Butters stares out the car window; all is a blur before his eyes, much like the events that have so far transpired tonight.
It started out like a normal night; he was going to go home and work on homework before falling asleep in the bitterness of his apartment. Only that never happened. Here he is pretending to be a Russian mob boss's client as they go to rescue their friend who has been missing for seven years.
His eyes shift to the clock; he can't tear his eyes away. It's 12:38 a.m.. They now have twenty-two minutes to get Kenny and Craig, if all goes according to plan.
Butters' phone vibrates and he reads the text from Kyle. His heart sinks and he leans forward to Eric and Clyde. He stares at the words on the screen in horror, unsure of what to say; how could he say it?
He turns the text to Clyde, who shakes his head and hits his temple on the window.
"They... they raped Craig."
Cartman's hand slams against the steering wheel and Clyde's hands shake as he hands Butters his phone.
"I-is he serious?" he asks Butters, who gives a timid nod. He sounds terrified.
Suddenly this is real. Craig is a private investigator with years of training to protect himself. He isn't a part of the human trafficking ring; yet he's seen just the same.
He can't help but wonder what exactly they're getting themselves into, and if it would end up being too much for them to handle.
"I fucking told them not to... shit... it's on recording, right?" Butters texts Kyle back with Cartman's question in mind and waits in silent anxiety for the response.
"Yeah," he finally answers. "they also have an apology from whoever Master is."
He feels sick as they drive past Five Points. Butters has never been in this area of town. It's enough to make him slink down in the seat and silently pray he won't be shot at.
Butters can't help but wonder how this is going to end. An ex-cop of three months, a nurse, a private investigator, and a pizza delivery boy all going against the southwest sex-trafficking ring and the mafia members that led it all. He can't understand how they could possibly make it out unscathed; no matter what they wouldn't. They raped Craig. Whatever happens now is up in the air.
They just have to cooperate and keep suspicions low. As soon as they have Kenny it doesn't matter. They will be found by the feds, taken into custody, and hopefully locked away for life. The problem is; who's a part of it in the FBI? The CIA? SWAT? Interpol? They are all on the list. It's impossible to know who they can trust. They just have to hope for the best.
Or, by the end of the night, are they all going to be in body bags? He can't help but dwell on this thought. A shiver runs down his spine and he bites his lip. He has to keep composure, be calm.
"Butters?" Cartman says, breaking the uncomfortable silence in the car. He has a feeling they were all reeling on the same idea.
"Y-yeah?"
"When we're there..." he trails off, "don't say a word."
He nods. If he does he knows he'll blow it; he's nearly too nervous enough as it is. Besides, what is the point in him talking? He is just a prop. He has nothing to say to Kenny's captors.
What is he going to say to Kenny?
There is so much to say; seven years of unspoken words. But there is no meaning. What he has to say, who he is, has no meaning to Kenny. Not now, anyway. None of them do. How are they supposed to chip away the brainwashed psyche that he has built up? And who's to say they will find Kenny beneath? Who's to say that warped mind isn't Kenny?
After all, none of them are fifteen anymore. They have all grown up and moved on, and in a sense Kenny has too. If he snaps out of this mental state, this submissive slave ideal that has been forced onto him, he won't know who he's supposed to be. All he will remember is sophomore year of high school before tons of torture he didn't deserve.
How could someone cope with that? Butters doesn't think its possible. But f it's Kenny, he will find a way. They all will.
"Are you ready?" Cartman turns and asks Butters as he stops the car. He glances around. The streets are dark and shining with melted snow, everything looks bitter outside, and dirty. The shadows loom, and prying eyes are watching, waiting. He can just sense it.
"Y-yeah..." he trails off, the waver in his voice betrays him.
"As soon as we step out of here, you say nothing. You just nod and take it, okay? Keep your eyes low. You never know what could happen."
They could take him, couldn't they? If he so much looks at someone the wrong way, or maybe the right way they'll take him.
"So what are we... doing, exactly?" Butters asks.
"Kenny's choosing up. What's going to happen is the psycho and his cronies are going to basically harass him into looking at him, the master or whatever. We're also going to be doing the same thing. With you there it might give us a better chance."
"What do you mean, might?" Butters asks; this has to work. There is no way Kenny could possibly want to stay there, is there? How could anyone?
"Usually choosing up means your owner will retaliate somehow. And he'll be scared."
Eric opens his door and stands outside the car. He pulls out a cigar and Butters watches him take a puff; he doesn't even smoke cigarettes. Then, his hand bangs on the window; he jumps in surprise, and quickly scrambles out of the car.
"We don't have time, you fucking twink," Cartman barks to him. Butters bites his tongue and nods. Gravel crunches, and he turns to find Clyde looming above them with a stoic look on his face.
"This is not worth my time," his accent his heavy and Butters tries his best not to appear shocked.
They walk down the alley way, Butters in between Eric and Clyde, in near silence; the only sound that they hear is their walking, and Clyde's cane rapping against the asphalt with every step.
It scares Butters how good they both are at this.
Eric opens the back door to a building and enters; he quickly follows suit. The lights are red and it makes him feel wounded. It smells like cigarettes and the air is thick. There is no bartender, and Cartman simply walks up the stairs.
"Remember, keep your eyes low," Clyde says to him. He nods feebly and suddenly wants to hold someones' hand. This is terrifying. How can they do this? How can Kenny live like this?
He glances at his phone to check the time; 12:48. Twelve minutes.
How would this be possible?
Butters clasps his hand in his own and feels empty at the poor attempt at comfort.
"You pay up front?" He turns around and sees the shoes of someone he doesn't know. That voice is familiar. He tries his best not to look up; it's the master.
"It's in an account, here is the number. All of your money is in there," Cartman replies, handing over a piece of paper. "Now where are they?" The master sighs.
"Do you tolerate the way your lackey tries to run your show? I had one just like him," he's addressing Clyde. "I couldn't stand him."
"He is good, I don't have time to waste. He does job, he gets money. I value my workers."
"Oh, I do too," his voice reminds him of a ball of snakes, writhing together and it makes Butters' stomach churn. "Which is why I'm not sure I can agree with this."
Everything is silent; you could hear a pin drop. Butters tries his best not to look up.
"What makes you say that?" Clyde asks with a threatening boom in his voice. The blonde stiffens at his tone.
"No one has ever heard of you, Mr. Donovan. How do I know my best slave will be properly taken care of?" They don't have the time to discuss this. "After all, a name gets you places."
"I'm a renegade, now what of it? I'm not asking you stupid questions. I have money, give me the whores. I'm done here. Stupid Americans."
"You said they would be ready. Where are they?" Cartman barks
"Keep a muzzle on your dog, Mr. Donovan."
"Keep yours on a shorter leash."
A small laugh is heard; Butters can't believe how Clyde is acting. It's incredible, incredibly terrifying, but to know he can muster that kind of courage right now is reassuring. Cartman is floundering in his wake; perhaps he is supposed to.
"Come in, boys," the master's voice has a slight tune to it. Butters can't ignore the chill that runs down his back. "You're choosing now."
The door opens and Butters looks up; he can't help it.
Craig is ashen and trembling as he has an arm around the smaller man next to him. His head is bowed and he's clutching his stomach as if he's in pain. Blonde hair hangs in dirty tendrils over his face. He keeps his eyes low.
Craig, on the other hand, is staring straight at Clyde.
"Your choice is obvious, my dear," Craig stiffens at his voice, "go to your master."
Craig lets go of the blonde and keeps his eyes on Clyde, slowly limping toward him. The brunette grabs him in an attempt to look tough, yet keeps a gentle hand on him. Craig is trying not to cry.
"42..." there is that sing-song tone. He doesn't move a muscle. "It's time for you to choose. Look up, my love." His eyes remain on the floor.
Butters wants to jump at the man and rip him to shreds.
"42," Clyde says lowly, "this is your choice to make. Take your time."
This was the tactic. Talk to him until he finally has to look up at someone. This was a game, another set of rules to scare him into submission. It wasn't fair.
"Master?" he asks weakly.
"Yes, my love," it's that tone; Butters wants to slice his vocal chords. It gives him false hope; it's the voice that kept him there. Butters just knows this.
"Who am I?"
"Nobody."
"Sire?" He's addressing Clyde now. Butters' eyes widen.
There's no way they can tell him who he is without the master realizing who they are or what they are trying to do.
"Yes," Clyde answers.
"Who am I?"
He is silent for awhile; he ponders the words. Finally he sighs and laughs a little.
"You are more than you know, băiat bun." The master looks at Craig and notices the jerk in 42's movements.
"That's Romanian, not Russian, if I'm correct?"
"It is... it means good boy."
A sniffle is heard. Butters looks back at the blonde and feels sick when he sees his face. No amount of makeup could cover the damage done to it tonight. But what he couldn't stop staring at were his eyes.
He is looking up; except unbeknownst to any of them, he already made his choice long ago.