Author Note: Major thanks to KittyBePraised (now I have to find a way to get puppies with anger in their souls somewhere in the story, lol), Itachi. Oh Enka, The Brat Prince (join the dark side – stuff the cookies, we have the Gorgeous Antichrist!! Lol), Mizuni-no-neko, Camomilehottea and Hayze-Chan for the reviews! I'm really glad it was enjoyed.
Also, my thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter of AEBH and I'm working on the review replies, I just really wanted to get the new chapter of this up before I fall asleep head-first onto my keyboard (I hate Wednesdays). Next chapter won't take so long to post. Oh, and although Kenny does get slightly emo-ish in this chapter and will no doubt have his moments later on, he's not gonna be Mister Misery throughout or anything.
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No one can save me and you know I don't want the attention.
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Kenny McCormick was the person that everyone in town knew, everyone recognised, and no one saw.
From his earliest childhood, he had been given some barricade from doting strangers by his parents, who were famously unapproachable. Should anyone take an interest in the child, bundled up against the cold climate in too-large clothes, they would typically be greeted with suspicion and hostility. His father would sometimes attempt to get involved in his life and his mother would on occasion remember he needed affection and go over the top in her shows of love, but they had other, more immediate concerns – their need to blur out the harshness of the world, the only thing either had to look forward to being the next drink. No one doubted that they loved each other, in spite of their frequent, screaming, violent arguments, and Kenny was never left with the impression that they didn't care about him – but he knew that he didn't hold much interest for them either.
He had become something of a wonder in town when he came back to life after dying at a young age, but after a few times it became the norm, unremarkable, like an unpleasant landmark that familiarity erases from conscious view. It was barely remarked upon unless there was some reason to bring his latest demise to attention, usually moralistic crusades that were designed to show the dangers of one pleasure or another. His system took on every assault and internalised it, spreading through his body like a fire that destroyed him swiftly, until a resurrection that showed no stigmata of what had taken him last.
He always returned and his vulnerability to everything, coupled with his inability to remain deceased, became just another part of life. Kenny would always be there, not even death took him away, and as a result he became as much a part of the background as the streets of town. It made him unpredictable. He couldn't be counted upon, because no one knew how long he might stay alive this time. Even when he was in a group, uninjured, healthy and breathing, he could be safely ignored.
Accepting of his status, he blended further into the background with oversized, shabby clothes that hid his thin body, hood constantly raised as if to prevent anyone seeing what he really looked like. Everyone knew who he was, but most would struggle to describe his face without adornment, mind seeing the image of blue eyes peering from beneath the hood. The reason that everyone recognised him was because they couldn't recognise him. Even the people closest to him preferred to think of him with his face concealed, because when it was revealed it was usually after the latest illness, the latest accident, and those familiar blue eyes would be lifeless. If they remembered Kenny, they liked to think of him as alive and that meant that the hood was a part of the picture.
No one had ever known why Kenny would not stay dead, least of all Kenny himself. He had been to Heaven, been to Hell, performed the tasks he thought would be the reason he had been restored to the mortal world to do, only to once more find himself returned to life. His peers were tired of him being the poster boy for everything that their age group could fall victim to, his parents were ageing too rapidly through their cycles of mourning and rejoicing, turning again to alcohol to attempt a numbness to both.
As he got older, it occurred to him that maybe there was no reason. Maybe it was some cosmic joke that he was the punchline of. Or maybe he was the modern day version of Job, except that he had never had everything to begin with and so his life, or afterlife, was the only thing that could be taken from him. Or maybe he was around to make everyone feel better about their own lives.
The future tormented him. His father didn't work, his mother didn't work, they could barely keep a roof over their heads and the meagre meals they fed their offspring. There didn't seem much point in Kenny hoping for better. No one would hire a guy who could be dead before the end of his first day and no one would keep his job open until he was alive, due to the unpredictability of his returns. So what, welfare? The town officials would probably turn a blind eye to his condition and not demand proof of life every time he returned, but it was hardly something kids wanted to be when they grew up.
Maybe his parents had the right idea, he decided. Self-destruct. Walk the line and see how far to push before he just fell off. Not quite suicidal tendencies, more a flirtation with the beyond. How much could he abuse life before it was taken from him forever?
He still hadn't found the answer that morning.
School was the kind of horrible monotony that drove most of his friends insane, but he rather welcomed. He didn't learn much, never had – he wasn't dumb but he wasn't ever going to be mistaken for a genius, any more than he would be voted Most Likely To Succeed in the school yearbook. And missing huge chunks of classes because he was dead put a crimp in his study time.
Still he didn't mind it really. Even in the dullest of classes, there was something to keep him entertained, even if it was just a daydream. And his friends were all at school, at least for a short time longer, until their own normalcy took them on the path to college and career and a way out of the mountain town that held Kenny McCormick as its hostage. Once they were gone, it was just him and the rest of the deadbeats, rednecks and crazies.
His self-destructive kicks had become darker as the years had passed. What had started off as playing chicken with trains had mutated into the socially acceptable pastime of abusing his liver with cheap alcohol, made in a still and sold by hillbillies with few teeth and fewer scruples; occasionally, a bad batch killed him, or scrambled his senses bad enough to make him wish it had. But even that grew stale, with all the reminders that the habit was pushing him faster into that life. More recently, he had been experimenting with less acceptable methods of darkness; the weak drugs that made him feel surprisingly okay about himself weren't enough to dance the precarious line between life and death. His last two deaths had seen his pictures plastered across town, the dangers of heavy drugs and after that, risks of infections from sharing needles. He'd caught hepatitis from prodding for a vein with someone else's rig and his system being the way it was, what might have been treatable in other people had killed him in four days.
He came back clean. He always came back without the evidence of the life he had before. No matter how far into dependency, any dependency, he fell, he would never have the physical need for it upon his return; nor would he have any illness he'd had prior to death. Had he known what made him return, he could have made millions by curing known addictions and diseases. But no, that might have made his existence mean something and so all he ever got was the clean-cut, middle class kids avoiding his dick in case this was the one time he came back with the clap and decided to share.
The last drug death though, that had resulted in an intervention and he hated those more than anything else. His friends didn't mean to make him feel like a worthless pile of crap, but when they explained how his behaviour affected them, that's how he felt. The last one had been especially bad, with Butters in tears on his threadbare couch and both Stan and Kyle telling him that they knew he came back fine, but they hated that he went looking for death himself, when it found him far too often anyway.
They hadn't understood, but then, they never really had. Sometimes Kenny wondered if it wasn't death that he was really addicted to.
Of all the people who tried to snap him out of the habit, it had been Craig who scared him the most. Craig grabbed him as everyone else left, the wild look in his eyes, speaking to him confidentially. "If this intervention thing doesn't work," he had whispered, "share the wealth." It scared Kenny because Craig was just crazy enough to do something like that without knowing what he was getting into and not having the luxury of dying insane and coming back clean.
Kenny had solemnly promised himself he would never go down that route again, never make his friends wonder what they were missing out on.
It was a promise he was about to break.
He'd gotten the gear two days before, in a moment of madness before reminding himself of the worry in Stan and Kyle's eyes, the fear in Butters, the curiosity in Craig's. He'd chucked it into a drawer because hell, he was the poor kid and not getting any richer, he still knew people who would buy the shit and allow him to recoup his losses. And then somehow, he had forgotten about it, or told himself he had.
He'd awoken that morning to hear his little sister puking whatever she and her friends had got drunk on the previous night, his mom yelling shrilly that it was all thanks to the bad example set by his dad, his dad threatening to quiet them both, even though he never laid a hand on any of the children. It set his brain to asking the same questions without answers; is this all there is? Is this my future? How long can I cope with all this shit?
And as he grabbed for a pair of cleanish socks, he had found the gear and shoved it into his schoolbag.
No one has to know, he told himself uneasily, heading down the quiet corridors of the school building. Classes were in session and no one cared if Kenny wasn't in them, assuming him dead again. It can be my secret. I can skip out again if I get bad, they'll just think I died somewhere and no one found me again.
The future was a puzzle and death a mystery, but the needs of an addict were immediate and Kenny felt like being a junkie again. Too thin, pale, staring unnoticed from the gutter, his only thoughts how to get through the next few hours and not dwelling on when, or if, he would finally die for good. And how long it would take people to realise that this time was forever.
He shoved open the bathroom door and almost cursed aloud when he realised he wasn't alone.
During class, there should have been little chance of discovery. Even less so in these bathrooms, which weren't frequented by the smokers and so were less of a target for illicit skiving or authoritarian busts. Of course, that made it even more likely that when one was discovered, the other person would go straight to the headteacher.
Instinctively, Kenny took a step back, then relaxed as he recognised Pip Pirrup. Pip wasn't a friend and they had never travelled in the same circles – not that Pip could be said to have a circle – but like Kenny, he was just another part of the scenery. He would happily believe that Kenny needed to take a dump and skip away without trying to catch him out.
Neither boy had spoken more than a couple of muttered greetings since entering high school. In elementary, Pip had been bullied mercilessly and Kenny had joined in when he wasn't dead, but when they approached middle school, it seemed a little pointless. Kenny had joined in on a couple of random taunts since then, but had decisively laid off once they had been paired for a class assignment in Geography and Pip had helpfully given the meanings behind certain English curse words. No one could swear like the English, in Kenny's humble opinion. They hadn't been friends but Kenny hadn't harmed Pip in any way for a long time. Nor had he encouraged others to leave the boy alone though. If he saw anyone harming the British boy, he would just look the other way. That was the way of school, kill or be killed. He didn't care enough about Pip to sacrifice his own well-being, no matter how temporarily.
He expected Pip to apologise for his presence and scurry away. He expected lowered eyes and an awkward dance as the other tried to leave the room without getting in the way or touching him in any manner.
He hadn't expected eye contact. And he certainly hadn't expected the grin.
Kenny frowned, staring at Pip from beneath his hood. There was something – different. Pip was neither apologetic, nor nervous and Pip was always those. Nor was he making any move to leave, merely lounging back against the sinks. His whole posture was different, shoulders straight rather than hunched, hands casually hooked through the belt loops of his jeans, head up. He exuded confidence and superiority.
Pip's eyes, almost the exact same shade of blue as Kenny's, looked him up and down. Kenny wished he had just gone to the smokers room. He was beginning to feel very uneasy and – shit. There was blood, blood on Pip's hands, a few dribbles on his shirt. Kenny began to wonder if something had happened to Pip, something that had finally caused him to snap.
"Ken-ny..." Pip's voice was quiet, the word coming in a sing-song voice. He couldn't have known what was going on behind Pip's mocking gaze.
~:~:~
Asmodeus is planning to kill the boy quickly and cleanly, hide the body in the stall where Mitchell breathed his last and get out. It expects Pip to object and is mildly curious when it realises the protests the host is making lack the vehemence with which he was pleading for the life of the first.
It hesitates, curiosity getting the better of it. "Why don't you care about the life of this one?"
"I do care, just – make it quick for him. Don't make him suffer like... like Mitchell did."
"That wasn't suffering," it snorts, ready to describe Hell and the meaning of what it truly is to suffer. But it's time is short and there's something about Pip's attitude that makes it suspicious. "Who is he?"
"Nobody," comes the reply, too quickly. "He's nobody."
Now it truly is concerned and without warning, rifles through Pip's memories to find what he knows of this child.
Oh my God, you killed Kenny!
You bastards!
Hey Kenny, where you been?
Kenny dies all the time!
What, did Kenny die again?
Kenny McCormick, stop your snickering!
Kenny.
Kenny...
"Nobody." It's voice is flat, hiding anger. Pip was trying to fool it into killing the boy – and this, this was the boy who had made its escape possible. The one it had followed, the one who walked between all the worlds. If this Kenny were dead, he would be able to inform Satan of what had killed him and if Satan hadn't known of its freedom before, he would after that.
"You want him to alert the forces of Hell as to my whereabouts."
Pip doesn't reply.
"And you thought it would be alright, because he always returns. That Kenny might be able to do something about my presence."
"...I suppose so."
"You can't control me child, and you cannot fool me either. I know what's in your mind. So tough titty, Kenny can't save you. Maybe you should stop trying."
It has a sudden thought and allows amusement to creep into its voice. "Or maybe I should just find a host who doesn't keep struggling..."
~:~:~
"We know you."
Kenny had been unconsciously avoiding Pip's gaze. Now, his eyes snapped up to look Pip full in the face. He decided the words had been unthoughtful, the change in Pip's expression almost too fast to comprehend. Anyone else would have missed it. But Kenny was familiar with demons, angels, spirits, could recognise them as soon as they revealed themselves.
Pip's eyes changed, just for a moment.
Kenny remembered Pip's eyes as being blue. When he caught them unguarded, Pip's eyes had been a dull shade of red, all over, no whites, no irises, no pupils. He'd met only a few people who had that colouring – and people was probably the wrong word.
And then the moment was over and Pip's eyes were blue circling black, filled with vague amusement.
"Something wrong?" asked Pip and Kenny was suddenly sure that this was how he was going to finally die, in a bathroom by the hands of the schools biggest loser, a pocketful of oblivion that he never got the chance to taste.
Death seemed to have lost its allure.
"No," snapped Kenny, deciding to play along. If whatever Pip was didn't know he'd realised, then maybe he was safe to go on? "Just using the pisser."
"Right," mocked Pip. "If I were you, I'd run along to another bathroom."
"Huh?" Kenny took another couple of steps forward because a part of his mind rebelled; there was no way he was being intimidated by Pip Pirrup of all people and over what? A change in posture and what might have been blood?
He glanced at the floor and went cold, his new vantage point telling him there was no might have about it. There was blood, pooling from under the furthest stall, a steady trickle emerging from beneath the door.
Pip darted forward and caught Kenny's arm. Normally there would have been no contest, Pip too afraid to use any real force and Kenny too secure in his superior role. But things had changed. Pip wasn't afraid any more.
Or whatever used to be Pip wasn't afraid.
"Ken-ny." Pip's eyes changed again briefly, to red and then back to normal. "You're famous, did you know that? Pip knows you of course, but I heard of the mortal who moves between worlds too, even in my own pit of Hell."
Kenny tried to pull his arm back, to no avail. Pip had him tightly. "Who are you?"
"I can be called Asmodeus," Pip replied scornfully. "Although that is not my real name either. Ah, this explains why I began here, rather than somewhere else."
Pip dragged Kenny closer, staring into his eyes. Kenny wished he could hide his entire face behind the hood, protect his soul from whatever this was.
Abruptly, he was released. Kenny half-fell, half-stumbled away from Pip. "What..."
"It's too soon," said Pip, leaning up and flexing his left hand meditatively. "And I can't even kill you because of what you might say. I know you have Satan's ear. So..."
He thrust the hand forward. Kenny instinctively ducked from it, his feet hitting a wet patch and slipping, his head contacting cold tiles. His hood saved him from death, keeping him from splitting his head on the tiles.
It didn't save him from unconsciousness.
He was vaguely aware of Pip stepping over him to leave the room, pausing briefly. He felt those eyes – blue? Red? – boring into him. And then the world slipped to grey and the last thing he heard was the door opening as whatever he had shared the bathroom with left.