Author's note: A special thanks Mickeymouse4everz, Montana-Bob, demonlord5000, puffygeemoth, and fartsockpoopsock for your reviews! And everyone else who showed interest :) means the world to me!

Chapter 2

Kyle Dies

The next morning started out like any other Monday, with the boys meeting up at the bus stop. Cartman was the last to show, like usual, and was just about to expound upon his latest scheme when a plane engine that had extricated itself from the plane fell out of sky and landed directly on Kyle, crushing him instantly.

There was a moment of absolute silence, all of their eyes wide with shock as blood pooled out under the engine, turning the white, fluffy snow underneath it a deep crimson.

It was Stan who made the first sound - something along the lines of 'mmmphf.'

Then Cartman tsked. "That proves it," he said decidedly. "God hates Jews."

Stan found his voice. "O-oh God... Oh God, Kyle! No!"

He threw himself onto the ground, digging his hands into the snow that was now red slush, as though wanting to dig Kyle out. "He's okay! He's okay! He's okay!" he repeated again and again, sounding quite manic as his brown jacket grew dark with his best friend's life blood. "Nonono. He can't be... he can't be... he's my best friend. No. No. NOOOOOOOO!" He screamed to the heavens that had struck the death-blow, hands raised high, supplicating.

"Jeeze, Stan, don't be such a drama queen," Cartman said, rolling his eyes. "Bus is here."

Stan collapsed in the snow and curled into the fetal position, sobbing.

Kenny was unmoving and silent, eyes saucers in his head.

"Are you boys going to school?" the bus lady demanded.

Kenny gestured towards the carnage.

"Oh. All right then."

She was just about to close the doors when Cartman waddled past them. "Wait!" he cried, clambering up the bus steps. "Fuck you guys. I'm not missing Burrito day."

Kenny watched the bus drive off, Stan's relentless sobs white noise in his own numb state of shock. Why didn't it take me? he asked no one. Then he fell to his knees. "Mrrph mrrmpf mmr mmmrrrrr!"

"YEAH! WHY DIDN'T YOU TAKEN KENNNYYYYYY!" Stan agreed.

"Mrph! Mrph mmr mmmrt, mmrf!"

Kenny let him sob into his parka, and for a while the two boys clutched at each other, but by the time the police had arrived, Stan had grown quiet. Kenny tried asking him if he was okay, knowing of course that he wasn't, but Stan was unresponsive. He couldn't possibly put words to his pain. Losing a friend like that—his super best friend—was like having a limb torn off unexpectedly.

Kenny told the police that the deceased was Kyle Broflovski and provided them his home-phone number. He also gave them Stan's home-number and his own, knowing that the police would not be able to reach his parents.

Sheila and Gerald Broflovski arrived in short order. Sheila was in hysterics and lost it completely when she saw what remained of her son.

"NOOOOO!" she screeched. "OH GOD NO! NOT MY BUBBEH! NOT MY BUBBEH! PLEEEEAAAASSSEE! NOT MY BUBBEH! AHHHH!"

Gerald had to hold her back. Her arms flailed as she struggled against her husband. She kept screaming, "Nooo! NOT MY BUBBEH!" As though if she said it enough it would make it true. Kenny could just make out Gerald say to his wife, "He's gone, Sheila. He's gone. I'm so sorry. He's gone," his own voice thick with pain.

Randy and Sharon came next. When they got out of the car, Randy put an arm around his wife's shoulders and pulled her close. They looked at the Broflovskis, who were sobbing into each other's shoulders. Randy and Sharon exchanged glances, silently agreeing that now was not the time to talk to them.

"Stan, sweetie," said Sharon, stooping low and pulling her blood-covered, shell-shocked son into a hug.

Stan looked at her, eyes glazed. "It just... fell from the sky... it just... I don't... why, Mom? Why?"

"Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry."

"Alright, son, let's get you home," said Randy with a heavy sigh.

Stan didn't need much coaxing. He allowed his mother's gentle hand to lead him to the back seat of their car, behaving as though he were in a stupor.

Before getting into the driver seat, Randy hesitated. He turned back to Kenny. "Do you need a ride?"

Kenny shook his head. "Mrph. Mrrph mmmr."

Randy looked as though he might insist, but then shrugged. He got in his car and drove away.

Kenny got up and started off in the direction of home. Though he didn't get very far before a single thought overwhelmed him, and he found himself falling on the nearest post for support.

That was meant for me.

Kenny would have just come back and everyone would have forgotten that impossible thing that had happened. But Kyle would never return, and the suddenness and pointlessness of his death would destroy his family and friends.

You killed Kyle. You bastard.

Kenny dug his nails into the post supporting him, feeling as though he might vomit.

No, he told himself firmly. You don't know that.

But he thought he did, and he was filled with a panic he couldn't quite explain.

He unzipped his parka and retrieved his revolver from the inside pocket. He carried it on his person in case he had to get out of a tight spot.

He contemplated the weapon.

It had a sort of simple appeal. He could just blow his brains out, not have to face all the empty attempts at comforting him. He was sure they would all be just so sorry his little friend had died, but they could never understand his feelings of confusion and guilt.

If he acted quickly, he might even see Kyle in Hell.

The thought was immensely comforting.

He pressed the barrel of the gun under his chin, feeling its cold but familiar kiss. On the verge of pulling the trigger, he realized with a sudden surge of guilt, that he was still well within seeing and hearing distance of the police officers. If they heard him, they would come running and it would be another tragic, pointless death of a child. Granted, everyone would forget it the next day, but it seemed disrespectful somehow - not to mention cruel to Stan. If he was going to kill himself, he needed to do it somewhere private.

The thought of Stan made him hesitate. When he died, he sometimes went to Hell, but sometimes there was only darkness. Even if he did go to Hell, there was no guarantee he'd see Kyle. In fact, that prospect was becoming less and less likely with each passing second, and even if he did see him, what would he say to him? Sorry, dude. I think my immortality is on the fritz and you were a casualty? (Kenny clutched his stomach, feeling another wave of nausea wash through him.)

Perhaps he'd see Kyle some other time. Stan needed him now, and he was no good to anyone dead.

That was as true for him as it was for anyone else.

He returned his revolver to its pocket and zipped up his parka, starting in the direction of Stan's house. The walk would give his friend plenty of time to grieve with his parents. He wasn't sure what he could say or do for Stan, but he would need a friend.

He tried not to think anymore during his walk, sure that the image of his Kyle getting flattened like that would drive him insane. Upon arriving on the Marsh doorstep, he knocked. It was Randy Marsh who answered, looking somber. "Oh, hi, Kenny," he said, stepping aside to let him in. "Stan is upstairs in his room."

When Kenny entered Stan's room, he found him lying flat on his stomach in bed with his mother rubbing his back. Feeling that this was an intimate moment between mother and son, he started to back out, but Sharon saw him and beckoned him forward, pulling him into a hug when he was within grabbing distance.

"I'm sorry, boys," she said, her voice hoarse. "I'm so sorry you had to see that." She sniffed.

Stan was staring at the wall. His eyes were red from crying, though now he was quiet and still.

He put a hand on Stan's back, feeling awkward. "Mrrph mrrph, mrrph."

Startling both his mother and Kenny, Stan sat up. "Mom," he said suddenly, "do you think you could go to the store and get Kenny and me some ice cream? Mint chip."

Sharon blinked, obviously caught off guard by the off-the-wall request, but her expression cleared, and Kenny could tell from her voice that she was ecstatic to have something to do. "Of course, sweetie." She pulled him into a hug and planted a firm kiss on the top of his head, then hurried out as though the world depended on the timely delivery of her son's mint chocolate chip ice cream.

As soon as she was gone, Stan grabbed his backpack from the floor beside his bed and unzipped it. After rummaging through it for a moment, he pulled out his flask and unscrewed the cap. Kenny wrinkled his nose as the smell of Jack Daniels wafted into the air.

Stan took it like medicine, and then handed it to Kenny, wiping his lips.

Kenny took it with a sigh.

This was going to be a long day.