[h2]Chapter 2: Call of the Banners[/h2]
As I left the flimsy cardboard fortress behind, I entered the backyard- which had turned into a miniature battlefield. Clyde, proving that he actually had some skill with a fake blade, had taken on the role of a one-boy army, his flailing arms managing to parry the feeble strikes of two pint-sized elves. In sharp contrast, Scott was faring poorly; he lay curled on the ground as a duo of elves delivered what could only be described as a thorough playground pummeling.
The rest of the elven squadron, six in total, were less warriors and more hopeless archers, loosing toy arrows with all the accuracy of blindfolded toddlers. Their attention pivoted to me as I advanced, though it hardly mattered; their shots went wide by miles except for one, which I swatted away with a dismissive flick of my stick. Pathetic.
"Charge!" they bellowed, wooden swords and staffs brandished with the drama only children can muster. I braced myself, but before I could engage, the wizard king—Cartman with a makeshift crown around his wizard hat—barked out orders like he was leading an actual army. "Clyde! Fall back to the keep! Protect the Stick of Truth with your life!"
After one more swing that actually sent one of the kings back a few feet Clyde saluted with his sword shouting, "Aye Aye!" before rushing back towards the keep, the final elf giving chase. He should be able to handle it.
Cartman sidled up next to me, Butters in tow, puffing up his chest as if inflated by his own sense of self-importance. He launched into a speech that was half Shakespearean soliloquy, half temper tantrum. "Warriors of Kupa Keep!" he began, his voice reaching an almost comical pitch of fervor, "we stand on the precipice of greatness! Today, we defend not just this pile of boxes, but the very glory upon which our kingdom is built!"
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Drama queen antics aside, there was a skirmish to win.
Butters, his blue eyes wide with a mix of concern and excitement, turned to the wizard king. "Are you going to do the spell now?" he asked, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"Patience, my loyal knight," Cartman replied in a tone that was attempting to be sage-like but came off more constipated than wise. "The incantation requires charging. It's not something you just... whip out."
I suppressed a snort at the unintentional innuendo, focusing instead on the approaching pint-sized mob. Butters nodded solemnly, as if he understood the mystical intricacies of Cartman's 'charging' process. "We just need to hold them off for a minute or so, Douchebag," Butters said, mistaking my grimace for confusion.
I let the stick in my hand answer for me, nodding along to Butters' plan before following his lead—though, admittedly, with significantly less enthusiasm.
The first elf, a kid in a tunic two sizes too big, swung his wooden sword with all the might his spindly arms could muster. I stepped aside, letting momentum carry him past me, and brought my stick down hard on the exposed back of his hand. The hollow *thwack* was followed by a yelp of genuine surprise and pain.
They wanted to play war; I was merely obliging.
Another tried a frontal assault, jabbing a staff toward my midsection. Again, I sidestepped, using the opening to rap him sharply across the shins. He hopped away, clutching at his leg, eyes watering behind his makeshift mask.
"Come on, Douchebag, keep it up!" Butters encouraged from somewhere to my left, his voice a beacon of innocence amidst the chaos.
I ducked under a swing aimed for my head, pivot-stepping into the attacker's space. My stick found a new target, tapping the side of a helmet just above the ear. The clang of wood on plastic was satisfying, the subsequent squawk even more so.
"Ow! That's not fair!" one of the elves whined, holding his arm where I'd landed an earlier blow.
'Life's not fair,' I thought, watching him retreat. If they expected mercy, they were barking up the wrong reincarnated general.
"Good job, Douchebag!" Butters cheered, clapping his hands. If I wasn't so focused on the battle, I might have found his naivety endearing. Instead, it was just noise—background to the symphony of smacks and cries that I conducted with ruthless efficiency. There was no room for empathy here, not when the game was afoot and every strike cemented my place in this absurd little kingdom.
"Remember to guard your balls!" Butters called from somewhere nearby, which was probably the most useful advice anyone had offered today. I kicked out with my leg crushing the unprotected privates of the kid before me- He crumbled to the ground predictably.
The battlefield, once a meticulously maintained suburban backyard, was now a scene of juvenile warfare. I could see Butters in my periphery, his hammer arcing through the air with such hesitant swings that it seemed more like an invitation than a threat. The elves, armed with wooden swords and shields fashioned from trash can lids, dodged with ease. Their laughter carried on the breeze, mocking.
"Swing it like you mean it, Butters!" I heard the wizard king bellow from behind his cardboard ramparts, his voice laced with impatience and the distinct timbre of someone who has never swung anything heavier than a bag of Cheetos.
"But I don't want to make them feel bad!" Butters protested, his voice quavering with the conflict between his innate sweetness and the game's call for aggression.
'Mercy in battle is a luxury we can't afford,' I thought, though my throat burned at the mere idea of voicing such wisdom aloud.
As if to punctuate the point, an elf took advantage of my distraction and landed a solid whack against the back of my head with his stick. Stars exploded in my vision, a constellation of pain that grounded me back in this absurd fray.
"Yeah! Gotcha, Douchebag!" The elf cheered, his victory short-lived but savored.
'Focus, Tanya!' I chided myself, the familiar touch of command settling over me like a cloak.
"Not you too, Douchebag!" the wizard king roared, his words slicing through the commotion, "This is the moment to prove yourself!"
Prove myself? A flicker of irritation ignited within me. As if I hadn't proven myself time and again on bloodier fields than this. With a grunt that I hoped sounded less like a wounded animal and more like the battle cry of a seasoned general, I spun around and faced my assailant. The kid's eyes widened as he recognized his mistake—challenging the reincarnation of a war-hardened spirit.
Mentally I apologized as I charged him with a renewed fervor, my stick becoming an extension of my will.
Sorry that your imaginary world had to collide with the cold, hard truth of my reality.
Sorry that this game meant more to you than it ever could to me.
But apologies were for those who spoke freely, and I was not one of them. Instead, I let my actions speak volumes, each calculated blow a wordless testament to my resolve.
The elf stumbled back, his cheers turning into gasps of surprise, then pain, then resignation as he joined the ranks of the retreating.
'Stand up or stand aside,' I thought as I eyed the remaining foes, the shadow of a smirk playing on my lips. It wasn't joy that fueled me—it was necessity. And maybe, just maybe, I was having fun.
'Prove myself,' I mused silently, the taste of the phrase bitter on my tongue. 'I'll show you proof.'
The sting at the back of my head only sharpened my focus, as more elves rushed towards me.
I struck the first of the charging elves with a kick, his feeble shield—an ill-fitting costume helmet—did nothing to ward off my strong attack.
"Mercy! Mercy!" he squeaked between sobs, but mercy had no place on this battlefield. The other elves hesitated, wide-eyed and frozen, perhaps recognizing the calculated coldness with which I fought. I wasn't just defending territory; I was imposing order amidst chaos.
"Jesus Christ, Douchebag... Do that again!" the wizard king's voice boomed, his tone a mix of shock and twisted admiration.
Ignoring his call for further violence, I turned to see Butters, still grappling with the conflict between play and harm. He wound up like a clockwork toy soldier, releasing his hammer with a slow spin that seemed to defy time itself. It sailed through the air—a metallic comet—and met its mark with a resounding thud against an elf's helmet. The boy staggered, more stunned than hurt, clutching at the dented metal as if it were a crown of thorns rather than a playful prop.
"Ow! My honor!" he cried, his dramatics laced with genuine surprise.
Butters' eyes widened, his lips mouthing an apology the elf couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears. The innocence in Butters' gaze contrasted sharply with the calculated indifference in mine, yet here we were, allies in a game that neither of us fully comprehended.
"Kick their asses, Douchebag! I got your back!" Cartman's voice cut through the chaos, his encouragement coming from a distance far too safe for my liking. A part of me wanted to roll my eyes at his audacity to command from the rear, but there was no time for that now.
I darted forward, holding a fizzing sparkler like a misguided torchbearer in an Olympic game gone haywire. The elves charged, their faces twisted in a mixture of excitement and fear, unaware of just how serious I took this 'game'. My shoes pounded against the grass, and with the agility of a cat—I launched into the air, legs extended in a perfect arc towards the leader's unsuspecting face.
The impact sent him sprawling, surprise etched onto his features as he collided with the ground, his wooden sword clattering away. Fluidly, I rolled back to my feet, my gaze locking onto the next target. With a swift motion, I shoved the still-burning sparkler into the shirt of a kid who had gotten too close—his eyes widening as he tried to bat away the sparks igniting his costume.
"Ow! Hot! Hot! Hot!" he yelped, dancing away in a panic, his earlier bravado extinguished by a tiny stick of fire.
The rest of the elves backed away, their enthusiasm dampened by the turn of events. Seizing the moment, I discarded my own stick—its purpose served—and snatched a wooden sword from one of their trembling hands. They watched, horror-struck, as I swung it with precision, each strike punctuated by their grunts and cries. No longer were they playful warriors; they were children, reminded that their wooden armory could not shield them from reality.
"Retreat! Retreat!" someone cried, their voices breaking as they stumbled over each other to escape.
"Wow, you're really good at this," Butters murmured beside me, his voice tinged with a mix of awe and concern.
I glared at the elves, watching their retreating backs. This wasn't just about defending a cardboard fortress—it was about sending a message. In this backyard battlefield, I was unmatched, a force to be reckoned with, even if it was all supposed to be pretend.
They knew the risks when they picked up their toy weapons and stepped into my domain. Every conqueror knows: to challenge the throne is to dance with defeat.
And dance they did, right out of the yard.
'Murder' is a strong word for kids playing make-believe, but that didn't stop the wizard king from bellowing it out as if we were in the thick of a real battle. His voice, ripe with glee, echoed off the wooden fence panels as Butters limped beside him, a look of mingled pride and pain etching his face.
"Ha! You are murdering them, Douchebag!" The wizard king slapped his knee, his laughter booming over the clamor of retreat.
The message was clear in the chaos around me. Elves tripped over their own feet, their swords and staffs clattering to the ground as they fled. Some nursing sparkler burns, others wiping tears mixed with backyard dirt from their cheeks. They had come for glory; they left with lessons in humility.
"Retreat faster you fools!" Their voices were shrill, panicked. I could almost taste their defeat.
For good measure, I grabbed a discarded bow, its suction arrows scattered like afterthoughts on the grass. In one swift motion, I snatched an arrow and took aim at the back of a retreating kid's head. The suction cup smacked against his scalp, sticking with a satisfying thwack.
"Ow! Hey!" he wailed, his feet pedaling even faster as his hands shot up to dislodge the rubbery offender. His cries pierced the air, a soundtrack to the wizard king's victory dance.
"Look at them run! Hahaha!"
I couldn't help the smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. Sure, I was playing the villain today, but there was something cathartic about watching bullies-turned-cowards scatter. It was a petty triumph, perhaps, but a triumph nonetheless.
"Way to go, Douchebag!" Butters panted, catching up to me. His wide eyes scanned the backyard battlefield as if expecting another wave of attackers. "That was some fancy footwork with the sparkler!"
I grunted, the sound scraping my throat. Talking always felt like swallowing broken glass, so I saved my voice for when it counted. This wasn't one of those times.
I tossed the bow aside, its role in this war concluded. My gaze followed the elves' hasty escape, the last of them squeezing through a gap in the fence. A strategic withdrawal, or maybe just a rout. It didn't matter. We had won.
'Next time they'll think twice before challenging us,' I thought, turning back to survey my comrades. The wizard king was still chuckling to himself, shaking his head in disbelief at the spectacle.
"Brutal, absolutely brutal," he said, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. It was all fun and games until someone ended up crying—or branded with a burn mark.
Maybe next time will be his turn.
I turned to the retreating elves as Cartman started to mock them and dance like the fat gleeful king he claimed to be.
The last of the elves beat a hasty retreat through the fence, their wails still echoing off the cardboard ramparts, Cartman's voice cut through the silence with all the grace of a singing warthog. He hopped in place, his dance mocking the vanquished foes, chanting, "Nah nah nah nah nah nah we still control the universe nah nah nah nah—"
But then Clyde stumbled into view, his face ashen, and the words died on Cartman's lips.
"It's gone," Clyde said, the weight of defeat heavy in his voice.
"What?" Cartman's eyes bugged out, a note of disbelief threading through the single word.
"The Stick of Truth. The elves got it."
Silence slapped us like a cold hand. Cartman's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, gears turning behind those beady eyes. I could already see what was going to happen. Clyde was going to get yelled at, blamed for failing, and then punishment would be given to him. Based on how Cartman used him as the defacto punching bag for a new recruit, he obviously wasn't in high standing with the king. I couldn't help but feel a bit of pitty for him now, "What!?" he finally exploded, his voice a thunderclap of fury. "That was your one fucking job, Clyde! Douchebag took down like fifty of them!"
He stood there, his body quivering with barely-contained rage, the fat around his middle undulating as if it had a life of its own. Then, with a suddenness that made Butters flinch beside me, Cartman pointed a damning finger at Clyde.
"That's it! You're banished from space and time!" he decreed, his tone final, as if he wielded the power to warp reality itself.
"Wh-what!? No!?" Clyde sputtered, his stoicism shattering into a thousand pieces. "You can't do that!"
"Yes, I can, Clyde! You are now banished and lost in space and time!" Cartman retorted, his voice loud enough to wake the dead.
Butters, bless his heart, chimed in, his loyalty to Cartman momentarily overcoming his usual gentleness. "Yeah! Go home, Clyde."
I remembered a time where I was in a similar situation. Trying to get high command to listen to me as I gave them a plan of action, and they ordered me to do something else. I too spoke up, and was quickly banished to a far off assignment…
I looked towards Clyde with pity, and Clyde's glare that met me could've set fire to rain. With a growl, he yanked off his helmet and threw it at me, his eyes pinning me like I was the sole reason for his downfall. Whatever pity I had for him began to shrivel up, misplaced anger being one thing I just could not stand.
I let nothing show on my face besides a slight frown as I sidestepped the projectile with ease, letting it clatter harmlessly to the ground.
'Your anger should be at the fat boy,' I thought but didn't bother voicing it. What was the point anyway? I'll talk with him next time I see him.
The idea of pain reminded me of my head, still throbbing from the wood-induced 'reminder' earlier, and I didn't want to bother calming down the kid.
"Go on, get out of here before you embarrass yourself further," Cartman sneered after Clyde, who stalked away with the look of someone plotting revenge. The air was thick with tension, the taste of betrayal lingering like bad medicine.
"This is all your fault, Douchebag. Watch your back." Clyde's voice was laced with as much threat as a bunny in a hat – ridiculous and slightly amusing. He turned sharply, his storm-off more of a petulant sulk than an exit befitting the drama of his words.
"Betrayal" wasn't a concept I held dear; it implied trust had been there to begin with. And trust, much like speech, was a luxury I couldn't afford—not when every word was a battle, not when every alliance was as stable as a house of cards in a windstorm.
'What a shame, we could have been friends.' I thought, watching Clyde's retreating form.
Cartman—*the grand wizard king*, as he fancied himself—watched Clyde lumber away with a glare sharp enough to cut tension, but not quite effective enough to salvage the situation. He turned back to me, his expression shifting from wrathful overlord to something akin to admiration. It was all teeth and no warmth. "You were amazing out there, Douchebag," he proclaimed, as if he'd bestowed upon me the highest honor. "Though you're much more of a fighter than a Mage... Seriously though, Douchebag, you were brutal," he said, clapping his hands together as if to dust them off the problem that was Clyde. "You have quite the talent for this kind of mayhem. But you can do better- here I will cast a spell to transfer just a bit of the knowledge of the wizard king to you."
I just stared at him, my gaze flat. Praise from the fat kid was starting to feel about as comforting as a hug from a cactus. But I had more pressing issues than his mood swings. The Stick of Truth—a silly name for such a powerful symbol—was gone, and with it, our hold on this game of thrones.
'Looks like we have a rescue mission on our hands,' I mused internally, already running through potential strategies. One thing was clear: this wasn't going to be a quiet evening.
Cartman, oblivious to my internal dialogue, reached behind his back, rummaging through some unseen arsenal before producing a sizable bag of Roman candles. With exaggerated flair, he chanted in gibberish—a butchered attempt at ancient tongues—and tossed them at my feet. They hit the ground with a thud, rolling clumsily across the dirt. I stooped to pick them up, noting the absurdity of it all. If Cartman noticed my lack of enthusiasm, his ego didn't let on.
'Fireworks,' I mused, weighing the bag in my hand. 'Because nothing says 'subtle magic' like setting the night ablaze with pyrotechnics.'
"Consider this new spell another tool in your arsenal," Cartman continued, mistaking my silence for awe. "Use them to bring light to the darkness... or just to scare the shit out of some elves."
'Or to signal my exasperation from miles away,' I added silently, stuffing the Roman candles into my backpack. They clinked against each other, a cacophony of potential chaos that did little to stir excitement within me.
"Your next quest awaits, Douchebag!" Cartman declared, as if he were bestowing a knighthood rather than sending me off to clean up another mess. I gave him a nod, less out of respect and more as a cue that I got the message: Go forth and cause mayhem.
Yet, despite the farce, there was a thrill in the strategy, a call to the tactician I once was, buried beneath layers of sarcasm and cynicism. The game was afoot, and whether I liked it or not, I was a player until the end.
"For a douchebag you sure can fight!" The nasally voice of Malkinsen sounded off beside me.
"Shut up Scott, no one cares what you think," Cartman spat out with venomous glee. His round face was flushed with the thrill of victory and exertion, but I barely registered it, too focused on the strange sensation washing over me.
"There, there little buddy." Butters was patting my back with a tenderness that felt oddly misplaced in the aftermath of mock battle. "I noticed you hit yourself when you fought off those drow. You gotta remember to protect your balls when fighting."
His words were meant to be instructional, I guess, but they bounced around my head without sticking. Was I supposed to thank him? A nod would suffice; it was all my stubborn throat would allow without igniting searing pain. As his hand landed another reassuring pat, I couldn't help but notice the soothing quality it possessed. It must have been ages since someone offered me a touch that didn't precede a blow or a shove.
I wasn't here for sentimentality; I was here because circumstances demanded it. And yet, despite myself, Butters' simple gesture had cracked something open—
Ahead lay more absurd quests and childish games, but maybe, just maybe, there was something else too—something resembling camaraderie in this colorado town.
The wizard king's words yanked me back to the ridiculous present, his pudgy fingers fumbling with a smartphone. "Hey douchebag, what's your Facebook?" he murmured conspiratorially, as if discussing matters of national security.
Unable to stop myself, binary numbers blitzed across my mind's eye—social webs interlacing with dates and apps- birthdayscreditcardsupdates—a digital spider's web that ensnared my thoughts until a sharp pain in my throat severed the connection. I winced, the sensation dragging me out of the virtual maelstrom and anchoring me firmly in reality.
I retrieved my own phone, its screen glaringly blank except for the zero mocking me from the friends counter. Tony's brand new Facebook page was a barren digital wasteland, untouched by the hordes of online masses that should have been clamoring at my gates.
Just as it should be.
"New kid," Butters piped up, his voice tinged with an innocence that seemed almost alien amidst our mock-medieval battleground, "you really don't got any friends on there?"
'None,' I wanted to bark, but I kept my mouth shut.
"Wowzers," Butters exclaimed, his eyes wide. "You're like a lone knight, a wanderer!"
"More like a castaway," Cartman corrected him, glee in his voice. Turning away for a moment, he bellowed, "Okay, warriors assemble!" Oblivious to my inner turmoil, he posed dramatically, hands raised as if conjuring the very essence of command. But all he summoned was a snicker from Scott, who earned a swift glare in response.
"First things first, Butters add this loser to your friends list first." His words were coated with humor that didn't reach his eyes.
"Time is ticking, Douchebag," Cartman warned, overstating the obvious. "We can't let those pointy-eared twerps get away with the stick. Hand your personal inventory device to Butters."
I nodded, my expression stony, as I handed my phone- now a so-called "personal inventory device" to the blonde boy.
"Sure thing, Eric!" Butters' voice was a beacon of cheer in the dim room. He tapped away on the screen, and I felt the digital tether tighten—a friend request accepted, the first of many, no doubt. "There ya go, new kid. We're friends now!"
"Give it here," Cartman demanded, snatching the phone back with the finesse of a bear catching salmon. His fingers danced over the touchscreen, adding himself with an air of self-importance. "I am sending the pictures of the finest warriors of Kupa Keep to your personal inventory device now." A buzz vibrated against my palm, signaling the arrival of digital missives.
"Listen closely, Douchebag, you must go and assemble my best warriors." Cartman began, his tone suddenly grave, "Their names are Token, Tweek, and Craige. But beware Douchebag. The lands outside are full of marauding drow elves, monsters, and sixth graders. Be on guard."
I barely suppressed a scoff. Sixth graders as a threat? I suppose in this suburban jungle, they were the apex predators. Still, it was hard to take seriously after facing down actual bullets and bayonets in another life. Yet, this was a game, and I would play it, if only to find some friends in this town.
"Go! Send my warriors here!" Cartman commanded, striking a pose that I imagined he thought exuded regal authority.
I gave him a blank stare, not out of respect but because speaking would cost me more than I cared to pay. My silence seemed to unnerve him, and he quickly turned to Butters.
"Butters, go with him! Take the summons as well." Like an obedient squire, Butters nodded, scampering over to the armory table which was nothing more than a glorified toy chest. He retrieved a rolled-up piece of paper—no doubt another prop in this elaborate fantasy—and followed me back into the house.
Marching through the threshold, I couldn't help but compare this to leading a platoon through No Man's Land. Only instead of mud and blood, it was snack crumbs and scattered cushions. And my second-in-command wasn't a grizzled veteran, but a boy whose weapon of choice was a smile too wide for war.
"Lead the way, Douchebag!" Butters piped up behind me, a little too loud for indoor voices. "We've got warriors to gather and a Stick of Truth to save!"
Butters caught up to me, his steps buoyant with each bounce. "This is gonna be so fun! Just wait till you see how everyone fights! They're really good!"
'Are they?' I questioned internally, doubting these children could even hold a candle in genuine conflict. But then again, this was not true warfare. This was play. And in play, perhaps there was a different sort of cunning required—one I was yet to master.
'Off to battle again,' I mused silently, stepping into the sunlight, where the real game awaited.
"Charge, to glory or to hilarious defeat!" Butters' unbridled enthusiasm almost brought a grim smile to my lips—if only the act didn't feel like swallowing shards of glass.
'Legendary' was one way to describe our farcical crusade through suburbia. With the phone in my hand vibrating with notifications, I scrolled past the new friend requests. 'Eric Cartman,' that self-appointed wizard king, had sent pictures—digital mugshots of our would-be allies. My thumbs flicked across the screen, faces blurring into pixelated banners of allegiance: Token, Tweek, and Craige.
I absently rubbed the side of my head where I could already feel a bruise forming, when a warm sensation diffused along my spine. Butters' hand rested there momentarily, his healing magic—or whatever delusion my body is passing for it—eased the dull ache from earlier skirmishes. "Oopsie daisy! Did you hit your noggin? Can't have our best soldier down for the count!" His concern was genuine, if misplaced.
Exiting the faux fortress of Cartman's kitchen, strategy overtook the need for idle chat. My mind unfolded the map of the town, plotting coordinates and trajectories as if they were vital to a military campaign. The three recruits were scattered like chess pieces across the board of South Park—a pawn, a knight, and perhaps, a rook.
"Time is of the essence," I thought, my gaze hardening. These children played at war, but I... I remembered the real thing. Every sound became a potential ambush, every shadow a lurking enemy. Even here, in this tranquil neighborhood, instincts honed on bloodier fields kept me vigilant.
"Come on, Douchebag! We've got a Stick to reclaim and a kingdom to save!" Butters sang out, oblivious to the absurdity of our quest. His hammer swung by his side, a comically real instrument of battle in a world where weapons were wood and make-believe spells held sway.
For now, I would marshal these forces, lead them into battle, and reclaim the so-called Stick of Truth.
Even generals must sometimes march to the beat of a child's drum.
—-
We stepped out into the muted sunshine of South Park's suburban sprawl, I had chosen to march westward with Butters trotting beside me. Mrs. Cartman waved from her porch, her voice a syrupy drawl, "Oh, look at Eric! He's got himself quite the little army of friends!"
'Connections,' my mind returned, not words but a recognition—a mental note stopping my mind from going while at the thought of social webs–- without the searing pain that speaking aloud would cause.
My phone's clock indicated it had been precisely three hours and forty-seven minutes since my last dose of medication. That should have been well within its effective period, yet the edges of my concentration frayed like worn fabric- what was happening.
"Did you know one time, me and Eric found a bat in the cave? It was so cool!" Butters rattled on, his anecdotes forming a bubble of innocence around him. His voice was white noise, an odd comfort as I grappled with my own thoughts.
The medicine's failure nagged at me—a formula disrupted. I couldn't afford to lose focus, not this early in the day. Yet here I was, calculating dosages instead of strategizing our next move.
"Hey, look who it is!" A high-pitched greeting cut through my ruminations.
Before us stood a boy, his bright red hair a beacon against the drab backdrop of the neighborhood. Freckles dotted his pale face like specks of cinnamon, and he brandished a grin that seemed too wide for his narrow features. "Hiya, Butters! Who's this with ya?"
"Ah, that's Douchebag, he's helping us with a super important mission!" Butters beamed, utterly unaware of the derogatory undertones of the nickname.
'Souless, evil,' whispered a voice in my head, unbidden and sharp as a shard of glass. Shaking off the bizarre intrusion, I assessed the ginger kid with a critical eye. Where did that thought even originate?
"He said it's nice to meet you!" Butters chirped, oblivious to my internal chaos.
"Likewise," the ginger boy said, his eyes flicking over to me with something that might have been curiosity—or was it a challenge? It didn't matter. These children were pawns in a game they didn't fully understand, and I was no longer playing games. "Eric says I'm too ginger to be a human, but Paladin Butters lets me be his squire on the sly."
"Paladins seek justice for all races!" Butters piped up, puffing out his chest with a righteousness that seemed almost comical.
However despite Butters' optimism, the ginger kid's nasally voice scraped my eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. My hand twitched involuntarily, and before I knew it, I was shoving the wooden stick towards him- A peace offering? A weapon? I wasn't quite sure myself.
"Oh no thank you, Douchebag. I don't like violence that's not… Chaotic." His giggle twisted at the end, sounding less like childish mirth and more like the cackle of some imp from a fairy tale gone wrong.
I turned away sharply, the laugh echoing in my skull.
I motioned to Butters, pulling him away gently by the elbow, leaving the ginger boy behind without another word. "See yuh Dougie!"
As Craige's house loomed into view, the steady rhythm of our footsteps became a march. Butters continued to prattle about escapades past, his voice a lifeline to normalcy in a world that felt increasingly disjointed.
"Once, Craig let me hold his guinea pig. It was so fluffy!" Butters laughed, the sound softening the hard lines of my resolve.
A nod was all I mustered, a silent affirmation to accompany the drumbeat of our approach. The Stick of Truth awaited, and with it, the next phase of this peculiar battle.
Silently I walked up to the door of the cookie cutter home, knocking on the door before waiting.
The door creaked open and Craig's dad peered out, eyeing me with the skepticism of a man who'd had his fair share of door-to-door sales pitches. His eyes squinted at my silence, searching for an explanation that wasn't coming. "Look, kid, if you're hawking Choco-Scouts or whatever they're calling them these days, I'm not buying," he grumbled, the scent of brownies wafting from inside the house like a misguided invitation.
A moment stretched between us; my silence an unfilled void where sales pitches or pleasantries should've been. I could almost hear the gears grinding in his head as he tried to make sense of me – just another oddity in a town replete with them. His hand started to retreat, pulling the door along.
But then, Butters, bless his oblivious heart, popped into view. "Oh, hey there, Mr. Tucker!" he chirped, waving with the innocence of a child who hadn't yet learned that the world could be a dark and treacherous place.
Craig's dad blinked, his attention snagging on Butters like a kite caught in a tree. "Oh, if you're looking for Craig, he's cooling his heels in detention over at the school." Not a flicker of surprise showed on his face; detention must have been as regular an event as Tuesday taco nights.
The door edged closer to its frame, shutting me out, but not before he gave me one last look. A squint turned into a full-on perplexed stare, his eyebrows knitting together as if trying to unravel the enigma of a mute girl on his doorstep.
Then, with the finality of a judge's gavel, the door clicked shut, cutting off the sight of his confused expression and leaving me alone with my thoughts, which were many, and Butters, who was one.
"Wow, Tony, you sure know how to leave an impression without saying a word!" Butters commented, his voice tinged with a blend of awe and concern that only someone like him could muster. That was my cue to get moving, the mental map in my head rerouting as we walked away from Craig's now sealed fortress.
"Okay, we're heading north," I murmured softly, expecting sharp pain to erupt, knowing full well that Butters would parrot it back in his own quirky way, oblivious to my internal machinations. However the pain was less of a raging inferno and more of a sunburn being slapped.
Am I becoming resistant to the medicine?
"North? That's where Token lives, right?" His voice was like a sprinkle of sugar on a bowl of bland oatmeal. "His house is so big, you can see it from space!" He laughed, the sound as light and carefree as a balloon ascending into the sky.
"...Exactly," I replied slowly, testing the words before deciding that silence would still be better than speaking, the pain sharpening across my throat like a knife. We'd loop around town, hit Token's place first, then circle back for Tweek. Efficiency was key; time wasted was an enemy undefeated.
"Lead the way, Tony- I mean Douchebag!" Butters corrected himself quickly, but the slip of the tongue hung in the air.
I set off with determined strides, the concrete beneath my feet offering no resistance, only a pathway to the next objective. Butters' sneakers squeaked a rhythm behind me, a soundtrack to our impromptu mission.
"Uh, are you sure this is the best way?" Butters piped up again, his curiosity laced with that unshakeable trust he seemed to have in everyone but himself. I just nodded slightly to the question, "Right-o!" He bounced slightly as he walked, like every step was a small leap of faith. "Token's got all sorts of cool stuff. Did you know he has a bass guitar that's worth more than my whole house?"
Butters had a way of making even the most mundane facts seem like revelations.
"Yep! And one time, he—" Butters started another anecdote, as we ambled north, the South Park streets stretched out before us like a poorly animated cartoon. I was wrapped in my own silence, a familiar blanket that both comforted and smothered me. Butters, on the other hand, was a babbling brook of incessant chatter, his words tumbling over each other with the grace of a toddler learning to walk.
"An' then Token went on this safari, right? And he totally wrestled this massive lion! Can you believe it?" Butters exclaimed, his blue eyes wide with awe. I just stared ahead, my boots crunching the gravel beneath them. It wasn't that I didn't find his stories entertaining—in another life, I might have laughed—but speaking was a luxury my vocal cords couldn't afford without pain.
We continued our trek toward Token's mansion, which stood on the horizon like a castle straight out of a medieval fairytale—if medieval fairytales were set in Colorado suburbs and featured less plague.
"Oooh, oooh, and this one time, he climbed Mount Everest. In shorts! Just shorts, can you imagine?" Butters waved his arms around for emphasis, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. I could, in fact, imagine it quite vividly. The thought alone made me shiver, recalling times when the biting cold of high altitudes was more than just a passing discomfort.
Butters paused, looking at me expectantly. I merely raised an eyebrow, giving him the go-ahead to continue his one-sided conversation. He seemed undeterred by my lack of response—Butters was used to my silent treatment.
"Yup, and he even met the president once! They had dinner, and Token said the mashed potatoes were kinda lumpy." Butters screwed up his face, as if he'd personally tasted the subpar side dish. "I mean, if you're gonna have dinner with the president, you'd think they'd have better mashed potatoes, right?"
There it was, the punchline to Butters' comedy routine: the innocence of a child who believed anything was possible. I kept walking, the heavy memories of past lives and wars lurking in the shadow of my silence. If only adventures were as simple as Butters imagined them to be.
I almost smiled. Almost. The humor wasn't lost on me, but my lips remained a flat line, betraying nothing. It was easier that way; no need to explain why I didn't join in the laughter or why words refused to escape my throat.
Instead I focused on the mission. The streets of South Park stretched before us, deceptively quiet. It was almost too easy, like walking through a minefield where all the mines were duds. But I knew better than to let down my guard. This was just the calm before the storm, and I, the Devil of the Rhine, would be ready when the clouds broke.
As we marched northward, the streets of South Park filled with the usual suspects; small clusters of kids loitered, eyes bright with the mischief that came so easily in this town. Butters, ever the ambassador of goodwill, waved and beamed ear to ear as if he were leading a one-boy parade.
"Heya fellas! This here's Tony the Douchebag!" he announced with misplaced pride, gesturing grandly towards me.
I clenched my jaw tight enough to crush gravel into sand, my glare hopefully conveying that I would happily trade every 'friend' on Facebook for one usable vocal cord to correct him. 'Tony the Douchebag,' indeed. But my ire was silent, and my frustration grew like a weed in an untended garden.
We were almost to Main Street when the familiar tingle of trouble tickled the back of my neck. Elves. Drow elves, to be precise, their sneers more annoying than menacing as they spilled out from behind trash cans and mailboxes, their plastic weapons glinting in the sunlight with laughable menace. A normal day in South Park.
"Aw hamburgers, not now guys," Butters whined, his previous pep deflating like a balloon with a slow leak.
I didn't have time for such interruptions. Before Butters could even consider diplomacy, my fist connected with the nearest elf's foam-covered face. his oof! satisfyingly disproportionate to my effort. The others hesitated, giving me the opening I needed. Two strikes, three parries, a grapple— There was something cathartic about physical exertion, about feeling the impact resonate up my arm and watching the domino effect as one by one, the drow elves toppled over.
"Wowzers, Tony!" Butters exclaimed, standing back as I dealt with the last of our pint-sized assailants. "I sure hope I don't ever get on your bad side."
'Bad side?' I thought, 'You haven't seen my bad side.' These small-time skirmishes were child's play compared to the trenches, to the battlefield I still saw when I closed my eyes. But these thoughts remained locked behind my mute lips as I methodically neutralized our assailants.
With the drow defeated, their bodies scattered across the sidewalk like broken toys, I straightened my coat and shot Butters a look that said, 'Let's move.' He nodded, wide-eyed, and we continued on our predetermined path, leaving the echoes of our scuffle behind us.
Trudging northward, Butters prattled on about Token's escapades—each more extravagant than the last. His tales of LARPing heroism and schoolyard politics could turn a saint envious or an old warhorse like me bored out of her skull. The crisp autumn air did little to thaw my patience, frozen solid by the day's idiocy.
"Hey officer buttbaby!" Butters hollered, hand slicing through the chilly breeze to greet a uniformed man on patrol.
"It's Buttbrady!" the cop snapped back, the 'r' and 'a' in his name clearly a matter of personal pride.
Butters, undeterred by the correction, beamed at the exchange. The officer took a few more steps before pausing, realization slowly dawning on him. "...wait." He turned, eyes narrowing, but we were already past him, crossing into a realm of socioeconomic divide that made even the frosty air seem warm by comparison.
Before us loomed the wall of "Dark Meadows", slick and unimposing yet somehow still imposing. At its gate stood the final obstacle: a security guard more absorbed in his phone than the perimeter he was meant to protect. I approached, the silence between us stretching into awkwardness until Butters felt compelled to fill it with a polite cough that echoed against the unyielding facade of privilege.
"This is a gated community. We do not allow riffraff inside. Move along," the guard droned without looking up from his digital distraction. His tone dripped with the lethargy of one who had uttered these words too many times to count.
The guard finally deigned to acknowledge us with a glance, his disinterest palpable. "This is a gated community. We do not allow riffraff inside. Move along."
"Riffraff," the word bounced around my skull, finding no purchase. With the barest quirk of my lips, which could be mistaken for a smirk or a grimace, I stood my ground. The guard's gaze met mine, two opposing forces in a standoff where words were redundant, and intentions crystal clear.
Token's mansion remained just beyond reach, held hostage behind the glossy barricade of 'civilized' society. If this was the bastion of luxury, I preferred the trenches. At least there, I knew where I stood—and it wasn't outside looking in.
With an eyebrow cocked, I measured the security guard's resolve. He was visibly ruffled by my silent challenge, his patience thinning like the hairline he attempted to hide beneath a peaked cap. "I said move along," he repeated, more a growl than instruction.
Butters shifted uneasily beside me, the weight of impending conflict heavy in the air. "Maybe we should just go 'round, Tony, I heard they sprayed the girl scouts one time." he suggested and warned me.
'Amusing,' I mused internally as the guard's hand darted to his belt, procuring a small, menacing canister. Pepper spray, the desperate equalizer. I almost chuckled at the thought of him deploying it against someone like me—a child.
Instead I just blinked once, twice, allowing my eyes to fixate on the guard whose patience seemed as thin as the paper-thin respect he held for his job. He was the sort of man who found power in a polyester uniform and a tin badge, the kind I'd seen time and again in lives past, just with less lethal weaponry at their disposal. His agitation was a palpable thing, like the buzzing of a fly that had ventured too close to an annoyed hand.
Beside me, Butters exhaled a sigh that carried all the resignation of a martyr; the poor boy could sense the storm brewing, and his head-shake was the silent bellwether of impending chaos.
It would have been laughable if it wasn't so pathetic. I almost chuckled – a soundless gesture – at the absurdity. He wouldn't dare... would he?
The answer came in the form of a sharp hiss as he shook the nozzle and sprayed a misty torrent of capsaicin-laced defiance directly onto my face. It hit with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, searing pain blooming across my features as if I'd plunged my head into the heart of a bonfire. My eyes – those windows to a soul seasoned by wars and battles far more grandiose than this petty squabble – burned with the ferocity of a thousand suns, each blink an exercise in futility as tears tried to wash away the chemical inferno.
Air became a wistful memory, nostrils flaring in a fruitless effort to draw breath through the sudden conflagration that raged within them. I crumpled, knees buckling beneath me as bile clawed its way up, threatening to add insult to injury. There I was, the Devil of the Rhine, laid low by a glorified mall cop with an overzealous index finger.
"Should've listened, girlie," the guard drawled, returning the spray to his pocket with an air of lazy triumph. "If you try that again I will pepper spray you back into the stone age."
This man truly believed his pathetic display of authority could subdue me—that I could be rendered helpless by such a primitive tool.
As I lay there, a molten anger began to simmer within, coalescing into something fierce and unyielding. But I was no mere child lashing out in blind fury. No, I was Tanya, the Devil of the Rhine, and rage was a weapon to be honed, wielded with precision.
Consciousness slipped away, but not into the darkness I had thought. Instead, it was a calculated blackout, like a general retreating to strategize before the next assault. My mind retreated inward, and from the depths of my tactical memory, the Devil of the Rhine emerged with all the subtlety of a Panzer tank rolling through a quiet village.
There I lay, a veteran of wars that no child should remember, gazing through tear-stained vision at the smug guardian of suburban peace. Butters' hammer, an ironic tool of "Forgiveness" in his buttery grip, beckoned to me—a siren call for retribution. I snatched it, ignoring the shock in his wide eyes, the pure concern painted across his ever-innocent face.
"Wowzers," he managed to squeak, as if he was watching a rerun of some off-kilter cartoon where the stakes were comically low.
It was not a long walk to the guard, each step fueled by a wellspring of indignation and the sharp bite of pepper spray residue searing my nostrils. My hand tightened around the hammer, a testament to human engineering—simple, effective, and about to be very personal.
"Sorry, mister," I whispered silently, the words never passing my lips. For what is a mute's apology but the silence before the storm?
And then, with the kind of precision that would make a drill sergeant weep tears of joy, I swung. The head of the hammer arc'd through the air and met its mark with a crunching thud. It was a hit that resonated with the sound of justice—or at least, that's how I'd frame it in the court of public opinion.
"Ooooooof!" the guard exhaled, his voice an octave higher than nature intended, humor mingling with the horror of unexpected agony.
A moment passed, a single heartbeat where the world held its breath, and then chaos resumed its natural course. But for a brief instant, there was clarity in the absurdity of it all—a clear note in the cacophony of South Park's daily symphony.
The world sharpened into focus as pain and fury collided within me, the Devil of the Rhine commandeering each move. With Butters' Hammer of Forgiveness gripped in hand, I watched - almost as an observer within my own body - as the guard clawed for his pepper spray. His fingers, panicked and clumsy, were no match for the cold steel that swung with a vengeance.
'Ah, not so fast,' I thought, the hammer connecting with his hand in a sickening crunch. The cracking of bones was a perverse symphony to my ears, a bizarre concerto played on the keys of justice and revenge.
"Ouch, dude, that's gonna leave a mark!" Butters squeaked from the sidelines, his voice laced with a giddy mixture of shock and slapstick humor. His silhouette danced with the light of his phone screen, capturing every brutal second.
The guard's screams became a backdrop to the focused rage of The Devil. They soared high, dipped low, a chaotic melody to the rhythmic pounding of the hammer. Each strike was a wordless declaration, a manifesto of what happens when you push a mute person past their breaking point.
"Man, Tony sure doesn't talk much, but he definitely hammers his point across," Butters quipped, unwittingly narrating the descent of the once arrogant gatekeeper.
"The Hammer of Forgiveness" felt like a cruel irony now, emblazoned on the weapon that served as an extension of The Devil's wrath. Blow after blow, the guard buckled, his resistance crumbling like the walls of Jericho before the relentless march of trumpets - or in this case, the thud of a hammer.
"Hey, buddy, you're dropping frames here, try to keep up!" Butters chortled, his commentary slicing through the tension with the ease of a comedian at a roast, oblivious to the gravity of each impact.
As the guard lay there, a heap of defeat and pain, his pepper spray rolled away, a defeated soldier fleeing the battlefield. My body's breaths came out in misty puffs, the only sound to pierce the silence of The Devil's own making. There was a twisted satisfaction in the stillness, a calm after the storm that raged within.
"Wowee, Tony, you really spiced things up! Get it? 'Cause... pepper spray," Butters continued, his innocence painting the dark scene with surreal strokes of levity.
The Devil of the Rhine stood there, the hammer's handle warm against her palm, its weight a testament to the gravitas of the moment.
Then with a deep breath, I opened my eyes once again.
In the quiet aftermath, I could almost hear the echo of laughter from some distant audience, finding humor in the grotesque ballet that had just unfolded.
Standing a few paces away, Butters got ready to close his phone with a gleeful grin. "Well, folks, remember: even in the darkest times, you can always count on the Paladin of the Last Order Butters the Merciful and his companion- Douchebag to nail the point home! Stay safe, and don't forget to like and subscribe for more adventures! Also make sure to click that watch button as well for all the latest posts! Oh- Oh and share this with-"
It might take him a while to close the stream...
AN: I hope it was worth the wait.
Also, I was only joking- I know Cartman's deal with the names and what not. (also I know Token's name)