((A/N: Thank you very much for beta help Rabid33, deliriumofsorts, SecretFan17, xalior, and XI-Am-ObsessedX))
Kyle Broflovski thought life was simple.
What an intolerable stench.
Houses, or what could be houses, hugged the stone cobbles on the narrow lane. Damp from the recent showers and peeling wherever possible; the buildings hardly looked stable. None of that really entered his mind. There was a much more pressing issue that struck his sensibilities.
The decrepit streets were smelly. That unpleasant detail was the first thing that made any sense to him and thus it struck him as the most important. Of course it would be gross and stink. His parents had informed him that it was an awful place. What they didn't tell him was how claustrophobic he'd feel walking through them. The tight bends making up the dank road didn't give him much else to go off of. It was dark and unpleasant; every stone, nook, and cranny seemed to hide something moving just out of the corner of his eye.
The only pleasant thing on the lane were the streetlights, pristine and new, somehow out of place with their elaborate lamps and warm lights. They could have been comforting if they weren't so alarmingly out of place.
It gave Kyle chills. He hated disharmony like that.
I can't wait until we can go home.
They were getting farther away from home. Away from the large buildings and kept streets and into the this strange labyrinth of unfamiliar buildings.
His mom had him clutched tightly at her side with his younger brother held to her chest. Her eyes darted to every corner with suspicion. It was such a stark contrast to how his father walked; confidently, mindlessly of his wife and children, with something judgmental in his eyes.
The way he kept his back straight made Kyle do the same — mimicking his father before he'd realized that that was what he was doing. If his father stood with his nose upturned to their surroundings, so did Kyle.
A particularly jerky movement from one of the many dancing shadows caught Kyle's attention as he walked and he locked eyes with a piercing, icy blue gaze. It was such a stark contrast to the dank colorless streets that it stopped him in his tracks.
No emotion swam in its depths. Not the naive happiness like his brother, the tight disdain like his father, or the fearful suspicion like his mother.
These eyes were empty.
Dead?
No. Kyle could see them move, briefly, assessing the situation before focusing again on Kyle's own startled expression.
He tugged on his mother's side, voice lost in the sudden fear of those icy depths. What could be looking at him with such intense nothing? Was it even real?
"Bubbala? What is it?" her voice was soft but edged with anxiety.
He tried to find the words. To even find the strength to point.
He was frozen, and his breath had been stolen.
His mother spoke again but the words fell on numb ears and crashed to the cobbles- it forced her to tug his arm and drag his eyes away.
An instant. He couldn't have looked away for more than an instant.
In that time, the blue was gone and there was nothing but the dark stench of the disgusting road. No sign of those haunting eyes.
Kyle shivered and cuddled closer to his mother, forgetting entirely to mimic his father's stiff march. His father had managed to get a few yards ahead while they dallied, and his mother hurried him to catch up.
Kyle moved his feet forward clumsily but dared not to look up from the folds of his mother's dress. No matter how important his father claimed these appearances were, he hated going to the lower town. He hated all the skittering people and horrible smells. Hadn't any of these people ever heard of a bath? On one previous occasion, he'd stepped on a suspicious yellow liquid and he still hadn't recovered from the horrified shock that it had caused him.
These people were no better than animals.
Kyle considered life to be simple because for him, it was. He listened to his parents and lived a life of luxury. At the age of six, he'd never once thought to question his reality.
Some people quite enjoy causing others to question reality.
Supernatural.
The term describes beings outside of common understanding. Thereby, what is considered supernatural can obviously fluctuate with time and research. Aliens are a popular concept; some people even think the dead can be risen.
However, if an alien were to actually crawl down your chimney and eat Santa's cookies, whether or not it were taken seriously would also be dependent on the witness, the amount of evidence available, the likelihood of a prank, and of course, the prevalence of the phenomenon.
It's much easier for the human mind to accept that their fellow man is having a delusion than it is for them to accept that the supernatural has become just another natural course of events.
Undeniable proof is infrequent in this field. Some conspiracy theorists like to use alternative realities to base their hypotheses on. Maybe, in some world far away, there was only one kind of sapient logically thinking two-legged animal. Maybe in another universe, vampires are considered some sort of supernatural myth.
Maybe in some insane version of reality lycans are the only intelligent species to walk the Earth. Maybe in another reality aliens really do exist and crawl down chimneys in order to steal cookies.
Gerald Broflovski liked conspiracy theories though. He loved getting a rise out of people. It was a hobby of his to make mad claims such as the alien thing and leave them as notes randomly scattered across underdeveloped and uneducated areas. He'd gotten lucky a few times now, fooling just enough people into believing his insane claims that the theories spread.
It was a challenge unlike any he had ever faced to keep a straight face when, during a dinner party, Stephen Stotch brought up the theory about alternate realities, as though he were quoting from an academic source.
He'd feigned a coughing fit and excused himself from the table.
Of course Gerald wasn't insane. He knew that in reality 'supernatural' events just didn't happen. There were only three bipedal species with any grain of intelligence in them and honestly, that was giving the other two too much credit in his opinion.
Did the lycan and humans really count as intelligent? The lycan had some redeeming features, even if he personally found them to be disgusting lower beings, but humans? Gerald rolled his eyes at the mere thought of the groveling pigs who lay in the street of the lower town.
Pathetic. Livestock at absolute best. Useless carriers of illness at worst.
For those precise reasons, Gerald had decided ages ago that he would acquire pets for his sons. No need to risk catching some disgusting infection off the street. No complications or scandals. Just a safe source of food that could be easily maintained.
He was a man of means; he could easily afford the cost. As soon as his sons were weaned off of their mother's blood and away from cows, it was time for a pet.
Gerald had long since considered getting one for him and his wife, but Sheila actually preferred the taste of cow blood and he hadn't yet gotten up the guts to tell her that he didn't.
Sheila was a complicated woman to disagree with.
Luckily she agreed with them over getting their sons pets. The mere idea that they might risk infections or disease by trying human blood in an unsafe environment set off every alarm for her.
And, if Gerald reasoned, he could probably sneak a drink or two from the pet when no one was paying attention.
The concerns of the malicious upper class are just a microcosm of the variety of problems in the world. While there were no shortages of well bred bastards such as Gerald Broflovski, there were plenty of problems his well-educated elite mind would have great difficulty comprehending.
What exactly the word hunger really means, for starters. Those problems felt by those out of his sight. In another part of the city, a young boy waited anxiously.
Kevin counted under his breath, waiting for the signal from his little brother.
His acids gnawed at whichever part of his stomach lining seemed the most edible. It was a familiar enough sensation that he didn't mind it — he just worried about the sound it might create if his stomach turned.
A sound which could alert the stall below him to his presence and ruin any hope they had of making it out of this unscathed.
Five, four…
Oh his stomach was going to make this challenging.
He clenched it in hopes of hiding any noise.
He could see Kenny approach from below, just out of sight of the stall vender. Crouched and ready.
Three, two, one.
Time.
Kenny locked eyes with him and with the signal he untied the knot holding up the shade. It dropped the same instance that Kevin began his sprint across the roof. He knew that below the now confused and temporarily blinded vendor, Kenny was gathering fruit into his satchel and making his own escape.
He heard an angry scream and paused, only a moment, before forcing his feet forward. He couldn't help Kenny if he was caught. He couldn't.
He had to make it back home. Little baby Karen wouldn't make it through the night if neither of her brothers made it back.
He had to run.
He swallowed the stomach acid that was attempting to eat him alive and escape the impending danger.
The tiles of the roof cut through his calluses and into the flesh beneath, leaving drops of blood leading to his destination. It didn't matter. If anyone was following him, they would have an easier time following the grime that coated his feet.
Or maybe the the icy sweat that trailed behind him. It was too cold in the winter for sweat. He was too dehydrated to lose the water. His fear, the adrenaline, and the need to make it away safely all made the salty water escape from his pores.
Not that Kevin was aware of any of this. The poor boy was as dim as they come. Only aware of the need to run and the fear of loss. Only aware that his stomach hurt, his head was spinning, and the edge of the roof was coming up.
He tripped.
Falling over the ledge and into the waiting alleyway.
Death or injury awaited him and all for a few apples and a potato, if they were lucky.
Kevin's eyes clenched shut. He wouldn't look death in the eye. He couldn't bare to.
"Ooph!"
Kevin cracked an eye open. The hard ground never found him. He was on top of something soft, a satchel of fruits and vegetables lying nearby and the metallic smell of something nauseating filling his senses.
He stood up, confused, and looked around the alleyway for any trace of his brother. Perhaps the boy had stashed the goods here and continued his escape? That made sense. He picked up the satchel and started out of the alleyway before stopping.
What could have softened his fall?
The cobblestones of the alley shouldn't have been so soft.
He should have looked back, looked down, but he couldn't.
In the back of his mind he felt there was something bad he would see if he turned around, and he couldn't question it.
He had to get home to his sister. Kenny would catch up later.
He was sure of it.
Being sure of facts, even when they are demonstratively wrong, is an advantage that not everyone in this twisted world can really hold any faith in.
Another involuntary jolt shot through his system in perfect step with the panicked thoughts assailing him. The step he'd just taken, one he'd been so sure of mere moments ago, made his stomach drop to his toes. Was this truly the best course of action? Could anything be the best course of action?
Paralysis and panic.
Tweek Tweak was young enough that it truly seemed unreasonable for him to be questioning something so simple.
All lycan needed to practice making the change. It was a normal part of the developmental process.
Everyone assured him it was normal. Normal, normal, normal. Do it faster, Tweek. Don't be so scared, Tweek.
Yet, everything in his body felt on edge, convulsing with a bone-deep panic that he couldn't shake.
He turned to his father once more, the empty smile of encouragement causing him to cringe. "It feels weird. Gah, can we please do this later?!"
He couldn't properly modulate his voice. That wasn't really anything new, but it struck him as particularly disturbing in this instance.
His hands were furry and his spine had extended into a tail, but every fiber of his being screamed to turn around. His father's mouth opened to respond but Tweek interjected quickly, speaking too fast to be truly understood, "I can't do this!"
"You will." His father's voice wasn't firm— it was the same coated syrup he used with customers.
"I won't!" he argued, he knew what he was capable of! He wasn't dumb! He wasn't crazy!
His body was rejecting the transformation, he didn't know how he knew but he knew.
He knew, he knew, he knew.
"Think of what the neighbors would say." His father knelt down and Tweek could smell his disapproval. Disappointment.
He could always smell it.
"Why are they talking about me?! I'm not interesting, this isn't interesting! They should mind their own business!" He tried to find the words, the ones that could somehow dissuade his father's made up mind. "I can't do it! There's something wrong..."
His father didn't let him finish, cutting in sharply with a fatherly hand on his shoulder. "Tweek. This isn't up for debate."
Tweek knew it wasn't. It never was. He'd never gotten anyone to listen. Just listen. All he wanted was to be heard. Why wouldn't they just listen? He wasn't crazy! He wasn't! He knew his own body, he knew.
"Tweek," His father warned.
Tweek just closed his eyes, breathing out through his mouth in one long exhale.
He let himself believe for a second that he was wrong. It was just his imagination making a mountain out of an ant-hill. He just felt funny because he'd never forced a transformation before.
Everyone said it was normal. Maybe everyone was right.
He held back tears and accepted that he must be wrong. He had to be. His father wouldn't make him do something dangerous.
With another shuddery breath and full body jolt, Tweek listened to his father.
And made the worst mistake of his entire life.
The true height and scale of mistakes are measured on a subjective scales. While Tweek's would be considered hefty by most any standard, Damien Thorn was prepared to make even bigger ones in the name of progress.
His father was gutless. Pathetic. Creating a hierarchy and just leaving it to decay was a lazy use of power. The only way to truly rule was to have absolute control over the mindless peons below without allowing them delusions of grandeur.
Damion clenched his tiny fists. He was still too small to make any difference.
The maids scattered at the sight of his petulant march through the halls, eyes blazing with intent.
Alone in a house this large with no one but servants to entertain him.
The window in the hall offered him a wide view of the city below, expansive and endless, from the large buildings of those who thought that they possessed power to the hoveled huts in the distance, marking the lower town.
They were all pathetic.
I could crush them all.
He wanted to, more than anything. From the 'nobles' his father entertained, stroking their tiny egos, to the swine living in the gutters. They didn't deserve to breathe the same air as him.
Mistakes are funny things in that the scale of them can often be determined by the amount of power in every individual's grasp.
If one had the power, the means, and temperament, the scale of the mistake could grow to unimaginable heights.
Damion didn't think about mistakes. He thought about how he could do it better. About how he'd always been able to do it better. About the disappointment he felt for his father's lax rule. About the changes he would make the moment he took the throne.
He turned away from the window with all the feeble humans, lycans, and vampires. He was above them. He was more powerful.
And with his only parental figure out for a evening of regret, Damion marched to the library.
He was about to make a huge mistake. One that would cost him dearly and everyone else even more so.
To his small mind, thoughts of error were nonexistent.
I know what must be done.
The road to hell is paved with confidence.