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

Butters

Reconvening after such a tumultuous night was difficult, but necessary. Everyone seemed so scattered… only Karen McCormick really seemed to be in a stable state of mind. Token was usually a great peace-keeper—he'd been rendered indisposed, and the latest from Craig, by the time the rest of us were back at the base and gathering ourselves as best we could, was that Token was en route to a top-tier hospital in Denver. So. He was out.

Kenny had more than enough to sort through, Kyle looked pretty darn spent after fighting through the pain in his arms, Stan looked tired as hell, and Eric, well… Eric had just seen his mother get dragged off after being used as bait and humiliated. Eric wasn't talking. As for Clyde… Clyde wasn't doing so great, and I knew (having been the source of some of his League problems before) how hard he took direct hits. Indirect ones, too. Clyde was slipping in his morale. Gosh, everyone was.

Even Wendy. It hurt to see her trying so hard to hold herself together. She'd been so on and off about whether she wanted to try a relationship with Token again, and that night more or less proved, to me almost as clearly as it did to her, that she still felt very deeply for him.

But none of us had the time we needed to focus on ourselves, not that night. We'd been dealt a heavy blow, and had to simply recover and move on. Not to mention fill in the outlier in the equation that night. After a slight struggle between Kenny and Clyde over how best to lay out the full story, we brought Gary Harrison back to the League base.

And it was Karen who got us all to behave.

First on her agenda was primarily making us all shower and return to street clothes, which was probably for the best, especially considering her basic argument: "If you guys are serious about letting Gary in on who we are and why we're looking for his help, the least we can do is not be covered in dirt and blood. Honestly."

I had to agree. Cleaning up, for a few minutes, was a welcome start to the rest of the night. I didn't want my brain jumping through hoops or spinning or tilting at all while we all were sitting down to discuss what was sure to be a near-final plan of action.

It was kind of Kenny and Karen, despite having turned the League base into their home, to keep everyone's individual, if small, rooms in which we could keep changes of clothes, backup gear, and where we could take a bit of personal time to relax. I kept my area stocked with equal wardrobes for however I'd be feeling at any given time, and after towel-drying my hair into some kind of atrocious soppy blonde mess, I reached into the bottom drawer of my dorm-style cabinet for a pair of jeans. Finding no socks and knowing it was best not to step around the base barefoot (you never knew if you'd accidentally step on a shuriken or something), I shoved my feet into a pair of boots I'd nearly forgotten I had.

Letting my hair air dry into tangles I'd deal with later, I pulled on a shirt and a light grey sweater before making my way to the meeting room. Passing by the kitchen, I noticed the McCormick siblings talking something out between one another. Though I knew better than to eavesdrop, I did slow my pace out of sheer curiosity.

Kenny still looked stone-faced and beaten. "Even if we do get in there, they still have the fucking lamp," he was saying.

"You're going to find her, Kenny," Karen assured him, gripping her brother's wrists tightly. "Besides, Ike and Timmy have been going through Stan's maps. We know where the deposits are, where the iron and stuff came from, and all…"

I continued walking, knowing that if I listened in any longer, Kenny would notice, and potentially get angry. My hands clenched into fists as I walked further down the hall, and with every step, I ran through a semblance of a mantra in my head.

Harmony and Chaos are the same. This isn't a step back, it's a step forward. Harmony and Chaos are the same. They're the same. There is such a thing as controlled chaos, and that exists at the center of everything. The dead center of the vast Circles that nothing else in the universe can touch.

Nearly everyone in the League existed in some kind of Space Between. Our enemies knew that. The way to fight back was to find balance, embrace what we were.

We'd outsmarted what appeared to be Fate before. We could do it again.

As I entered the meeting room, I smiled a little to myself. The fact that I was thinking in terms of us, in terms of everyone, proved to me that I could re-embrace Chaos without any inner repercussions. What had that persona been to me when I was younger? Personal gain. Personal advancement. And that had gotten me nowhere.

There was a better use for my ability to understand what chaos truly is. And I darn well planned to, as a part of the League.

I wasn't alone in the room. Timmy was laying out documents at the end of the table nearest the door, and kept glancing up at the parcel Damien had thrown to us in the Home Depot parking lot. It sure did look like a bomb, all right, but I knew better. The remainder of the Carnival tickets were in that parcel, ready to be handed out around the table. Ike's ticket sat at the forefront of Timmy's papers, as well.

Kenny's ticket lay much farther off, at the head of the table, where now Clyde was seated, his hands digging up into his hair—also still wet from a shower—while Bebe had her arms draped around him from behind. She was whispering something to him, but Clyde looked almost worse than Kenny had. Lying to his right was his still blood-splattered mask… some of the droplets just would not come off, it seemed.

The whiteboard behind him had been wiped clean, and standing there now, a large portfolio tucked under one arm, was Henrietta Biggle, drawing from memory the diagram of Circles from the Dhol Chants. I watched her work for a moment; when she'd completed her sketchy diagram, she wrote off to the side:

She-Wolf: Greed.

Leopard: Lust.

Lion: Pride.

I shuddered, otherwise frozen where I stood, when she wrote out the word Lion, and glanced around for Eric. He was in his usual seat, spinning a quarter and trying to stop it with one thick index finger. His hands were shaking so violently, though, that every attempt failed.

"Hey, man, sorry to hear about what happened." It figured that Stan would be the one ready to break the room's silence. He was occupied with re-administering a wrapped bandage on Kyle's lower left arm; Kyle kept his exposed right arm on the table, lying on two ice packs. His skin looked pretty burned, still—splotchy, as if trying to clear itself up.

Eric shrugged off Stan's comment.

"Dude, if there's anything we can do," Stan offered calmly, silencing a probably less-friendly comment that Kyle seemed ready to deliver, "say something."

Eric looked up, then went back to his quarter.

Stan gave a weak shrug. "Just trying to help."

"Speaking of help," I heard Gary Harrison begin, tepidly, "what exactly am I doing here? I just… you know… want to know…" He was seated close to where Timmy was working, and was dressed as if ready for a real business meeting, rather than a routine talk about a mission plan—his collared white shirt, brown vest and pressed matching pants seemed highly out of place at the table.

I made my presence known at that point, giving the others nods or waves as I took my seat. Stan, Kyle and Timmy were the only ones to really acknowledge me back, but that was fine; everyone had plenty to work through. Gary tried to keep a smile, but he looked more confused than anything. His eyes warily followed Henrietta's hand as she scrawled out the numbers one through nine on the whiteboard, and flinched back when she was the one to turn and address his question.

"Ever hear of Damien Thorn?" Henrietta asked him.

"Um… no…" Gary admitted. "Should I have?"

Henrietta set the dry erase marker down beside Clyde, who made the effort to look more alert at that point, and took her time walking around the table to where Gary sat. She then plunked down the portfolio and flipped it open to a page I could not see from where I sat. I knew what the book was, though: it was filled with prints of Wilcox's artwork.

"He's a painter?" Gary guessed.

The Goth sighed. "No," she corrected, "but he commissioned these. Flip through."

"Um… do I have to? This is disturbing," the devout Mormon admitted. He let all of his breath out, gathered himself, then glanced around the table once before giving Henrietta his full attention. "Plus, I—I'm still trying to figure all of this out. How are all of you guys involved? What are you even involved in? And aren't you one of those Goths I always saw smoking during school?"

"Oh, no, you caught me," Henrietta intoned dully.

Before she, or anyone else, could elaborate further on Gary's real questions, Kenny made his entrance, followed a brief instant later by his sister, who in turn was accompanying Wendy. As soon as the door closed again, Bebe picked her head up, gave her fiancé a kiss on the cheek, and made her way quickly to Karen and Wendy. The second the two were close enough, Wendy fell into the hug Bebe offered; given the angle, I could see Wendy's expression perfectly. Her eyes were wide and painfully dry, and she quiveringly glared at the whiteboard.

I knew exactly where she was focused: Leopard: Lust.

Poor girl. I wondered how Token was faring. All that I knew, without doubting myself, was that his accident had occurred during the heat of battle. He was such a strong fighter, he must have been doing everything he could that night, pushed to the edge of his limits and beyond. We'd all given it everything that night, even if some misfortunes occurred at both pits. I'd done what I could to help defeat the Lion—with only three of us against both it and Disarray, I'd had to come up with something. Right?

Except I'd stepped all over Eric's pride in doing so.

As Karen walked the other two girls back to the table, Kenny claimed his place at the head, near Clyde (who himself seemed currently immobile), and announced, "All right, guys, let's make this a quick one. Main goal for the night is to figure out these tickets, see if we can determine an entrance, and plan when we're gonna head in to stop these bastards."

"I vote sooner than later," Kyle spoke up.

"Oh, no, so do I," Kenny assured him (and all of us), "but let's get the formalities out of the way. Also, uh…" Kenny ticked his head up in Gary's direction, and I looked over at him and Henrietta again. What a contrast those two were, she in her black lace standing over the most pristinely put together person in the room. The juxtaposition of those two made me smile a bit, though, thinking of the balanced opposites I myself had embodied. Every minute that went by made me prouder of my decision to continue the mission as Chaos. Oh, I still had plenty of work to do; it was the right choice.

"Um, hi…" Gary attempted.

"Hi," Kenny returned, sounding a bit rushed and strained, "uh—welcome, I guess." He sighed. "Gary, sorry you had to find out about all this under such constrictive circumstances. It's really rare that we let people know who we are and what we do."

My mind instantly turned to Token's parents being among the first to have known. But, of course, from the very start, Liane Cartman was the one to keep everyone's secrets. The original Coon and Friends lair had been in her basement, after all. I glanced at Eric. He was making damn sure he did not look at anyone.

"Maybe that's what I'm missing," Gary confessed, doing his best to sit up straight while Henrietta remained looming like a storm cloud over him. "Why do I need to be filled in, in the first place?" He glanced around at every one of us, lighting on two in particular. "Stan?" was the first, and almost more unsteadily, "…Karen…?"

After getting the go-ahead from Kenny, Stan took the question, standing as he spoke. "Those of us who came into Home Depot today were ready to sacrifice our identities in order to ask you a couple things that might help us," he explained. Gary listened tersely, giving no nods, no shakes of his head, no indication of leaving. "We had no idea someone on your staff was part of our current opposition."

"Which… is Hell," Gary recalled, his voice shaking.

Sighing, Stan nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, dude, it's Hell."

"Real, honest to gosh Hell?"

"Oh, my God," I heard Eric mumble. He folded his arms on the table and buried his head in one elbow. I had no way of knowing whether it was Gary's innocent comment that ticked him off, or if he was just having a hard time sitting still after watching what Disarray had been doing with Liane. Probably both.

"Yeah," Stan confirmed, keeping his tone kind and level. His hands told a different story. Both were clenched into strong fists on the table, clenching in all of his nerves and frustration. I looked from Stan to Gary to Kenny, wishing I had something to contribute. The fact was… I didn't; not yet. Nothing I could say would contribute to the conversation that needed to happen—I'd be a distraction, at best. So I stayed quiet, and listened. "Gary, we didn't know who the Leopard was or that he'd managed to walk around without us noticing. Or, as Kenny said, that it was someone on your staff."

"The store got destroyed tonight," Gary said, stunned as he made his statement. "Why did they go there?"

"Probably for you," said Kenny, his tone attempting sympathy. Gary turned pale, but said nothing. "Damien and his group are at least predictable in that they're going after people with close relationships to us in the League, particularly those with the Ginger gene in the family. As you can see, that covers a lot of ground. Parents count, latent genes count. You're probably of even more interest to them than some of our other liaisons, because you're… well, beyond being helpful, and beyond your family's genetics, Gary, you're devout."

"Devout," Gary echoed. "Hell is coming after me because I'm devout?" He shook his head. "Look, if I'm committing some kind of sin for helping you—"

"Gary, you haven't done anything wrong," Stan assured him. "I promise, you haven't. Damien is just… he's someone who seems very focused on the more arcane Hell. Is that right?" he checked with Kenny and Henrietta.

"Oh, yeah," the Goth answered.

"I guess what we're asking," Stan continued, calmly, "is if you'd be willing to help us out just a little more this time. We thought by coming clean to you about who we are, if you learned a little more about our League and our current mission, we might be able to ask you for a favor. Something not in the manner of traditional weaponry and such."

"Pray for you, you mean?" Gary wondered. One corner of his mouth ticked up as if he wanted to laugh. Either that, or he was genuinely pleased. Kenny seemed to think the former.

"I was being serious when I said that, Gary," Kenny declared. "I'm hoping that we can ask you this as a favor, and not make myself want to beg. You have been such a big help to our missions in the past, and we know we can count on you.

"I met Damien, face to face, a few nights ago," he continued, "at the Tenth Circle coffee shop."

"Which another one of his fucking beasts destroyed," Henrietta commented. She reached for a cigarette, but glares from Karen, Kenny and Clyde reminded her to put her silver case away.

"Right," Kenny agreed, "but before all of that, it was just me and Damien talking. Now… look, you remember the Cthulhu and Nyarlathotep crisis—"

I swallowed a bunch of spit I hadn't realized was collecting in my mouth. It wasn't a nervous gulp (it was pretty much just me forgetting to take normal breaths due to contributing so little to the conversation… the same thing happens to me during long movies sometimes, I know it's gross), but Kenny seemed to take it as such. I knew that the word 'Nyarlathotep' had been added just for me, as a test.

So I took the opportunity to stand and say a thing or two. I patted down my frizzy hair, took a real breath, and began, "There are written accounts for just about everything. All the big cults and stuff, anyway. It's all words that move people into action, words that people hear, and say, and write down for the next person to interpret. The thing that happened with Cthulhu and, well, excuse me, Nyarlathotep was because of a book."

"The Necronomicon," Gary said. "I know." He paused, then asked, "Butters?"

"Heh, yeah, hi." I got out a grin and a shrug.

"You're in the League?"

"I'm, well—"

"Yes," Kenny answered, without looking at me.

Well, that was kinda nice. It felt at least a little like he'd validated Chaos's new presence among the rest. Possibly because they needed the numbers, now that Token was indisposed and Craig still wasn't back, or possibly to keep me on probation. I didn't know, but I'd accept whatever I could take.

I was in this for the good of the group. I'd gotten over myself. Chaos can benefit everyone.

"So who are you?"

Eric picked his head up to rest his chin in one hand, and to glower at me. "I don't know, Butters, that's a good question," he said flatly.

I shot him a glare of my own and answered, "I'm Professor Chaos."

"HOLD ON, WHAT?" Clyde spat out, smacking a hand on the table.

The motion and reverberation caused his mask to move just a little… just to the edge of the table. Clyde yelped and dove to catch it, colliding with the floor as he did. My heart jumped at the motion. Gary backed up into his chair, then leaned with curiosity around the table to glance and try to see where Clyde had gone.

When Clyde stood back up, he heaved a sigh of relief, having caught the mask before it could hit the ground. He lifted his gaze only to look once at Bebe as he delicately set the mask back down on the table, then stared down at it as he said, "Sorry. I'm on edge."

"I think most of us are," Karen pointed out. She stepped up beside Clyde, and set a hand on his arm. "Here," she continued, "you sit down. Stan, Butters, Henrietta, can you guys all sit down, too?"

I took the suggestion immediately, again attempting to pat my hair down once I was re-seated. Stan and Henrietta followed suit, the latter with a bit of a disgruntled huff. Gary seemed to be glad that the Goth had backed away from him, but he was still glancing nervously around the table, piecing everything together.

"Look, guys, we can discuss names and things later," Kenny said, his eyes fixed on me without emotion. He passed his attention back to Gary, continuing, "The point is, I mentioned the Book of Mormon. Just, kind of in reference, while Damien was going on and on about Dante and what's known in Hell as the Book of the Inferno. He lashed out at me when I mentioned your sacred text, Gary. Any idea why?"

"Can I reiterate," I added softly, "that there's power in words, but also in how they're written…"

Kyle lifted one hand slightly off the table as he passed me a slight, knowing smile. "There's been mention of Jewish texts, too, Gary," he put in.

"That's right," Stan said under his breath, "the Leviathan. Or… something?"

Kyle nodded. "However it was that the Book of the Inferno came to be written, Damien's definitely putting stock in the stories from my people, too." He paused, probably waiting for Eric to cut in with some jab at Kyle's Jewish heritage, alongside his prominent Ginger genetics, but Eric stared at his quarter. I saw his lips move as he made an un-voiced comment to himself, but that was all.

The room remained silent, which allowed everyone, Gary especially, time enough to think. As concerned as I was for the welfare of my friends, as concerned as I was that I might be shunned for choosing to re-adopt the name of Chaos for the purposes of our current mission, I tried to focus on the texts we were dealing with.

Every religion was right in some way, wasn't it? I'd always had a bit of a hard time deciding what to believe, as far as deities went, but I hadn't cared so much in my post-high school years about people and beasts and gods and demons as I had doctrines. I figured rules to live by were enough to make anyone's beliefs real enough.

Hell was certainly real, though, and while for some time I had considered that it was every physical Hell all at once, Damien seemed to be building off of one specific model. Meaning that there must be one specific way to bring it down. True Hell, however, existed in the same place as moral doctrines: in the mind. In dreams. In human nature.

Damien did have the means to create Hell on Earth. He had proven his ability to create false life out of iron sulfide; if he could make people, he could very well make creatures, too. There was no telling what kind of army he could build from the residue of the mines in the Rockies… but I held firm that there had to be some way to breach the boundaries of this strange Carnival of events he was laying out before us. And I knew that a world attainable through the power of words could be destroyed by words as well.

"Plates," said Gary, breaking the silence.

"Right," Karen whispered.

"Sorry, what was that?" Ike asked, poised at the ready to take notes on his tablet.

"Golden plates." Gary was looking at his hands, still seeming out of his element; an air of dignity and his usual good-naturedness surrounded him. I knew the feeling. Gary was a person who simply liked helping others. Especially if that meant saving them. "The Book of Mormon was originally text that the human eye can't read without the power of a certain stone, written on golden plates. Joseph Smith decoded the writing on the plates in order to write out God's word and share it with the people. The Mormons settled in a new promised land thanks to the teachings in our Book, but…"

"But?" Kenny prompted.

Gary shivered. "I… suppose, if we were able to make a new promised land here on Earth… a-and, I mean, those plates were hidden for a very, very long time, I—" He shook his head as if to disagree with himself, but one look at Karen and he continued, "I suppose there could have been other plates. The… the Devil is always trying to one-up Heavenly Father, that much I know. There have been wars against Heaven before, I believe that much. But the worst that the Devil can do is not attack Heavenly Father directly, but His people. Temptation is everywhere, and to give into it is a sin."

"Oh, and Dante's Inferno is full of it," said Henrietta. "Layers and layers of souls who were corrupted by one vice or another."

"Gary," Karen began, choosing her words carefully, "if a sacred text can be created from words on holy plates… you're saying there could have been a counterpart?"

"I don't know," Gary said, trembling. "I—I'm only speculating, and I don't want to believe it, but what I saw tonight proves that Hell is something very real to be afraid of, and if you think that the way something is written is so integral to the way it affects people…"

"The Inferno is the opposite of Paradise," Kenny finished. "I think Damien might be wary of the Book of Mormon because it goes even further than the rest of the Bible, or past the Torah."

"My people's Book is supposed to renew hope in a world where religion is dying," said Gary.

"And that's exactly what the devil's son wouldn't want," Clyde nodded.

"So, Gary," Karen asked, "would you mind helping us out a little? This isn't just for us, either, it's for the people Damien has been holding hostage at this Carnival, people he's been making Golem clones out of, people who might wind up in Hell just because he wants them to. We don't know what it is they're going through since we can't access the Carnival yet, but one of the things we need to do is free those people." Taking the hint, Kenny wrote that out as a bullet point on the whiteboard.

Eric spun his quarter and managed to stop it this time.

Gary, eyes fixed on Kenny's latest bullet point, nodded stiffly.

"Most of us in this room are going into that Carnival, but there's no knowing what we're going to be up against once we're there," Karen continued. "Would you mind being someone they can go to? You'll be guarded, of course… we can figure all of that out. You said the Book is meant to restore hope. I think that's what these people need."

"Sure," Gary agreed, drumming his fingers against the table. "I can do that." He looked over at me, then, and smiled lightly as he added, "I liked what you said, Butters, about the power of words. I really believe that, too."

"And belief in something better than what Damien and Tenorman have been setting up is what we really need right now," Kenny added.

"Glad I could help," I said.

Clyde tensed and flashed a look at his mask.

And then, just as we were about to get more planning underway, Wendy let out a yelp. I gasped and turned toward her, to find that she was shocked pale, trembling, and staring down at her lap. "Wendy?" I asked.

"Wendy!" Bebe exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

Wendy bit her lip and stood quickly, scraping back her chair. She brought up her phone, the glow of which underlit her chin to cast a sideways shadow, and in a panicked tone, she got out, "I'm sorry," then turned and sped out of the room.

I called after her, but the first on his feet was Stan. "Shit," he said, "it's about Token, I know it is."

"Someone's gotta talk to her," I insisted.

"Someone has to bring her back," Kenny corrected. "We all hit a blow tonight, but we all need to focus. Every bit of help is encouraged. Stan, can you go talk to her?"

"Yeah, of course," he said. "We'll be right back."

"Well, but—" I started to interrupt. But Stan was already on his way out the door. I wanted to talk to Wendy, I wanted to console her; she was my closest friend. But I couldn't exactly argue Kenny's point:

"Stan saw everything that happened with the Leopard, Butters. We need you to fill us in on the Lion."

"Among other things," Clyde added.

Oh. Right.

"Dude, Clyde, we've got way fucking bigger things to worry about than Chaos right now," Kenny said, coming to my aid before I even needed to insist anything myself. It was welcome, of course, but a bit of a surprise. "Right?" Kenny asked me.

"Right," I said, "right, absolutely."

"You're in the League."

"Y-yes."

"And you're choosing to re-adopt Chaos as your identity within it."

"I—well, I kind of have to," I reasoned.

Eric spun his quarter and slammed his hand down on it. "You don't have to," he spat, "but you're doin' it anyway. You didn't even have to be Harmony in the first place. How do we know we can fuckin' trust you if you keep changing your mind?"

"I'm not changing my mind, Eric," I fought, "I'm taking the best course of action in order to do my best work on this mission! Nothing is changing, I'm just using the right methods right now."

"Right, the right methods like when—"

"Stop," Karen commanded without lashing out. "No arguments. Cartman, if you take offense to this, or Clyde, if you do, can you at least make it not a problem for the sake of this meeting? Butters has proved himself an asset to this League, and I for one think that, from what I've heard, Chaos's talents are pretty well-suited for what we're up against. Now, can we please be kind to our guest tonight, fill him in, and move on?"

I thanked Karen for standing up for me, and knew that I'd be thanking her again. And her words were effective, as many words are. The others came to the consensus that the name Chaos did not necessarily mean that I'd fall off the deep end again, which was much appreciated. I'd never been happier to have gained the respect of everyone in the Shadow League. Becoming Chaos again was my decision to face our threats in the way they needed to be faced: head-on, no-holds-barred.

I still had plenty of ways by which I could fix things, and I had my score to settle with Disarray. But my thoughts, as the meeting continued to let Gary in on more of the mission specifics, turned straight to Wendy. I don't pray too awful much, but the constant talk of it that night made me whisper a couple little hopes for her into my hands while the others continued speaking.

– – –

Stan

It was a good thing I'd chosen to chase Wendy out of the meeting room—she was reaching for the front door when I caught up. "Wendy!" I called after her. "Wendy, hold up, stop."

"I have to go," she blurted out. "I have to—I have to go, I—"

"Nope, no, come on, he's in Denver right now," I reminded her. "We're all worried, Wendy, but each and every one of us has a job right here."

Wendy shook her head, but retracted from reaching for the doorknob. I was a step behind her when she turned. I saw hell in her eyes.

She grabbed onto my shoulders and dug her fingers in, and, trying to control her breathing, managed to ask, "Is he all right? Stan, is he all right? Is he gonna be all right?"

"Well, he—"

I couldn't finish even thinking out what I was going to tell her, since Wendy lost it at precisely that instant, and began sobbing. "Oh, shit," she coughed out. "Oh, shit, oh… shit, I'm sorry, Stan, oh… just…. I…"

"Ssh," I coaxed her, patting her back. "Come on, girl, deep breath. Let's go sit, okay?"

Wendy nodded, but skipped over my instruction of deep breathing. I helped her take her uneven steps into the front room, where I then sat her on the sofa toward the right arm. I asked her to hold her position just long enough to rush to the bathroom and grab a box of tissues; when I returned to the room, Wendy was clutching one of the sofa pillows to her chest and trying not to cry.

"Here," I said, offering up the tissues. Wendy nodded to thank me, and pulled out three to cover and wipe her face.

"I'm sorry," she said unsteadily. "I'm such a fucking mess, I didn't think I'd be this much of a fucking mess…"

"It's okay," I assured her, "it'll be okay."

"Ugh, I don't get it," Wendy choked out, frowning at herself. "I just—I hurt. So fucking bad. I want—I just want—I don't even know what I'm saying, Stan, I'm sorry."

I let out a light sigh, and started rubbing her back. She caught the hint, and let herself cry. Tucking her legs up onto the sofa cushion, she pressed her face into the gathered wad of tissues she was holding, and muffled something out into it. Before I could ask for clarification, she drew back slightly to repeat, "I've gotta stop doing this."

"What?" I wondered.

"Falling in love and then fucking up."

I stopped rubbing her back, and inched away a bit so I could turn Wendy to face me. This was not her usual attitude… but, then again, I had absolutely zero knowledge of Wendy and Token's breakup. It had seemed like they were together one minute, apart the next. Neither had been awkward about it, at least not toward me. Wendy had gone to her group of girl friends for whatever therapy she'd needed, and Token had not really talked about it either way.

Of course, Wendy's statement had brought to mind the years that she and I had dated on and off, which played a huge role in the friendship I had with her now. While I knew precious little of her California college experience, we were still friends who, on vacations, could pick up a conversation almost anywhere, at any time.

It just hadn't been about this. And for Wendy to seem so pushed over the edge that night, I had a feeling I knew where her train of thought was leading her.

"You're not a fuck-up," I told her, firmly. "Wendy." She had yet to make real eye contact with me. "Wendy," I stressed.

She shook her head.

"I fucked up, Stan, it was my fault, not his," Wendy explained through attempted control of her tears. "I got—I don't know, distracted?"

"Wendy, it happens."

"Not to you and Kyle! Not to Bebe and Clyde! Not to Kenny and—"

"Oh, stop it," I encouraged her. "This isn't getting you anywhere. Let's slow down, okay? Look me in the eyes, Wendy, and tell me that we can have a conversation. There's a lot going on right now. We're all stressed, we're all worried, and you know what else? We're all friends. So look at me; talk to me. I want to help."

I hated seeing Wendy look as though she wanted to give up. She was too strong for that. Wendy was an asset to the League, and a wonderful person to call a friend, thinking so much about the needs of others, and the steps she could take to make one portion of the world a little brighter.

Everyone I associated with in the League possessed a kind of admirable resilience, which was one quality that I knew would keep Token going even after the accident that night. But I was bothered by the fact that even I had started questioning how well our individual strengths were still holding up as part of a whole. If Token did suffer worse from the attack than I was thinking, if Wendy really did break down out of nerves, if Cartman had really become completely shut out of reality now that his mother had been taken hostage… fuck, if Kenny became lost in nightmares—if any of that happened, the rest of us would be lost. This wasn't a time to go it alone; this mission would only work as a group effort, with all the help we could get.

Wendy finally looked at me, dabbed her eyes with her tissue again, and said a broken, "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," I requested gently, treading my tone lightly so that I wouldn't risk her getting upset again. "I know how much you must hurt, and I know that feeling like this can really take someone out of reality for a little while. I don't want to see you give up, girl, so I'm going to make a request, okay?"

"Sure."

"Is there anything," I wondered, squeezing her shoulders, "anything, Wendy, that you can tell me about you and Token? About what happened?"

"Stan, I…"

"Please. You're upset, I know. Sometimes it's good to talk it out. Have you talked to anyone?" I wondered. "Bebe? Marjorine?"

"Well—" Wendy took in and let out a deep breath, grabbed another tissue, and admitted, "I talked to one person. Because she was the first one I saw when I got home after I fucked up, and I spilled a little, but not all of it."

"I'm glad you talked to someone," I told her. "Who?"

Wendy choked. "Red."

I sank back, while Wendy added another tissue to her collecting wad and rubbed it at the corners of her eyes. Her dark eyeshadow smudged a little when she rubbed, giving her an even more drained, tired appearance. Not wanting to say nothing, but knowing we were treading delicate ground, I simply got out, "Oh."

Wendy nodded.

"Anyway," she said, to avoid the subject of Red and her recent, alarming disappearance, "some of my friends out at school know. Basics, but… yeah. There wasn't all that much to tell. I fucked up."

"Stop saying that," I urged. "Wendy, it's not doing you any good to just keep repeating to yourself that you fucked up."

"But I did fuck up," she insisted. "I destroyed the best thing that's ever happened to me for something that looked like… oh, shit, Stan, I don't even know. I cheated."

"Okay," I said. "It happens."

"Twice," Wendy added. "And to make it worse, I lied." She looked up at me with glassed-over eyes, and said, "I'm not a very good liar, Stan. I wasn't even a good cheater."

"Why did you? If I can ask that."

"Remember what Gary just said in there, about temptation? That's all it was. I took a gamble, and I shouldn't have."

"Wendy…"

She coughed out a slight sob. "Sometimes life deals you a perfect hand. Keep it, and you win. I played my cards all wrong, and then I was out of the game completely. And I lost."

"Doesn't mean you can't get back what you had," I suggested. "You need to talk to him, if you want him back."

"After what I did?" Wendy sniffed. "I don't deserve him."

I sighed, and began rubbing her back again. Wendy's breathing began to even out a bit; I knew she couldn't have believed, really, that she'd done so much wrong. She was shocked, shaken—she needed time to decompress. "Of course you do," I said, keeping a friendly tone.

"I don't know, Stan…"

"You do," I repeated. "Of course you do, don't try to convince yourself you don't. Look, I wonder all the time if I deserve Kyle, and I know for a fact…" I felt myself get quieter due to the nature of the subject— "I know Kenny says that a lot about Red…"

Wendy hung her head. "Oh, God," she breathed out. "God, I hope we find her. I'm so worried. I'm worried for her, I'm worried for Kenny, I'm just… I don't know, I'm too worried about everyone and everything."

"And that's just you, girl," I said, patting her back. "Even when you're not on duty, you're a total hero, Wendy, but I do think you're doing a lot, and thinking a lot. I do think you need to talk to Token, rather than just be sick with wondering what his angle is."

"You think?"

"Absolutely. Talk to him. You'll feel better, I promise."

Finally, Wendy made the effort to smile. "Thanks, Stan," she sighed. "You're right, I do get worked up."

She wasn't the only one, though.

"Stan?"

"What's up?"

"You seriously wonder if you deserve Kyle?" Wendy asked, laughing a little.

"I think everyone thinks that about the person they're with, at least once," I shrugged.

"Yeah, but you guys are in it for the long haul," Wendy supposed, glancing up at me before focusing on the tissue in her hands, "aren't you?"

"Hmm?" I wondered.

"You and Kyle."

My heart skipped a little.

Nobody had actually brought 'that' up in conversation with me; I was usually the one attempting to drop hints, just to see if we could lay out the facts and probabilities. I was assuming, yeah, that Kyle and I would stay together after college. We'd moved in together at school, but hadn't really talked about that next step. I suppose I was just banking on us keeping our life together going. Call me lustful or idealistic, but I wanted the whole stupid package: a place to ourselves, a life routine we could settle into. Yeah, I wanted to be 'in it for the long haul.' I hadn't really thought about any alternative.

While, "I hope so," was all I answered Wendy, the question did kind of eat at my mind. I knew that Kyle would probably be a little too worked up now to discuss any of it, but I had to remind myself to at least be more direct or more obvious soon.

Wendy dabbed the corners of her eyes with her tissue again, then sniffed and disposed of the pillowsoft paper into the trash can near the minifridge. "Red wants to marry Kenny," she said. "Did you know that?"

My breath stalled. "No," I said, "I had no clue. I don't talk to her as much as Kenny. And he, like… I have no idea."

"Well, she does, and I really hope she tells him. When he finds her. Which he will."

"Of course he will." I repeated that in my head a few times. If anyone deserved anyone right now, those two had to find each other; that much I knew.

Wendy gathered up her phone again, and rested her head on my shoulder. "I think I'm thinking about that a lot, too," she sighed. "Bebe and Clyde are engaged, Red wants to be, sorry to assume about you guys, but I'm guessing you're… I don't know, sorry, I shouldn't assume. Just—then there's me, messing shit up when I want something solid."

"Step one is to just have a talk with him," I reminded her. "That won't hurt anything at all, I promise."

"Mmhmm."

"What'd your text say?" I wondered. "It's from Craig, right?"

"It… it's from Token," Wendy told me. She slid on her phone's screen and called up her latest message.

Token's little blue iPhone message bubble read, Hey. Using my dad's phone. No pressure or anything but if you want, here's the number in my room. Sorry about the setback. Surgery tomorrow.

"Call him," I urged.

"Yeah… yeah, I want to."

I grinned. "You ready to talk to him?" I urged her, nudging her head up.

"I'm not sure, to be honest," Wendy answered, sitting back, "but right now, I really want to take my chances."

"So go for it," I said, keeping positive. "Want me to stick around?"

"Sure, if—"

She got no further before we were both jostled to our feet by a knock on the door. Wendy clenched her phone and nodded to me; she'd put her own call on hold in case she needed to contact someone else right away, depending on who we'd find on the other side of the door. After all, Disarray had somehow made his way in to deliver letters to Kenny and Karen. We could make no assumptions that a knock meant an ally.

I stepped carefully toward the door, and Wendy positioned herself between me and the kitchenette, where Kenny kept plenty of makeshift weapons close enough to the hallway in case of intrusion. No precautions were necessary, though, when I opened the door to find Craig standing on the other side.

"Dude," I said, hurrying him in, "what's going on?"

Craig closed and locked the door behind him, and said in a single breath, "Token got air-lifted to Denver, so I came back here. He's getting some crazy fucked-up surgery for a super fucked-up… thing, with his leg, it was really, really—you didn't want to see it, I didn't want to see it, he's gonna be fine, but it's still fucked up."

"Yeah," I got in.

"Is he okay?" Wendy asked, rushing up to Craig. "Is… I mean, he texted me, so… also, are you okay? How fucked up is fucked up?"

I'd been hearing that phrase a little too much that evening, but it was more or less the only way to sum up all sentiments at once.

Craig twisted his mouth to one side, then groaned and rubbed his hands back through his hair, underneath the latest incarnation of the same blue chullo hat his sister constantly gifted him. Sweat caked his short bangs onto the tip of his forehead, and the redness of his skin at his hairline suggested he'd been making multiple grabs at that spot out of stress all evening. "I really only wanna talk about it once," he said. "Is everyone else still here? Or at least, like, Kenny?"

"Yeah, man… yeah," I said. "Dude, take a breather if you have to, grab some water or something."

Craig nodded, gave Wendy an apologetic look, then walked past us into the small kitchen, where I heard him open the fridge for a bottle of water. Wendy trembled when I placed a hand on her shoulder for comfort, and she looked again at the text message from Token.

"If he's really hurt, he might want to rest," she said in a whisper. "I'll call him. I want to. I will. Just… after I hear a little more. But I really want to talk to him. I'll regret it if I don't."

"You going to be okay?" I checked.

Wendy, face once again illuminated by her phone, only nodded.

When we returned to the meeting room, Craig in tow, the first thing that I noticed was a look of unease in Kyle's expression. He was picking at a spot on the table in front of him, and looking in the basic direction of the whiteboard, but I could tell he was staring off into space, over-thinking something. I patted Wendy on the back and returned to my spot at the table, and while Kenny said an almost too-official, "Hello," to Craig, I slid into my chair and set my right hand over Kyle's left.

"Hey," I whispered, getting him out of his slight trance, "everything okay?"

Kyle hummed out a soft sigh. "Later," he assured me. "Can I stay with you tonight? Do you work tomorrow?"

Fuck if I could remember even what day it was at that point, but whether any of us were scheduled to work the next few days or not, I had a feeling we'd all be requesting some time off. "Yeah, of course," I said. "But, really, are you gonna be all right?"

Kyle squeezed my hand, but wasn't even able to give a response, since the room was hushed silent to hear Craig's news.

Wendy was staring at Craig with a desperate, expectant look, and the only thing I could hear in the room after Kenny's question of, "So what's the latest?" was the tapping of someone's heel on the floor. Given his jittery position, it was no shock to find out that the source of the sound was Gary.

"News is," said Craig, straightforward but shaken, "Token's going into surgery tomorrow. His knee got really fucked up, guys, like, parts of the bones ripped and shattered."

Kyle, who despite everything he'd seen in his life still had the weakest stomach of almost anyone I knew, buckled, and I knew that the only reason he wasn't verbally objecting to Craig's descriptions was out of fear for getting sick. I let him squeeze my hand till it was numb as an alternative, and I asked Craig in hopes of skirting around the gory details, "Are they—they're not, you know, taking his leg…?"

"Fuck," I heard Kenny mutter. Clyde stared at his bloodied mask, and did not even respond to Bebe when she leaned in to say something into his ear. They had to stop blaming themselves, Kenny and Clyde both, but there was little I could say at the moment to help them see reason in the fact that some outcomes are unavoidable.

"No," Craig assured us. Wendy looked as though she'd just learned how to breathe. "Not the whole leg. Last thing I talked to his dad about before I left was a couple specifics, like, he's getting a knee replacement, I know that much, and they've got him down for this new tech thing, some kind of hybrid computerized symbiote alloy, whatever that means."

"A computerized symbiote?" Ike repeated, black eyes bright at the mention of the new technology. "Holy shit, if that works out the way I've heard they've been testing it, he's not gonna need too much physical therapy before he's back on his feet. How the hell'd he get that? That's, like… fucking soldiers are wait-listed for that."

"Yeah, well, that's kinda what Token is," Kenny reminded him.

"Plus, his parents know the whole board at that hospital," Craig added.

"So, it's good news?" Butters voiced.

"It better be," Craig answered, at the same time Ike chimed in, "It's gotta be."

From her corner seat, Wendy breathed out a whispered, "Thank God."

I'm not sure how many of the others heard her, but other than myself, I saw that one person did: Gary. He set his glance on Wendy for a moment, then cleared his throat and settled into his chair.

Now, there was only the matter of the delicately-wrapped package in the middle of the table to take care of. The Coon had had the right instincts back on the field: it sure as hell looked like a bomb, and while that was something to be expected of drug lords and mob bosses and the like, we were dealing with someone who relished human plight. Damien had been telling the truth… he wasn't going to get rid of us so easily.

"So," Karen began, gesturing toward the box. "Who wants to do the honors?"

"I have a feeling I'm the only one that thing would blow up on," Kenny remarked.

"Here," I offered, standing, "I'll do it."

I dug into my pocket for my keys, and when the box was passed in my direction, I slid out the clippers on the Swiss Army knife I kept attached to my car key. With three careful cuts, I slid off the twine and packaging; Kyle brushed it off to the side, shuddering somewhat as he did.

Underneath the wrapping was a simple, matte black box, measuring a rather obvious six-by-six-by-six, which was closed with the same red seal bearing the T decal that the letters had been closed with in wax. Switching out the small scissors for the knife, I broke the seal and lifted back the lid.

The box was filled with red-dyed newspaper, charred around the edges and acting as packaging. Lying atop the newspaper was an envelope addressed to no one, and which was not sealed. I extracted the envelope with some trepidation, and found it to be heavier than it looked. When Kenny asked what it was, I opened it to find a single sheet of folded paper, bearing a note, and with a small USB drive attached by red twine to the bottom.

"I'm guessing this is for you," I said, removing the USB drive and sliding it over to Ike.

Ike caught the drive, itself a rather standard piece of technology, bearing no features that would define it as anything exquisite, and studied it closely. "Timmy?" Timmy asked cautiously.

"Nope. No bugs," Ike answered. "At least not on the outside. If they didn't bomb us, I'm pretty sure they wouldn't be interested in bugging us, either."

"That's up for debate," Craig said.

Ike shot him an unimpressed look which Craig took without comment, then asked me, "Are there instructions on that note?"

I glanced over the paper the drive had been attached to, and scanned the note:

INSTRUCTIONS FOR ADMITTANCE:

Be advised, all ticket holders marked below, to the policies regarding the Red Carnival, as per the Ringleaders' orders. Our gates open in preview of coming attractions for the community this Friday, and will be open from sundown through the duration of the evening. Gates will not reopen again for ten days, at which time we presume construction will at last be complete.

Ticket and token numbers must be matched to the proper entrant.

"Then," I said, after reading the instructions aloud, "it has a number next to a bunch of our names. It doesn't say anything about the USB drive."

"Then what the fuck is it?" Ike wondered, turning it over and back in his fingers.

"You have an iPad, find out," Cartman muttered.

"Hold on," said Karen. "Let's just see if there's anything else in that box other than tickets. Stan, can I see the box? If you read off the names in order, I'll pass the tickets out."

Kenny, still at the whiteboard, gave us the go-ahead, and created a separate box, near Henrietta's listing of the three beasts we'd already fought, in which to write down our names and ticket numbers. I slid the box across the table to Karen; Gary's nervous foot-tapping started up again when she removed the red newspaper.

"Before I start, I just want to see how this adds up," said Karen. "Everyone who has a ticket already, stand up."

"I want to archive these, too," Bebe added. She took her place near Timmy and Ike, and Timmy called up a record on the overhead computer of the digital archive they had collected thus far, containing photos of the Golems and the Carnival posters. Timmy then brought a camera onto the table while Bebe connected it to the computer by two strings of wires. "If there are any weird hints on your tickets now, we should keep them in the archive, just in case that can help."

"Good call," Clyde complimented her, flashing a nervous smile. Bebe returned the kind gesture, then nodded to Karen to continue.

Karen cleared her throat. "Ike?"

"Hang on a sec," her boyfriend said hurriedly, his black eyes scanning the screen to double-check that the program he'd selected was up and running properly. I only noticed at that moment that he'd plugged the USB drive into his tablet, which he'd detached from the main computer.

"Dude," Kenny admonished him, "I said wait on that drive."

"Yeah, I know, but—"

"Ike!" Karen slapped one hand down on the table, causing Ike—and jittery Gary—to jump. When Ike lifted his head to look at her, I noticed a hint of guilt in his expression, and a tome of anger in Karen's. "You were the first one to get a ticket. Care to be the first to stand?" she prompted.

Keeping cautious, Ike stood, and, leaning over the table, slid his ticket forward a couple of inches. Timmy shot both sides of the slim red paper slip, then continued around the table to the right.

"Ike's number three on this list, though," I noticed, consulting the note from Damien's box. "Who else has a ticket, again?"

"Well, I didn't get a ticket," said Butters, "I got more of a token." He blanched while the rest of us winced at his choice of a word. Wendy bit her lip. "Coin," Butters corrected.

He rolled it over to Bebe. Cartman spun the quarter he'd been incessantly spinning since the meeting started, and I half expected him to flick it at Butters' gold coin, but he merely watched it go by. As Timmy took photos of the front and back, I read off, "Butters is listed seventh."

"Out of how many?" Kenny wondered, starting up his list.

"Ten."

"Fuckin' devils and numerology," Henrietta said, mostly to herself. She was picking at a hole in her black lace fingerless gloves, probably attempting to find something to do while she was not allowed to smoke. "Of course it's ten."

"Mine says nine," Kenny added. He gave his ticket to Clyde and asked him to walk it down to Bebe, which was probably best for Clyde at that moment, given that he'd hardly looked away from his mask all evening.

"Anyone else?" Bebe wondered, as Timmy shot photos of Kenny's ticket, and Ike passed back Butters' coin.

When nobody answered, Karen asked me to begin reading off the list. She'd taken from the box yet another envelope, again unaddressed and un-sealed. It clinked somewhat, suggesting that Butters was not the only one who'd be entering with a coin.

"First on the list is Craig," I read off. "Technically. It says Endgame. For that matter, Ike's does say Red Serge, Kenny's Mysterion."

"Let me guess," said Butters, rubbing his thumb on one side of his coin.

"You got it," I confirmed with the list. Damien, in his pompous, flowery ink-black script, had indeed planned for Professor Chaos to be given the seventh token of entrance. Harmony wouldn't have been able to enter, either way. It had to be Chaos.

"Thought so."

"Then I guess it's a good idea you've already made up your mind," Wendy mentioned. Butters nodded, but said nothing else. Kenny made a note to write everyone's League identities, rather than proper names, on the board.

"Why'm I first on the list?" Craig wondered, as Karen walked to him and handed him his red paper ticket. "Why not, like, Kyle?"

"Maybe it's by ability," Kyle offered.

"Yeah, but, then, why would I be third?" Ike said. "I might be full-time in the League, but I can't exactly shoot lasers outta my eyes like Craig can."

"Lasers," Gary whispered to himself. "Right. Okay."

"Let's just keep going," Karen suggested, "we can speculate later. Who's next, Stan?"

"Um…" My heart skipped when I read the next name, even though I knew it was coming eventually. I just wasn't prepared to see it yet. "I am."

I listened to the squeak of Kenny's dry-erase marker as he wrote Toolshed on the whiteboard, but I looked down at Kyle, who sat straight-backed yet uneasy. I set one hand down on the table, and he covered it with his, but that was all either of us could, at the moment, do in the way of support. For all we knew, the list numbers were arbitrary.

Karen walked around and set a ticket in front of me. For all intents and purposes, it looked much like Ike's, made of the same red paper, with the same old-fashioned lettering. Prominently in the lefthand corner was the Roman numeral II, in fancier script than Damien's handwriting, which was a feat in and of itself; it was just a step away from being something out of an illuminated manuscript.

Clearing my throat, I went on. "So, anyway, Ike's third, and… Mosquito. Clyde, you're fourth."

To his immediate dismay, Clyde was given a coin rather than a ticket. He placed it down on the table, letting Timmy take angled photos of it, and secured one arm around Bebe's waist. He then made every effort to look everywhere but at the token.

Karen then had to return to our side of the table when I read off, "Kyle's fifth."

He didn't touch his ticket, Karen simply placed it down in front of him, the same way she'd done with mine. Kyle's differed from the other paper tickets, which was a surprise given how prized he and Red had been to the Carnival's early efforts as carrying most prominently the Ginger gene. His ticket, instead, was black, with embossed white lettering. Only the Roman numeral V was printed in red. Like Clyde, Kyle tried his best not to look at his ticket.

"Who's next?" Karen asked.

"Actually," I read off, "you are."

Kenny looked more unnerved than Karen herself did. Karen held back any signs of judgment, and pulled from the envelope the ticket with her corresponding Roman numeral. The reverse of Kyle's, hers was on white paper, while the numeral was in red. She passed it to Timmy to be archived, then requested to move on.

"So, Butters is seventh, and then… Wendy," I read.

Cartman frowned at his quarter and spun it around again. There was only one spot left to fill, and his name hadn't been listed yet; I could more or less understand his aggravation.

Shaking, Wendy accepted her token, the third of only three coins among the rest of the tickets. Just as Karen was about to move on to ask for the final name, however, Wendy said, "Wait, something's wrong with mine."

"What's up?" Bebe wondered.

"It comes apart."

Wendy stood, and demonstrated her unique coin: it was the same size as the ones Butters and Clyde had been given, but the ridges on one side served as a hinge, revealing that the token itself was indeed two thinner coins fastened together.

"That's weird," Henrietta said.

"And I'm worried, if that's coming from you," said Wendy. Henrietta looked unimpressed, and Wendy quickly covered, "No, no, no, Henrietta, I'm sorry, no, I didn't mean you're weird, not at all, I meant… I meant that you know so much about the numerology and everything, it's weird if there's something different that goes against what you were expecting."

"Yeah, I know." Henrietta had picked through her lace so that her entire palm showed; some of her black nail polish had flaked off and was clinging to the lines in her hand, which proved only one thing to me. Her palms were sweating. Henrietta was nervous. Her face didn't show it, but her mannerisms did. "Maybe it's good for one extra entrance."

"It still says eight on it, though," Wendy noted.

"We can keep the extra behind, here, just in case," said Bebe. "They're giving us room for backup."

"Then we should try not to use it," Kenny advised. "But I agree it should stay back. Wendy?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine with that," she concurred. She slid her coin down to Timmy, and Bebe unfastened the second coin from the first.

"Last one?" Karen prompted me.

"Last one," I read, consulting the note. As anticipated. "Cartman."

"Fuckin' good," he grumbled, holding out his hand to take his version of the ticket from Karen. "I's starting to think they'd leave me out on purpose so I couldn't…"

"Couldn't what?" asked Wendy.

Cartman paused, then folded his fingers over the ticket, of a color more like blood than the other reds, and said quietly, "Find her."

"Your mom," Butters guessed.

Cartman's silence was enough of an agreement to that statement.

"Anything else on the letter?" Kenny wondered.

Unfortunately, there was more. After the list of names was the instruction:

Admittance granted in order of attendant listing. No exceptions will be made without the explicit consent of one of the Ringleaders.

They were splitting us up. That accounted for the arbitrary numbering, I guessed. With only the exception of Wendy and Butters being close friends and being numbered one after the other, nobody on the list was going to enter directly behind someone they worked closely with. Karen and Kenny were three numbers apart; same went for me and Kyle. Kyle and Ike were separated by two slots. Clyde and Craig were off by three, Butters and Cartman were off by three. Token, I realized, had not been listed at all, meaning that his incapacitation had been planned. That being evident, however, it seemed pretty clear who the top choice for Wendy's extra coin was… if he was up for taking it by the time he got back.

Cartman declared the rule to be bullshit. Everyone agreed.

Since there was nothing that could immediately be done, in terms of storming the gates or anything along those lines, Kenny chose to call the meeting to a close, in order to let Gary ask any extra questions, and allow Timmy and Bebe time to update the archive.

When Kyle and I were making our way to the door, I checked in with Gary, to offer him a ride home. When he passed on the offer, I couldn't hide a pretty satisfied smile. "You're sticking around?" I hypothesized.

"Yeah," said Gary, nodding. He looked pale, but determined. "I can't exactly go back to work tomorrow as it is, and I guess part of my work has been helping you guys, anyway. I'm still processing. I kind of want to talk it out with Karen."

"Makes sense," I said. "Sorry again about the circumstances."

"It's fine. It's been great working with you so far, Toolshed."

"Likewise," I grinned.

Gary managed a half-smile. Nodding to Kyle, he added, "And the Human Kite."

Kyle offered a polite nod in return, said an honest, "Thanks for your help, dude, g'night," and tugged me toward the door as Gary was clearing his throat. He then picked up his pace, rushing us out as effectively as he could.

"What's up?" I wondered, once we were well on our way out.

Kyle shook his head. "Can we just go home?" he requested. "Your house. Wherever we're going."

"Sure."

Nothing else was said until we made it to my car, passing by, in the Blacks' large garage, the row of others: Bebe's Mini, Wendy's sturdy old Bug, Token's SUV. In the back of my head, I saw a brief flash of memory from earlier in the evening, at the pit. I wondered about Token's surgery, about his state of well-being, about whether he'd be able to be active again, drive again; walk again.

All that just because he lacked the Gene that Tenorman had been targeting? Because he wasn't laden with some kind of curse? I wondered about Ike, about whether he'd be attacked for lack of the Gene as well.

Once we were both in, I shifted my car into drive and eased out onto the road, leaving the mansion behind us. Once we were a fair distance away, I tried again, "I mean it, are you all right? Looks like something's bugging you."

Kyle was staring out the window to his right, probably counting down buildings that we passed to know how much further we had to go until our destination. "On a scale of one to my mother," he mumbled, "how obvious am I when I'm angry?"

"What? Kyle." I tried to catch his attention, but he did not shift his position. "Is that a real question? I mean, come on."

"Am I being unreasonable?"

I increased my speed somewhat, so we could get out of the damn car soon if this was going to be the topic of discussion. "I don't know what you have to be unreasonable about," I said. "That question came out of nowhere." I paused; he said nothing. "Kyle. What happened when I was out of the room?"

Kyle sighed. He rested his chin in one hand, then winced from the angle at which he'd set his arm, readjusted, and said, "We were catching Gary up on stuff. Totally fine for most of it, until Cartman quit the silence act."

"Ugh," I commented, "what'd he say? You know he's just angry about… well, lots of shit."

"I get that," said Kyle, "I just—there's a lot of shit about Cartman that I try to forget most of the time."

"Like how he has a history for being an asshole," I guessed.

"Like the fact that he's an asshole, yeah," Kyle repeated.

"You forget that."

"I try to."

"What'd he say?" I wondered again. "If it was about Gingers—"

"I mean, it kind of was…"

"Kyle."

"It was about blood ties in general, okay?!" Kyle lashed out. "We were explaining how the whole Ginger thing got started, and how Gary and his family are tied into it, and then about Kenny and Clyde and… well, and you…"

"Me?"

"The Marsh thing," said Kyle. "You know, that Wilcox talked about?"

I shivered. "Right…" I recalled. The reason I was so susceptible to nightmares even beyond the disappearance of R'lyeh. I did not want to know what that Dagon entity was, or how tied to the unknown out in the ocean my bloodline was. I did want the nightmares to stop, but not at the cost of learning something that would haunt me forever no matter what.

"So we got talking about blood ties, and wondering how Craig's ability and that Incan prophecy might factor into any of this at all, and so of course I started explaining my quirk, and then—ugh, it's…"

By this time, I had pulled into my driveway. Kyle ticked his head toward the house. "My arms really fucking hurt," he said. "My head fucking hurts, too. Can we finish this inside?"

I agreed, and when I turned off the car, I pocketed my keys and walked around to open the passenger side door. Kyle smiled feebly in thanks; still worried, I kissed his cheek and led him indoors. My parents were predictably asleep, and I locked the front door behind us as Kyle and I claimed the kitchen for the time being.

The ceiling light hummed when I clicked it on, a sound only drowned out by the rush of water from the sink into the large serving bowl I borrowed from my mother's entertainment ware. Kyle accepted my offer to add ice to the already cold water, and I made up a station at the kitchen table with the large bowl and a handful of dish cloths. A quick trip to the first aid kit my parents kept around from my high school football days let me procure a couple new wrap bandages for Kyle's arms, but remembering the ointment Henrietta had come up with originally, I asked upon returning to the table, "Need anything else? Ibuprofin, or, like, cream or anything?"

"Just cold water should do it for now," my boyfriend said, both arms already submerged into the ice-cold water, "but thanks."

"Let me know," I said. I slid into the seat across from him, set the bandages beside the dish cloths, and added, "I've gotta look out for you."

Kyle was glancing down at his arms, but I heard the genuine smile in his tone when he asked, "You have to, or you like to?"

"Both." He flashed me a slight glance, then focused on his slowly-healing arms again. "How're your arms?"

"Irritating," Kyle said. "But, you know."

"Speaking of irritating," I transitioned, "want to fill me in? What the hell did Cartman say to you?"

Kyle winced, and took his right arm out of the bowl. I made a grab for one of the dish cloths, but he'd grabbed one as well; he motioned for me to dampen the cloth I'd taken up, so I obliged, and once he'd dried the bothersome part of his arm, Kyle held it out to me, allowing me to apply more focused relief with the wet cloth.

"You okay?" I checked yet again.

"Mmhmm."

"What's on your mind?" I wondered.

"I never questioned where my quirk came from," said Kyle. "I just know it's there, and I just know it's a part of me, and how to use it."

"You've always had it," I said. I wrung out the cloth and dabbed it gently on the most raw area of Kyle's right forearm. The burn was in that awful, scabbing stage, a grotesque mix of white and red in the zig-zag pattern of the coil that had done the damage. The appearance meant that the scars were healing, though, but I could only imagine how badly they must hurt.

"You think so?" Kyle wondered.

"I know so," I said. I looked up to catch his expression, and Kyle did not seem convinced at all. "Why?" I wondered. "You don't?"

"I don't know. The… 'blood equals power' thing."

"It's not a Ginger trait, or else Red could do it," I reasoned.

"Not that." Kyle winced again. "Here's what's bothering me, Stan. Cartman thinks it came from him."

I felt my eyebrows knit together in disgust at the idea. "Dude, you're not related."

"No, but he's been cursed since…"

"Cursed-ish," I admitted. "I repeat, Kyle: you're not related."

"Yeah, well, he reminded me of something else."

"Which is?"

"Remember in third grade, Stan, when I got sick?" Kyle asked, steadying his breath as best he could. "Really sick? When I needed a kidney transplant?"

"Yeah…?"

"I still have his kidney."

"But that's not—"

Aggravated, Kyle pushed the dish of cold water to the side, set his elbows on the table, and grabbed at his wirey hair, placing his forehead on the heels of his palms. His eyes snapped shut fast, and when his shoulders raised and tensed, I knew that he was bursting with so much stress it was taking much of his energy to try not to cry. "What if it happened in the blood transfusion when we were eight, Stan?" he said, through clenched teeth. "What if I'm not supposed to be like this at all? What if I have something he was meant to have because of the botched curse his dad tried?"

"No," I said quickly, before I'd even formulated anything else to say on the matter. If there was one thing Cartman did well, it was exploit sensitive subjects, and he'd always managed to really hit the nail on the head when it came to making Kyle uneasy.

I shifted, and pulled up a chair directly next to Kyle, placed my left hand on his upper left arm, and rubbed my right hand in a soothing circular pattern between his shoulders. "He honestly said that?"

"Twice." Kyle was shaking now. "Stan, what if—"

"No," I proclaimed more firmly. "No, Kyle, honest to God, don't even think about that. It's bullshit. It's Cartman talking bullshit."

"But—"

"Kyle, your quirk—listen to me, what you're able to do, that is all you," I told him, remaining calm. "It's an extension of you. I keep saying that, and I need you to believe that, all right? Don't let him upset you, that's all he's trying to do."

Kyle smacked his hands down on the table, cringed from the sting of the action, and stared me down as he demanded, "Then where did it come from, Stan? We all know where Kenny's curse came from originally, we saw the prophecy about Craig ourselves as kids. If my… thing isn't the result of some curse or great cosmic fuck-up, then how'd it happen to me?"

His questions were, of course, valid concerns, and nothing we had ever really talked about before. The quirk had not been a subject of conversation for so long, the origin of it had simply fallen into unspoken territory. I had my theories, though. I'd always had my theories.

To calm him down, I set my hands down on his shoulders, squeezed gently once, and leaned in as I said, "Can I tell you what I think?" Kyle gave a subtle nod. "I don't think it's a curse. Rule that out. I can definitely tell you it's not from anyone else's blood. No one could lay a curse or some latent ability on you without you noticing, Kyle, I know you'd be able to sense some kind of difference. Okay?"

"Okay," he said doubtfully.

"Kyle, I think you created it yourself," I declared. "Just from being so aware. You know how to use your mind in a way that I don't, that no one else does. It's hyperawareness, right? And it just got a nudge up to the level it's at now. It didn't come from anywhere but you. All right?"

He did puzzle over the idea for a moment, and ultimately gave in.

"I wish you'd been in the room," Kyle admitted, relaxing somewhat. "I wouldn't've been stressing about it this whole time."

"It's okay."

"You're way better at getting Cartman to shut up."

"I try," I laughed. "You okay?"

"I will be," Kyle said, setting his hands down in my lap. "How about you?"

"What's up?"

"Your… nightmares," he clarified. "Anything really pressing, lately?"

"Same as they have been, really," I reported. I leaned against the table, and absentmindedly played with a few of Kyle's curls, twirling the untended corkscrews around my index finger, setting them back in place. "They're more feeling than image, you know?"

"Hmm." Kyle rubbed the side of my thigh. "I'm worried about you," he said. "I don't want you to get sucked in if they get more vivid. You know? Like if that's what happened to Red."

"They're still really distant," I offered.

"Tell me everything about whatever you might see tonight," Kyle asked sternly. "I don't want you disappearing on me or anything. We're gonna find out who or what this Dagon thing is pretty soon, I bet. Whatever it is, it's not going to get you."

"It won't."

"Mmhmm."

Kyle kissed my neck, and half-voiced my name, his tone one of worry.

"What's up?" I wondered.

Kyle let out a hum. "I can't believe we can't go into the Carnival together," he said. "I fucking hate this. They're splitting the whole team up on purpose. And am I the only one who feels like we're already on some weird verge of falling apart?"

"What do you mean?" I wondered.

"I mean, we've all got our separate things keeping us in right now," Kyle elaborated, "but… I mean, you said you wanted to stop someday. Clyde looks tired. Token—I don't fucking know, like, once the surgery happens, I don't know how he'll still be involved. I just… I don't know, I've felt that things are kind of out of synch. And once we're all off on our own, I don't know."

Desperate to say something in response, but at a loss for words, I took up both of Kyle's hands and kissed the backs of his fingers—first his left hand, then his right, then left again, twice.

He sighed, and leaned forward against me, his head pressed into my shoulder. I pillowed my head against his, and tugged him in.

"I can't believe we can't go in together," Kyle repeated.

"I'll wait once I'm in, if I can," I declared. "You can come find me. Or I'll find you. We'll figure it out."

"We'd better."

"We will."

– – –

Cartman

There's, like, maybe two things in the world I really fuckin' care about. Like, the Sophie's Choice kind of 'care about,' the two things I'd be hard pressed to choose between. That. Yeah. And here they are:

The League, and my family.

By family, I seriously just mean my mom and myself. Fuck Scott Tenorman, fuck Jack Tenorman, fuck my mom's weirdo extended family and my cumrag of a little cousin Elvin, and fuck Damien Thorn right back to the Hell he crawled out of. Maybe my mom and I have some trust issues between us, maybe she is a whore and maybe she has really bad judgment on filtering out what she decides to tell me, but I love that woman, and as angry as I could ever get with her, I'm always willing to risk something to help her.

What defines family and friends to me doesn't really come down to the same kind of trust factor it does for people like, oh, Kenny. I actually have a lot of trust issues. But I've also got my pride. I'd quit the League over stupid shit before, and I wasn't about to risk doing that again—I mean, the League's like, one of the only things that keeps me coming back to South Park on my school vacations. Even when the other guys might not exactly trust what I'm doing or when I don't trust them (Butters…), I stick it out. I have to.

Am I in it for myself? Yes. Am I in it for everyone else? Sure. But me first.

I figured some of the guys had to be in it for themselves first, too. I mean, fuck, Wendy did her own thing under our noses for months before she joined. The fact that Butters was being a confusing asshole and switching from Harmony to Chaos again just kinda proved that he had personal motivations. Kenny… of fucking course Kenny started it up for himself. Oh, and Craig.

We'd all joined for personal reasons, and it was personal reasons that would get us to Damien, who'd been attacking us on individual levels from the start. He'd just gone one step too far when my mom got dragged into it. Whatever 'it' was. His overall plan, scheme, Carnival, whatever he was calling it.

And the other guys could do whatever the fuck they wanted, for whatever the fuck reason they were in it for, but I knew for a fact that Damien's main target wasn't Kenny. He wanted me. Tenorman wanted me. Disarray was a little shit who just wanted everything, so he was the only one I was really seeing as a possible problem.

It was the fact that he was the one to be handling my mother, the fact that he had set us up against the Lion, the fact that he'd survived in the afterlife at all that was digging under my skin. If I'd seen Tenorman at the pit that night, or Damien, you can bet that I would not for one fucking second have let Chaos take down the Lion.

Why? Because those two would not have hurt her. She was obviously valuable to them, because she's valuable to me. But Disarray, now, he was, I repeat, a problem.

Talk about self-motivation. Disarray could get away with anything, because he wasn't afraid of anything. Not Hell, not death, not complete darkness and disorder.

He'd been the one terrorizing my mother. He'd taken her, he'd waved her in front of my face, just out of reach. He was the only one of that Carnival threesome that actually got me worried that she was in real danger, because he didn't care about a person's value.

I have a pretty lean outlook on value when it comes to some people, too, sure, but a lot of people do. Everyone can have their low opinions, it happens.

– – –

I left the meeting without saying much. What else was there to say? Karen got all reminiscing about Salt Lake City with Gary while she showed him around, Kenny and Clyde did that thing where they shut down into this all-business vortex no one can pull them out of till they've worked out plans on their own. Butters drove Wendy home, and I hadn't figured out till they'd left that I had about zero intention of going back to her house that night.

Instead, I walked. Kenny caught up with me once before I left, telling me to be careful and that he'd figure everything out about the Carnival. Yeah, I bet he would. He wasn't stable. Butters wasn't fucking stable.

I wasn't, either, but, hey, nobody was.

Nobody was sure of exactly what we were up against. I thought I knew. I'd figured I could easily go after Tenorman, exploit the weakness I knew he still had, and call it over. I had not been fucking expecting Disarray to show up.

So now of course, of fucking course Butters would have to go and bring Chaos back, and if history had taught me anything it was that having Chaos around meant I'd have to struggle to beat him. Butters wasn't always good. Like, good at what he does. He used to be a Goddamn idiot, and I could beat him no problem. Kids playing a game, kids playing a game. Then he got fucked up, or Dougie fucked him up, however exactly that had happened, and he dealt a bunch of blows I couldn't counter.

It all started with us. Kenny could say whatever he wanted about how he started as Mysterion, but it all wound back to Chaos and the Coon. I felt a little cheated at the end, when Butters gave Chaos up. Because I didn't beat him, and now the little twat still had me pegged for a favor. Still. Four years out, I still owed him. I owed Chaos, I kept repeating to him, especially when I figured he'd never be back. If he didn't come back, I'd have won.

I dunno if maybe I wanted him back or not. I sure as fuck hated the fact that he'd brought Chaos back just in time to beat me right down, even if he was 'on our side,' so to speak.

He'd beaten the Lion, but had we saved my mom? No.

That was right where Tenorman wanted me, too. Laden with the fact that my mother was stuck somewhere in that Hell on Earth, surrounded by soulless Gingers (and the devil, but whatever), and that I had ticket number ten of ten. I had to go in last. He was making me come in last. Oh, Chaos got to go in, even Goddamn fucking Canadian mountie tech boy got to go in before me.

Ugh.

Tenorman was still all beat up about me having his parents killed. I got that. So why wasn't his revenge just… you know, killing other parents? He was working the parent angle, anyway, but only as an insult. Craig and Wendy had red-haired dads, but they hadn't been swept off anywhere. Nope, there was just some kind of test Tenorman was putting the offspring through instead. Huh.

I wasn't watching where I was going, really, on the way to my house from Token's. At least I'd grabbed a light jacket, it was getting windy. South Park doesn't really get warm wind, even in the summer. It's all from the upper mountains.

I wondered how they'd taken my mother. Nothing I came up with worked for me. If she'd gone willingly for whatever reason, that was pretty insulting. If she'd put up a fight, I didn't want to think about it. All I knew was she was crying when Disarray had her all dressed up and gagged at the pit.

Only a few houses down from mine did I realize I was way too hot. It wasn't the usual cooling wind blowing through, it was warm. Not summery, just kinda dry. I looked off in the direction of the volcano and hoped Stan damn well knew what he was talking about and could get us to the right place.

When I started walking again, I slowed down. The hot air scratched at my throat, but I ignored it. I was much more interested in the fact that maybe I hadn't been followed, but I definitely wasn't alone.

"Good evening."

Fuck.

Even though it was exactly what he wanted me to do, I stopped, and felt my ears twitch. I didn't choose to be the Coon out of nowhere; I've got the best sense of hearing in the League… not to mention sense of smell. Sulfur, for the record, mixes like shit with plain old nasty body odor. And it's gotta be hard to pretend to be sneaky when you've got that bad of a limp.

Tenorman.

"A little late for a pig to be out of his sty, wouldn't you say?" he wheezed into the air. He limped around to my diagonal right, two o'clock. I didn't move.

"Where's my mother?" I demanded, holding in every urge to raise my voice.

In my inner jacket pockets, I kept spare talons and a tie-back mask, just in case. Now was not the time to reach for them, not yet.

Tenorman slink-limped to my five o'clock point. He was pretty quick, for needing a cane, but he was obvious.

"Where she belongs," he said, "for now. I'm having trouble deciding whether I want her to be the main attraction at my Carnival…" Tenorman was up on my back in an instant, two shuffles and one loud clack of his cane, and then his sulfuric breath was in my ear when he leaned down and whispered, "or just the main course."

I reached into my pockets to slide on my spare talons and whirled on the bastard, turning to my right and swiping down with my left hand. I didn't miss.

Tenorman went down, for a second, but spun at a turn by stabilizing his shiny black walking stick. He was still on his knees, where he belonged, so I grabbed him by the hair and scratched him across the face before tossing him down. He went down laughing, which I should have expected.

Thinking fast, I grabbed his cane and planted my foot down hard on his neck, choking him into the sidewalk. I lifted the cane up over my head and demanded, "Where is she?"

Tenorman leered up at me. Adding insult to injury, he lay his arms out, spread-eagle. He wanted me to attack. "Give it your best shot, pig."

"Coon!" I whacked him in the side of the skull with his own stick.

I don't know what I was expecting. He didn't laugh, or wince, or anything. I didn't know if I wanted him to be some kind of hate-piñata that I could hit over and over again and he'd just spit out all the information I wanted, or what. I did want satisfaction out of beating the shit out of him, but I didn't even get that. Because he wanted it.

"Where is she?" I shouted again, holding the cane back up over my head.

"Keep going," Tenorman chortled. "Do whatever you want. I'm immune."

"…What?"

"Invincible."

"No, you're not." I tightened my grip on the cane.

"Stop."

The new voice, commanding and rough, came from a good distance behind me.

Really?

"Let me have this one, Mysterion," I said sharply, not taking my eyes off the grinning idiot that was rightfully mine to waste.

"You're off duty and incredibly exposed," Mysterion chastised me. He moved up behind me and grabbed my wrist. I still did not look at him. Even if he was right, I didn't want to shut down on his orders. "Trust me, I'm not one for wanting to take this fight away from you. You deserve it. Just not right here, and not right now."

"Then what do we do with him?" I scoffed.

"Why don't you ask him?" another voice prompted. Two others right behind me, Angel being one of them. I had no idea how long that chick was going to be able to keep up the 'completely righteous' angle, but she'd kept it up for a few years now. I just have a hard time believing that anyone can be one hundred per cent perfectly good, you know?

I stepped back and passed the cane off to Mysterion, who kept the stick held at Tenorman's throat. I knew Mysterion wouldn't kill him, that wasn't his thing. But I did kind of hope he'd let me throttle the everloving fuck out of Tenorman once I was in the right setting to do so. Oh, I wasn't going to kill him, no, I'd just get him pretty fucking close. Killing him would just get him on a level like the one Disarray had climbed to.

I pulled on my spare mask, then moved Mysterion to the side and hauled Tenorman to his weak feet. The gasp from behind me told me who the other new arrival was: Harrison. The other two must've gone on duty to walk the Mormon kid home. Guess it was only expected he'd have to see some action before helping us out.

I didn't care either way if he helped. We didn't need someone to pray for us, we just had to get the fuck in there and stop the enemy. I mean, right? What could he do for us that we couldn't do on our own?

"Tell me why you're out here," I demanded of Tenorman, going for a question other than something directly related to my mother. Maybe I could talk him around into admitting something.

"Just to see the look on your face," he answered, looking me right in the eyes. I wanted to punch him, but I didn't. I just dug the talons in closer to his neck, where I held him up. "Charon's apprentice was pretty impressed."

"Charon's a… Disarray?" I guessed.

"Couldn't even beat the Lion," Tenorman mocked.

"I could damn well have beaten that stupid fucking Lion!" I shouted in his face. "Chaos just—interfered!"

An unsettling grin spread across Tenorman's face. "So we can be expecting him?"

"You better be worried about a lot more than fucking Chaos," I grumbled.

"You?" Tenorman laughed. "Oh, I've got plans for you."

Lights appeared on the road ahead. Rule one of being officially off duty but still handling a target: never compromise your identity. I shoved Tenorman at Mysterion and fell back next to Angel and Gary, having just enough time to tuck away my talons and mask before the lights approached, and stopped right in front of us.

The passenger door to the car, a nondescript black sedan with no identifiable plates, opened to the sidewalk. The car's brights were on, and washed out the silhouette of whoever was driving.

"Your ride, I'm guessing?" Mysterion said, shoving the cane into Tenorman's hands.

"Just like that, Mysterion?" he returned. "You're letting me go?"

"I'm just giving you a running start," Mysterion snapped. "You've invited us to this Carnival of yours, remember?"

Tenorman just smiled. "That reminds me," he said, staring past Mysterion, right at me. "There is something I wanted to offer my charming little brother over there." Gary took a step away from me, offering me up. Thanks, dude who's supposed to be praying for us. Thanks.

"What?" I asked.

"Early admittance."

Oh. Oh, perfect. Perfect. Even if it was a trap, I had to take it. I wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything else otherwise. Finally, fucking finally, a mission just offered to me. Not Mysterion, not the whole League, me. I'd get the first crack at whatever this Carnival thing was, I'd be the one reporting back, and I'd get my mother the fuck out of there (I'd ask her questions later) before the fight.

"We are extending one early entrance to—"

"I'll take it," Mysterion said.

"Hey!" I tried to stop him, storming up to where he and Tenorman stood.

"No. Cartman, it's too risky, I'll take it."

"Bullshit it's too risky! You just want to go in for your girlfriend, you selfish—"

"Look who's talking."

"Calm down, boys," Tenorman said, too evenly. "There's a way you both can win."

He reached into the car, and took from the passenger seat a camcorder-sized black leather bag, which smelled of sulfur, coal, and something I couldn't really detect. Some kind of incense. Wasn't perfume, wasn't a spice. It was foreign, and after only a second of being exposed it started to overpower the other scents of the mines that clung to it.

It was weird—for being made of the stuff, the Golems didn't carry the same smell that Tenorman or the bag did. Damien probably had some way of masking that, but it was only the dust that gave off what the material was. The bag was dusted with it.

"You let little Eric into the Carnival first," Tenorman bargained, "and I'll give you this bag. I'll give you this on the condition that nobody follows him in. He comes alone."

"It's a trick," Gary said quietly, like the asshole behind you in a movie theatre who yells at the girl not to open the closet because the killer's in there.

"I'm giving you an option that you can work to your advantage, if you know the right way about it," said Tenorman, offering up the bag. "We can let one in early. So long as it's within the next… let's say, twelve hours. All Eric needs to do is show up." He sneered at me, then pushed the bag closer to Mysterion, who remained upright and on guard as Tenorman continued speaking. "Alone. And you get the bag."

"What's in there?" Mysterion wondered. "Why should I want it?"

"You've been looking for it, haven't you? It's been one of the greatest treasures found in the mines."

Mysterion's gloved hands hovered over the bag. "The lamp," he whispered.

"It's yours, if you take my deal."

Mysterion glanced at me, then back toward his sister. I kept my focus on Tenorman. What I wouldn't give to be a human lie detector.

Whoever it was, in that Carnival group, that was calling the shots, he didn't think much of us, that much was pretty obvious. They were shoving all these rules at us, but giving us hints and pointers along the way, calling it all one big game. It was hard to tell if they were trying to get us to cheat, or if we had to take the hints and work our way around them.

"Don't do it, Mysterion," said annoying moviegoer Gary Perfect Conscience Harrison. "It's just like making a deal with the Devil. You can't."

Tenorman pretended not to react.

We had a choice, sure. The thing about deals, though, with devils or anyone else, is to know how to manipulate them right from the start. How to make them beneficial to your own party. Find the loopholes before making the trade. Write your own fucking fine print.

"He'll take it," I said, grabbing the bag from Tenorman. I made a note to not wash that hand, I even subtley rubbed my fingers on the strap so I could keep some of that incense on me.

"Cartman," Mysterion started.

I cut him off with, "He'll take the lamp, I go in first. If—"

Oh, you liked that, huh, Tenorman? Liked hearing me make some terms?

"If I get passage straight to my mother, you understand? And if," I added, prodding Tenorman back toward his car, "you and me get a real fucking fight. Disarray or whatever the hell you're callin' him stays out of it. You and me."

It sounded like something he'd want to hear. I figured he'd still have the other two on guard, and they had their little army, but eventually I'd have my backup, too. I just needed a chance to get what I needed, to go after my own problem and handle it my way without anyone interfering for a little while. I could turn Tenorman's offer around. I had the night to prepare for it, too.

"Do we have a deal?" Tenorman asked Mysterion.

He didn't confer with his sister. He didn't argue. Mysterion just looked at me and asked, "You sure you know what you're doing?"

"Positive. You guys do what you've gotta. I'll be fine alone."

Mysterion secured his grip around the bag, and lifted back the flap to be sure the lamp really was inside. From the look on his face, I'd say it was. I didn't get a look at it personally, but I wasn't looking for the object again. I was just gonna follow its trail.

Missionary Gary didn't protest or anything, either, so we were able to make the deal pretty much in silence.

I even got the pleasure of being the one to say, "Deal."

"Twelve hours, brother," Tenorman reminded me. "See you at the show."

He bowed his head to us, gave an awful lecherous wink over at Angel, then slid into the car and was driven away. In the clouds of exhaust, Mysterion was still hugging that bag like a kid with a teddy bear.

"You swear to me," he said, and I watched him grip the bag even tighter, "that you wear your wire, and you report back to us every step of the way."

"Of course I'm wearin' my wire," I said.

"Aren't you exhausted, though?" the Guardian Angel asked, walking up to us with Gary following behind. "You should rest before—"

"I'm fine," I insisted. "I'm going. Now."

And nothing could change my mind.

I was glad Mysterion wasn't making the effort to. I'd been trying to focus all night. Sometimes in, sometimes out. This was something I'd been waiting for, for a long, long time. My chance. My fight. My half-brother.

I was getting early entrance. I'd show those Carnival bastards what they were fucking with. I'd be the hero this time.

– – –

I hadn't even made it to my own house before turning to go back to Wendy's. As soon as I arrived, mostly just there to report (and brag about) what had happened and that I'd be kinda taking a trip for a while. Wendy was sitting slumped over her kitchen table, staring at her phone, a mug of something next to her. Butters was nowhere at first, but he came down the stairs once I'd made it into the kitchen.

Wendy looked up, and sort of smiled. "Hi," she said. "I thought you weren't even coming back tonight."

"I'm on my way out," I said. I walked up to the table, and stiffly, Wendy stood. Like it was a chore. She looked tired as fuck. So did Butters, who also had guilty black circles under his eyes, and he swerved away from me to stand next to Wendy once he'd made the choice to join us. Swerved like I'd hit him or something. (I probably would've. I wanted to.)

"Out where?" Wendy asked.

"I just had a fight."

"What? Where?!"

"With Tenorman, out on the street."

"Oh, my God," Butters said. He looked worried.

"I handled it," I snapped. On my own. Mysterion had just kinda been there, right? Close enough. "I'll spare you the details, but I got him to let me in early."

"Do you need partners?" Wendy offered. "I mean, I…" she looked at her phone, "I'm supposed to… I'm waiting for a call, but I'm sure you could ask—"

"No, I'm good."

She whirled on me.

"You're going to the Carnival?" Wendy yelped. "Alone? That's suicide!"

"No," I said, "it's an advantage. Smell my hand."

"Eew, no!"

I held out my right hand, the one with which I'd grabbed the lamp bag. "Smell my hand, Wendy, what's it smell like?"

"I totally don't want to know."

"For fuck's sake. Tenorman handed off Kenny's lamp to him," I grunted. "I don't know shit about incense, I was wondering if you did, or Butters."

"I'm not smellin' your hand, either, Eric," Butters mumbled.

So I waved it in his face. "It's fucking incense, idiot."

Butters coughed a couple of times, and took a wary step back. "Okay, okay," he gave in, "yeah, that's incense."

"Is it cloves, or what?" I wondered.

Wendy wafted the air. "It's frankincense."

Ah. "So remember what it smells like, and if it's anywhere in the Carnival, I bet that's close to wherever, like, Red and them are," I said. "Space Between and all that stuff."

"Huh. That's real smart, Eric," Butters complimented me. Like I needed that right now.

"Uh-huh. So, anyway, I'm not going unprepared, Wendy, is all I'm saying," I said. "I'm going in, I'm saving my mom and then I'm gonna have a word with her and figure out this whole fucked up Damien thing, and then I'll report back to all you guys and we can get going on crashing this Carnival. Kay?"

Wendy nodded. "I guess it makes sense," she agreed. "You going back to the base?"

"To change, yeah. I'm going now."

"I'd offer to drive you, but…" Wendy looked over at her phone. "Sorry, I'm just… I'm so worried about him."

Uh-huh. Yep. Got it. Damn.

"I'll drive you back," Butters offered. "I was gonna head back anyway. To, uh, work on something."

I glanced at Wendy. "You gonna be okay for now?" I wondered.

Wendy nodded. "I'm fine, guys, honestly. I want to be on call for Token. Just in case. You can use my car, Butters, here," she said, taking a key ring out from a pocket in her bag she had set on one of the kitchen chairs. "The little silver one that looks like a peg gets you into the workshop. You know how to boot everything up, right?"

"Yeah," said Butters. "I'll be real careful with the stuff, Wendy, I promise."

As aggravating as it was to have Butters helping me out again right before I went off to the Carnival, I stuck it out for the ride. One thing I hate about Wendy's car, though, is how fucking tiny it is. I felt cramped, like I was obligated to have a conversation with the driver on the way back to the base.

I managed to get out of it until about halfway there, when he broke.

"Look, Eric," he said, even beating me to the start of the conversation, "I'm sorry about tonight, okay? I really am."

"Uh-huh," I offered, looking out the window.

"You don't have to be sore about it."

"I don't have to be sore about it. I don't have to be sore about seeing my mother gagged up and dressed like a cheap prostitute—"

"Well, Eric, your mom is—"

"Like a cheap prostitute," I repeated through my teeth, "and held over a pit with a huge ancient Lion in it by a dick who wouldn't stay dead and then have her watch me get the shit beaten out of me and then have to have you come to my rescue, like she can't even rely on me to help her out on my own. I don't have to be sore about that. Thanks, Butters, that's super comforting."

I heard him sniff. "I'm sorry," he said in a harsh whisper. His hands tightened around the steering wheel. "Eric, I'm sorry. You were going to get really hurt. You're my teammate. You're my friend. I couldn't… I'm sorry."

"If you're sorry, shut up."

"Okay."

For the rest of the ride, he said nothing. When we parked, he said nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, all the way on the walk to the base.

I was making the turn to head to my room to change when Butters fidgeted with Wendy's keys. I glanced at him briefly, and saw a weird kind of focus on his face as he rubbed his thumbs against the little peg key that Wendy had pointed out. "What are you doing with that?" I had to ask.

"Can I not shut up now?" he challenged me.

"Fine."

"I'm making armor," Butters answered quickly.

Figured. "Chaos armor," I guessed.

"New armor," he corrected. "I don't have time to make much more than a helmet."

"Why are you doing this?" I had to ask.

"Huh?"

I sighed, and folded my arms across my chest, challenging him from across the room. We had the entire front living room area between us, and neither of us moved. He couldn't just change like that. Go from one idea to the next. "Why," I asked, more slowly, "are you going back to Chaos? You said you quit."

"I quit bein' weak, Eric," he said calmly. "That Chaos, Disarray's Chaos, that was weak. I needed Harmony to heal. Now I need this, okay? Please just try to understand that."

"I don't."

"I know you don't," he said sharply, stepping over my own words. Neither of us had turned on a light yet. There was just a little light in the hallways behind both of us, from utility lamps in the kitchen and bathroom. He stared through the near-dark at me. He did kind of look sorry. "I tried not to need it, but there's a lot I gotta do, Eric, if I wanna keep helping in the League. And I do, I do want to help, I just have to not ignore my real talents, okay? I like helping people, but I need a kind of… I dunno, jeez, disorderly way of doing it. I've gotta let loose a little or I won't do any good at all. I'm stronger. Chaos is gonna be different, I promise. Please tell me you understand. Kenny and them seem to get it." He paused, and tightened his fists around the keys. "I need this, Eric. I need Chaos in order to do good."

I was still in the dark about that. But if he wanted to change, fine. I just didn't get why he'd had to switch it up at all in the first place. I didn't get a lot of what Butters did. Butters just kind of… was. Sometimes I was cool with that, sometimes I fucking hated it. Right now, though, I wasn't worried about him or anyone else.

Just me. Just getting my mom back. He'd stood in the way earlier and he wasn't going to do it again, that's all.

"Whatever," I offered.

From then on out, the night belonged to me.

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Authors' Note:

Sorry for the crazy delay on this chapter, we totally needed a bit of a break over the holidays. I realized it had been 2 months... thanks for being patient, I'm glad to be posting again! ^^ I'll try to update on a fairly regular (bi-weeklyish?) basis. Also working on some other projects at the moment, too, so I'll try to keep this going as frequently as I can. Thank you so much for reading! I'm glad to be posting this story again. :3

(Also, this is where the narration starts getting funky. XD Been planning to let Eric speak a little, and there will be other changes in the narration coming up, too...!)

~Jizena, & Rosie Denn

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