alike in quality. Good to know. The weight of my own glider, and the familiar sense of objects much closer to the ground: Toolshed's sledgehammer, for one; TupperWear's vehicle, for another, both for their separate reasons.

But ten very distinct readings. They caused an awful ache in my head, bordering us on all sides, but they read as I could remember boulders had. I was reading heavy objects. Moving, but not sentient.

Shit.

I really could read them. Because they weren't alive. They weren't really anything. Right?

"Heads up," I managed to say to the others, keeping my tone low.

"What?" TupperWear wondered. "I don't see anything."

"Neither do I," I confessed. "But they're here." I held my breath, and opened my eyes. Still using caution, I inched toward the front of the roof.

"How many?" TupperWear asked.

"Ten," I answered, simultaneously with the youngest on the field. "Red Serge…?"

"They're showing up on the goggles," he explained. "It says there's eleven responses. Guess I'm the eleventh. Surprise."

"Be careful," I instructed him. I could pretty much guarantee that got him either eye-rolling or mentally judging me, but I didn't care. I'd always look out for my little brother, no matter how much he'd grow up and into his own varied responsibilities. "Let's try to drive these Infras back, guys. They're not here to drop a letter. This is a raid."

"Got it," said Toolshed. "I've got one approaching. Here we go."

Indeed, hardly a minute after I'd identified that the targets were approaching, they came into view. That was the best way for me to think of them, too: as targets. Same as the stands we had set up on the training field at the base. The only difference was that these could move, though they lacked free will. It was still disturbing, though, that they could hold conversation and appear like anyone else in the world with their own conscious thoughts.

I shook my head and focused. Three on Toolshed's end, three on TupperWear's, two for Red Serge. Two directly ahead. Dressed in their usual blacks, the Infra-Reds advanced, the ones in my direct line of sight appearing from behind the home across the street.

"Interesting," Red Serge commented.

"What?" I wondered.

"Goggles just flashed the word, 'Showtime.'"

I snorted. "Really?"

"So let's give 'em a show," said TupperWear. I glanced over the roof to where he'd been stationed, to find that he was already locked in a fight. I knew he and Toolshed both were capable of taking on at least three targets at a time; I wasn't worried.

I focused my attention on the two approaching from the front. Quickly but silently, I unraveled a length of my emulsified string and tied a lasso. After unraveling a few yards more, I swung the lasso a couple times in the air to gain momentum, then hurled the loop down to the ground, catching one man precisely around the neck.

My heart started pounding as I started obsessing over the moral implications of what I was about to do, but—no… no, they weren't real. I could read them. They weren't real.

What about the people they were copied from, though? Shit—if I did this, what would happen to them?

…Assuming they were still alive.

Fuck. No time to think. I yanked on the string, and the man's neck snapped. I swear I could feel it, up through the string, which I kept a firm grip on.

Until the body burst into flames.

Snapping the man's neck was akin to yanking the pin from a grenade. I could barely even see the attack itself happen, since the body ignited so fast. What appeared to be flesh exploded into ash and char; I could smell sulfur on the air, and realized that the flames were snaking quickly up the string I'd used to catch my target. If I dropped it now, the house might catch fire, so I quickly spun out one of my knives, clipped the string, and locked onto what little solid material there was left of it in order to toss it with a quick thought down to the ground.

From the sound of things, the others were holding up just fine, but all I could do was stare, completely disregarding the man still approaching the house. The other body had now completely disintigrated, leaving a pile of black dust.

What happened then was enough to make me forget how to breathe. Out of the pile rose a large pillar of black smoke, which twisted about as if groping for something to hold onto. I could nearly make out the semblance of eyes in the twisting smoke, as well, as it formed itself into a shape nearly like a man's, before it then contorted into a little, angular thing not unlike a disembodied shadow.

Oh fucking great.

"Well," I alerted the others once I found my voice again, "these things are definitely not people."

"The hell's going on?" I heard Mysterion ask over the wire, his tone frantic.

"Exactly," I said, still in shock. "I just—k-kinda killed one."

"What do you mean kinda?"

"What do you mean killed?" the Guardian Angel added.

"If you deal a fatal blow to these guys, they explode," I said, barely even believing what I was saying, despite having seen it only seconds ago with my own eyes. "Heads up, though: they're like… like vessels. The guy I got went up in flames and a shadowy thing flew outta the ashes."

"Son of a bitch," Mysterion growled. "Thanks for the heads-up."

"You okay?" I wondered.

"Technically no, but I'll deal. Get back to it, Kite, we'll catch up on this shit soon."

We ended the transmission, and without a second thought, I took the opportunity to glide to the ground, where the second 'man' immediately took a swing at me. I ducked under his right hook and punched him in the gut. He did not react. It still disturbed me that these—things, I guess—did not react to damage, but at least now I knew why.

He doubled back, and I spun out my butterfly knife again in hopes of getting one more of our opponents out of the way. He caught my wrist before I could make another move, though, and quickly spun me around so that my arm was pinned behind my back. Which, angled against my glider, was not the most comfortable position for me.

The man wrestled the knife from me, and I heard him snap it around. If I pulled in any direction, I realized, I'd be in danger of breaking my own arm, such was the grip the guy had on me. If Harmony were still actually a healer, as Butters had been four years ago in R'lyeh, I'd've done it and dealt with the rest of the fight one-handed, but I didn't exactly have the time right now for a real break to set.

I hardly had to think about that, though, since the next thing I knew, Red Serge was at my side, saying, "In about five seconds, run."

I was able to crane my neck just enough to see him draw his sword and jab it straight through the soulless man's gut. He let go without a sound, and the moment I was free, I spun and shielded Red Serge, keeping my back to the conflagration that burst up once the target reacted to having been stabbed.

"I said run!" Red Serge reprimanded me.

"Right now, say thanks," I panted. "You would've caught fire!"

"I would've moved," he mumbled, as I stepped back so that the two of us could observe the same shadow phenomenon the first man had exhibited upon burning to cinders. "But thanks."

"Same to you," I said, patting him on the shoulder. "You do well on the field."

That got a bit of a grin out of him, and his real tone came through with a more sincere, "I appreciate that, buddy."

"No prob. Now, you picking up anything on those goggles about that shadow thing?"

The angular, disembodied shadow that spat out of the second pile of ashes took to the air, only to fall a second later, and then seep away into the ground. Red Serge shook his head. "Just that the number went down to nine—eight."

I heard an explosion coming from Toolshed's section of the outer yard, and Red Serge and I took off in that direction. Luckily, it had been a projectile attack on Toolshed's part. "Toolshed!" I called out as we drew closer.

"These fuckers seriously explode!" he yelped in shock, his eyes wide behind his tinted safety goggles. He re-loaded the drill gun he'd been holding, the cause of the most recent 'death' of one of the Infra-Reds, and took a panicked look around. "Dude, weren't you guys covering front and back?"

"My guys split," said Red Serge. "I almost got one, but then—" An explosion from the other side of the house, and Red Serge lifted one hand in demonstration. "Seven." Explosion. "Six."

"Way to go, TupperWear," Toolshed grinned.

The two remaining Infras from the west side of he house were alert and on us, so we'd have to save the celebrating for later. Toolshed fired a couple of times at one, but he dodged the drill bits and darted toward Red Serge, making a grab for the goggles. Red Serge punched the man down, but the second managed to get closer. Thinking fast, I unraveled a length of string, rushed in behind the man, and managed to loop the string around him in order to yank him back away from Red Serge before the goggles could get back in the hands of the GSM.

The man Red Serge had gotten down was back up on his feet; it became instantly clear that reclaiming the goggles was turning into a more primary objective for these guys, as they were targeting him rather than advancing nearer to the house. I noticed the gun that the man drew at the same time Toolshed did. "I don't think so!" I shouted, yanking back on my current target again.

But he kicked back at me—the heel of his boot smacked into my shin, and I grit my teeth to keep from reacting too strongly to the sudden sting, I did let out a little too much slack on my hold, unfortunately, which got the man wrestling free and spinning to throw a punch. I grabbed his fist, and he got in a good jab to my ribs before I took out my second knife with my free—albeit non-dominant—hand in order to get in a slash across my opponent's face.

As I did, I noticed in my peripheral vision that Toolshed had switched out his drill gun for his sledgehammer, which he brought down onto the second man who'd drawn a pistol against Red Serge, thus knocking him unconscious. If these people were ever truly conscious at all.

The slash I'd made across my own target's face did a little surface damage, but I'd slit the hold on his goggles, causing them to slide off and give me a glimpse of his face. The Ginger man had the same exact pattern of freckles that those sitting in Park County did: under each eye, and on the forehead. That didn't concern me quite as much, though, as the fact that I hadn't drawn blood.

I found myself contemplating morals and logic again as the small cut I'd gotten in on the man's face began to spread, and a bit of that smoke-like shadow leaked out in place of blood. I took a couple of steps back, and my target, utterly un-concerned about the damage done to him, pulled a gun from a holster on his thigh and aimed for my head.

Thank God for quick reflexes. I felt that familiar buzz in my right temple as I thrust my right hand out to lift the gun from my opponent's hand and thrust it aside. He glanced in the direction I'd hurled it, just in time for Toolshed to swing his sledgehammer right into the man's face, hitting the cut I'd already carved in.

The blow from the sledgehammer caused the cut to open further, and more of the smoke began to billow out as the man dropped to the ground. This was worse to watch than the conflagrations: he began slowly burning up, from the cut to the rest of his head, down to his neck and shoulders, and lower from there. The worst of it was, I couldn't look away. A being who'd appeared so real a moment before had just been singed into charcoal, and released that strangely-animate charm, or what have you, that had been keeping the fake body moving.

"What the hell are those shadowy things?" Toolshed wondered aloud.

"I dunno," I said, "but we'd better get to TupperWear and just finish this up. I'm gonna get sick if I do nothing but think about this."

"No kidding. Red Serge, what's the call?" Toolshed asked.

Red Serge glanced down at the man who was still merely unconscious. He unclipped a set of handcuffs from his utility belt, and decided, "I'm gonna try to get this guy to talk once he comes to. You guys, go."

"You're good?" I checked again.

Red Serge nodded, and tightened the cuffs around the man's wrists. "Hurry up, there's still three more."

With no further hesitation, Toolshed and I ran, I round the front and he around back, to the other side of the house, where TupperWear was up against two of the remaining three. He hurled one of his discs at one, and the man dodged. "Kite," Toolshed said to get my attention, nodding at the disc as he rushed forward to help TupperWear dispose of the other opponent, the sole female on the mission.

"Got it," I said, having the same thought myself.

Before I could lose sight of TupperWear's weapon, I stopped its path mid-air, cautioned, "Incoming!" and hurled the sharp circular object back at its intended target. It cut into the man's shoulder, but prompted nothing enough to make the body disintigrate.

"What's even going on with these guys?" TupperWear wondered.

"Like I said, man, not human," I repeated.

"Are we even—like, it's not technically a kill if we get these guys, right?"

My stomach flipped. "Yeah, I'm trying not to think about that," I admitted.

"Here's hoping," said Toolshed, pulling out one of his drill guns and firing twice at the woman. At the same time, TupperWear cautioned me to duck, and as soon as I did, he hurled another disc at the recovered man. The three of us then held our breath as both targets went up in flames.

They were so easy to get rid of. Was that in Damien's plan, or was this all still part of his set-up for this being some kind of sick warm-up game? "Ugh," I groaned, my senses already bored of the constant smell of charcoal and smoke. "No, really, this is making me sick."

"Yeah, I'm kinda really not okay with this, either," said Toolshed.

"I get the whole cloning thing," TupperWear pointed out, "I mean, it gives them a bigger army, but if they go down so easy…?"

"The fuck kind of test is this?" I complained.

On one hand, though, we could pretty easily rule out the supposition that these men and women were figures of wax. Much more likely, they were made from the very terrain of Hell, and given false life by something within Damien's command. Which in turn got me wondering how readily available Damien's resources were.

…And how he'd traveled here in the first place. Given, there was a direct link, according to Henrietta's chart, between Earth and Hell, but where did the remaining Spaces Between factor in…? Mysterion had once been able to travel through them; seemed like something that could be up there in a devil's skill set.

Another explosion from where Red Serge was still stationed got my pulse rushing, and before I could even suggest that we make a move, the hero himself sprinted our way. As he caught his breath, he said, "He fucking did it himself."

"What?" TupperWear asked, concerned.

"The guy—I had a guy in cuffs, and I got to questioning him, but I swear to God, guys, he took himself out, rather than talk to me."

"What the actual fuck?" I complained.

"Was he the last one, though?" asked Toolshed. "I can't remember…"

"No, there's still—"

"Good evening." Well, that answered that.

The final member of the failed GSM raid stood before us, his arms defiantly folded as if to show us that he had no intention of fighting. Or no requirement to do so, at the very least. Intention was tough to gauge on these men and women, since I had to doubt that they had 'thoughts' necessarily: just orders, coming from the goggles they wore. Goggles, and simple fight-or-flight responses. That was all.

I refused to believe that I or my teammates had killed anyone that night. The thought alone was giving me an awful headache, and I didn't want to stick around much longer to see if it would get any worse. I could already tell I was going to be losing sleep over this, if not start to have some pretty fucked-up dreams myself.

"What was the point of any of this?" Toolshed demanded of the remaining man. "Were you here to collect, or were you proving some kind of point?"

"We take what we can gather," was the answer. But the man didn't focus on Toolshed when he spoke the words: he was looking at me. "It is our duty to appease Charon's apprentice, and his to appease the management."

At first, I could have sworn the man said Karen, but a quick thought back to a couple of English courses I'd taken recently allowed me to correct myself.

"The management," I repeated. "You mean Damien?"

The man took a surveying look over the four of us, and then at the house. He then touched the index and middle fingers of his right hand to the switch on the side of his goggles, and said, "Mission at checkpoint. Shall I proceed?"

A great breeze rose up around us, and I heard the familiar cutting of blades through air as the decal-emblazoned helicopter I recognized from the first attack appeared overhead. A rope ladder was rolled down from the door, and our final opponent stepped up to it to begin his climb. "Get back here!" I snapped, making a move to charge up after him.

Red Serge grabbed my shoulder and hissed into my ear, "There's more on board, Kite, that thing's army-grade."

"So we storm it!" I insisted.

"As much as I'd like to, we'd be at a bad disadvantage."

"I'm sick of this one step forward, two steps back shit," I said, "we need to get on board."

"Be my guest," the man in his uniform blacks called down to me from the ladder. "You've been given clearance, Human Kite. We are willing to waive your payment, though a price will of course be expected of your… less-able companions."

Fuck. That got me to stand down.

Feigning a disappointed shrug, the man finished his climb, and the helicopter rose a few hundred feet further into the air, then took off.

I really was sick of being forced to piece things together little by little. It was going to take more than just the disappearance of our opponents for the evening, too, to convince me that the raid on the Harrisons was complete. There was no way the GSM had chosen that as their target for the evening just because. No, Damien wanted something out of them—compliance of the siblings or whatever else he could possibly stand to gain—and we'd be at a loss until we figured out exactly what.

While Red Serge and I circled the house and the nearby grounds to see if we could pick up on any other Movement activity, TupperWear set up security cameras and checked in with Iron Maiden, so we could have a feed of the house from the base at all times. Toolshed, meanwhile, stepped in to make a courtesy call on the Harrisons, and brief them on what had happened.

The piles of ash left behind by the Infra-Reds we'd disposed of were in turn beginning to break down and become nothing. Nothing, and no one, else stirred in the streets, buildings or trees around the house that could be considered a threat; once Red Serge and I were in agreement on that fact, we doubled back just in time to catch the tail end of Toolshed's conversation with Gary Harrison:

"Gosh," the Mormon was saying, "I know strange things happen in this town, but this is just downright… well, I can't even think of a word for it!"

"We're going to have your house secured," Toolshed reassured him; at that point, I noticed that Amanda was standing just a hair behind her brother in the doorway, and Toolshed's placating was mostly for her benefit. "You know how to contact me in case anything comes up."

Gary nodded tersely. "I keep this town in my prayers as it is," he said, "but I'll say a few extra words from now on." Showing a little smile, he added, "You've already got one Angel on your side."

"That we do. But we'll take all the help we can get."

"But you're the Shadow League," Amanda added. The youngest of the Harrison siblings, and still a good friend to Karen, Amanda Harrison had just completed eighth grade, and had put a lot of faith in the League through the years, beginning with the Guardian Angel's first few missions in Salt Lake City, and perpetuating with the work that Mysterion and the rest of us were able to do. "You can stop these people. You've done it before, and you can do it again!"

The encouragement was nice to hear, even if my head was still overflowing with too much information as I tried to work around the odd logic behind whatever these 'people' who made up the current GSM were truly all about. We took our leave after exchanging a few additional words of support, but the further from the property we moved, the more I replayed the events of the evening in my mind.

I'd seen those Infra-Reds burst into cinders. I'd seen those seemingly sentient bursts of smoke and shadow. Mysterion was going to have a field day. And I was starting to itch with the want to see Damien myself, if only to throw a few punches and demand some answers. Maybe I wouldn't get any, but it'd sure feel great to try.

– – –

"Thought so!" Stan announced.

We'd showered and changed back at the base, then left the mission wrap-up in Red Serge and TupperWear's hands while Stan and I returned to his house in the interest of digging out a couple of texts from a class we'd taken together the previous semester. It had been a course on archetypes and epic poetry, so our texts had included the works of Homer, Virgil, and Dante, all three of whom had, Stan had recalled while we'd still been at the base, made reference to the mythic Charon.

I was seated at the foot of Stan's bed, a bottle of water balanced between my knees and an ice pack nearby to nurse the headache that inevitably followed the mission. I was massaging the side of my head and trying not to get my fingernails caught in the drying mess of curls that made up my far-too-thick hair, and glanced up when Stan held open the copy of the illustrated Dante text we'd been forced to buy for way too much money (rules of college at their finest) just earlier that year. Too bad that was the text we'd spent the least amount of time covering. Guess now was as good a time as any to make up for that.

"Charon," Stan said, tapping the illustration. It showed a withered old man in tattered clothes, leaning against an oar, and perched in a rickety-looking plank of a boat, the bow of which was adorned with a single lantern. According to ancient mythologies, Charon, also a common figure for both use and debate in the Renaissance, was said to be the man who ferried souls across a river known as Acheron into Limbo.

Now, maybe it was the fact that I had only kind of half paid attention in that class, but I was under the assumption that Limbo and Purgatory were more or less the same thing. Then again, I'd have to say that Kenny would be the one to give the real yes or no on that… and I had to admit that Stan would be a pretty reliable voice on the topic, as well.

"Does it say anything about an apprentice?" I wondered.

Stan glanced at the book again, then walked over to sit beside me so that both of us could have the same view of the book. "That's what the guy said, right?" I nodded. Stan leafed through the text, and said, "I dunno, dude, I don't see anything."

"Well, flipping through, of course not," I pointed out. "Go back to that one chapter, what's that one chapter?"

Stan obliged to my request, and went back to the illustration of Charon, and then to the start of the chapter—or, Canto, as it were—he appeared in. I noticed the words, "the Way into the City of Woe," and was about to read them aloud in order to make my own remarks on how we'd probably touched upon something pretty big—

Before I could, though, Stan's clock radio crackled on, and the faint, skipping sound of Radiohead's I Am Citizen Insane could be heard underneath the familiar voice:

"Welcome to a special broadcast of Red Radio."

"Shit," Stan muttered under his breath.

"He does realize he's making them sound like a bunch of Communists…?" I said, attempting to calm my nerves with a little sarcasm. Stan shushed me. I leaned against him to close a small distance, and we both stared at the radio, as if waiting for it, too, to shoot out a pillar of shadows in the way Kenny's letter had.

"As a winning prize to those of you who have chosen to tune in," the voice we knew was Damien's continued, "I have a very special announcement. Our Carnival's construction is nearing completion, but we cannot move forward without a little more help from a select few. That is why we shall be finalizing our recruitment effort on the sixth of June."

Stan grabbed my hand. "The gallery," we stated together.

"Moving forward from this date, expect to see some wonderful changes to this little town as the Carnival moves apace. Save your coins, citizens, for our doors will soon be open to anyone willing to pay our incredibly reasonable entrance fee. And if I need further convince you, our dear, dear listeners, the main attractions shall be, I promise you, a taste of what you can only dream of."

The radio cut out; a headache crept up on me and the lights flickered. Stan nudged my arm, and I took his hint and downed a few sips of water to stay controlled. Once I had, we glanced back down at the poem that began the Canto:

"I am the Way to a Forsaken People/ I am the Way into Eternal Sorrow…"

I thought again about Henrietta's chart. Lines connected one sphere to the next, and a river, according to this text, connected Limbo to Hell. Damn good thing we had the Goths' event coming up, and even better that they were (however unenthusiastically) willing to help us out.

True, earlier I had been afraid we'd been forced to take a few steps back, but now that we had another text to scour, I was beginning to feel more positive. A month still seemed like a short amount of time in which we could do our work, but the faster the Carnival moved, well, then, the better we needed to stay ahead. Especially now that it seemed clear that the actual souls of the people that were being cloned for the GSM army were probably in very real danger of being the next group on that ferry to Hell.

– – –

– – –

Authors' Notes:

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

Scratching the surface of Dante with this chapter; more to come next week~ Because next week: the gallery! This was another lengthy chapter, but we're now ready to move things forward and start making connections between our source texts. ^^

As a heads-up on posting, though, after next week, we might be switching to an every other week schedule, since we've both found ourselves in tight schedules lately… but the fun stuff is all going to start coming in next week so we shall see! The next few chapters are the ones I've been really looking forward to writing (and that we have a lot of already written). The guys have done their research… time to start getting into where it leads them. :3

Thank you so much for reading! We'll see you next Wednesday, August 8th! :3

~Jizena, and Rosie Denn~

– – –