The Rest
Title: From Hence, We Are None (Part 2/2)
Rating: R
Summary: Less of a "love story," and more of a "detached tale of modern alienation." Except, you know. With guns. And death.
***
When it happens again, when he blacks out and wakes up again somewhere strange, Butters goes to Dougie. He thinks, hopes, that Dougie is a little bit like Kenny, that Butters can talk to him about all the strangeness going on in his life without the bewildered expression he might get from someone else. He wants to go to Kenny, wants to listen to Kenny’s soft, unwavering voice telling him that they can work through this, but he can’t erase the image of those letters sliced into the flesh of Kenny’s torso, Chaos’ name carved into the world for all to see again.
Dougie blinks at him once, almost mildly, when he opens the door; Butters is standing on his doorstep, shivering in the chill of late spring.
“Heya Dougie,” Butters says nervously. He wants to rub his knuckles together, but he’s wrapped the bloody mess of his right hand carefully, knows that such an action will merely cause him pain and more anxiety than anything else. “Can I come in?”
Dougie stares at him for a second, almost shrewdly, before he steps aside and lets Butters in. Butters crosses to the dining room, pacing nervously around the large square table. He doesn’t really know where to start.
"Heya Dougie," he says again, aware suddenly that he must look stupid, fidgeting anxiously with the bindings on his hand only minutes after dawn. "I-I think I've got a problem."
"Oh, you mean that Chaos thing?" Dougie says after a moment. "Yeah, I kinda figured."
Butters shakes his head, confused.
"H-How do you know about Chaos?" Butters asks, whispering the name, like saying it aloud will summon him.
Dougie shrugs, circles around the dining room table and into the kitchen.
"Are you thirsty?" he asks. "I've got Diet Coke and orange soda."
"Dougie, hold on a sec," Butters says. "Who told you about Chaos? And well, orange soda, please."
Dougie brings a can of store-brand soda, Butters watches the condensation trickle down the side of the can like teardrops.
"You did," Dougie answers. "Well, Chaos did."
They're silent.
"C-Chaos talked to you?"
"Well, yeah," Dougie says. "Don't you remember?"
Butters shakes his head, clutching his soda can tightly in his hand. He remembers the inch-long marks on Kenny's torso, written in blood across his best friend's body. He can't imagine the same thing happening to Dougie, who's sixteen and nearly half a foot shorter than the kids in his grade, suffering through the same and speaking so nonchalantly about it to the man who did it.
"What did he want?"
Dougie shrugs, takes a long drink from his can of Diet Coke.
"Nothing really," he answers. "Wanted to know if we were still friends." He hesitates suddenly, looking away and pushing his glasses up his nose in a nervous gesture. "We are, right Butters? Still friends, I mean?"
"Well, yeah Dougie," Butters answers, feels the first smile in weeks creep up his face. Dougie looks up from where he's been inspecting the floor and grins weakly. "Of course we're pals."
When he leaves Dougie's house, he doesn't have any of the answers he had come for, but he's got an optimistic swell in his gut that has him smiling to himself nonetheless. He hasn't talked to Dougie in a long time, since the first time Chaos came and-and-killed his dad. It's good to know that after almost a year, they're still friends.
He's humming to himself softly, not really watching where he's going, when he bumps into Cartman suddenly.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Eric," Butters says, giving his friend a hand up. The heavy-looking trash bag he'd been carrying tumbles to the floor, and Cartman hastens to pick it up, even as a rip begins to appear near the bottom. "Heya Eric, did you need some help with that bag?"
"No, no Butters, it's cool," Cartman says, obviously distracted. Suddenly, his head snaps up in a way that reminds Butters, somehow, of his problem with Chaos. "Actually, Butters, I think you can help me. I've got this...project, right?" he waves his hand vaguely over the black bag at his feet. "But I don't know if it'll work. I need a test subject."
"A test subject," Butters repeats, automatically rubbing his knuckles together and snatching them apart when it causes an excruciating burn to run up his arm. "Well, gee, Eric, I don't know."
"Oh come on Butters, don't be such a pussy," Eric needles.
Butters has always been powerless against Eric Cartman's needling, for reasons even Butters doesn’t really understand. He takes a deep breath, fidgets with the gauze carefully wrapped around his knuckles.
"Well, all right, Eric," he says, and Eric grins widely, in a way that doesn't make Butters feel better about his decision.
"Awesome," he answers. "Meet me out behind Old Man Denkins’ pony ranch at midnight."
And without even waiting for Butters to agree to the meeting, he hauls his bag over his shoulder and marches off.
Butters has a deep sense of foreboding the second Eric walks away.
He goes home and has to rewrap his hand again, disinfecting his bloody knuckles and trying very hard not to listen to the news report about three grown men beaten to death in Denver by an unidentified assailant. After all, Denver is a dangerous town. It could have been anyone.
***
It turns out, Gregory has been formulating a plan to storm Chaos' lair or something for a while now. Apparently, he had been waiting for fucking Christophe to get bored or something, which, wow, isn't something Craig wants to think about. It's simple, really. They go in pairs, meticulously searching the compound until they find either Tweek or Chaos. Craig tries really hard not to imagine them running into Damian or Cartman instead. But he does think of Kenny, stubbornly refusing to leave Chaos' side because he still has a shred of hope that Butters will emerge from Chaos' insanity.
He wants to tell them, to warn The Resistance not to hurt Kenny, but they walk with a steely determination that Craig's ashamed to admit he doesn't know how to penetrate. Mentally, he says his goodbye to Kenny and sighs.
It doesn't take them too long to reach Carl's Warehouse; they all know the city too well already. He leads them through the hidden entrance, the heavy cellar doors about three feet away from the building that open up impossibly to a long, winding staircase, made almost entirely of metal. If the others are surprised, they don't show it.
"Stay close," Craig whispers, afraid that his very breath may be enough to alert Chaos of his presence.
He climbs the winding staircase with Gregory at his side, the other boy as silent as a fucking ghost, his face determined and unreadable. Craig sort of understands why him and Christophe are friends now.
Craig doesn't want to see Gregory, ever composed, lose his temper.
Fifty-four steps later, they reach the first landing. Craig stops, listens to the next group as they slowly climb up to meet them. Stan and Kyle emerge first, and Craig nods them up.
"The next floor up is where the demons usually meet," he says quietly. "Cartman may be up there, maybe Damian if you're really unlucky. Don't go through the door painted red; it'll lead you straight to Hell. There's a painting of an old man being eaten by a bunch of crows up there somewhere; it changes location every forty minutes. Behind it is a hallway. It'll lead you to Kenny's bedroom. If you're lucky-"
But he doesn't finish his sentence, doesn't know how without asking Stan and Kyle to show one of their oldest friends mercy, and he doesn't know if they can, after everything. Stan and Kyle nod, almost in unison, and start up the stairs.
Token and Wendy show up afterwards. Craig waves them over, motioning to the tall, narrow hallway around them, twisting out of sight and branching off into innumerable dead-ends.
"Keep right," he says. "If a door looks like it's hanging open, don't trust it. Damian cooked up this illusion that makes his wormholes look like open doors. If you fall into one, you're as good as dead. Eventually, you'll get to the holding cells and interrogation chambers."
Token and Wendy nod tightly, tightening their grip on their guns.
"Keep right," says again. "It'll feel like you're going in circles, but you're not. Trust me."
Wendy licks her lips, something like apprehension flashing quickly through her eyes. She turns quickly and silently makes her way down the hallway. Token follows; less than a second later, they vanish into the darkness.
"We go down," Craig says.
Gregory doesn't answer; Craig doesn't expect him too. When he steps back onto the staircase, it groans under his feet and transforms into a set of steep cement steps, with an archway engraved with dusty-looking runes Craig can’t quite translate. He takes a deep, fortifying breath, and leads the way down.
Craig's only ever been down here once before, two months and four days ago, about a week after Chaos elbowed his way into their lives again. The steps around them become grimy, stained with dirt and dried blood, and further down, the blood glistens in a faint, flickering way that tells Craig they're nearing the basement now. Eventually, the stone steps turn into dirt, and they level out into a long tunnel. There are torches lining each side of the tunnel, and it goes on for about a hundred yards, until it makes a sharp left.
On either side, there are seven heavy wooden doors, each bolted shut by an enormous block of wood. Craig wonders when, exactly, they ended up in a 1930s horror film.
"What do you expect to find here?" Gregory asks almost pleasantly.
Craig shrugs.
"This is the place Chaos keeps most secret," Craig answers. "I figured that whatever is most important to him would be down here."
Gregory doesn't answer, just crosses into the tunnel and starts peering into the tiny, roughly carved portholes on the first few doors. Craig follows suit, unsure what they might be looking for. Almost immediately, he wishes he had sent anyone else down here.
There are people in those rooms, or, the remains of people. The first room he looks into is almost pitch black, but the little light that bleeds into the room from the tunnel falls across something red and slimy and still oozing. Craig thinks of the pictures in his old anatomy book, detailing the four chambers of a human heart and feels sick to his stomach. He goes to the next door, which isn't much better. At least the person chained to the wall is alive, although his labored breathing suggests that he won't be for much longer.
"Here," Gregory says, and Craig tears his eyes away from the sight to where Gregory is trying to heave the heavy wooden crossbeam off of its hinge.
Craig rushes over to help, and together, they manage to heave the crossbeam up and away. The door creaks open loudly, and Craig quickly scans the tunnel around them, terrified that someone will have heard them. Gregory is already in the room, rushing to the figure bound to the metal chair in the center of the room. Gregory pulls a knife from somewhere and cuts his bindings, and when the boy's hair flashes in the torchlight, Craig feels the bottom of his stomach drop. He rushes over and rips the bindings off, but when he circles to face the boy, Craig feels his hope bleed out of him in bitter disappointment.
"Pip?" he says, bewildered.
Pip looks up at him; his eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and a long gash runs from his forehead, down through his right tear-duct, and down to his upper lip, swollen and angry with infection.
"Hello, Craig, Gregory," he says, his voice sounding raspy. He brings a hand up to gingerly rub at his unmarked eye, and Craig sees that there is an oozing purple stump where his pointer should be. "I guess you've found me."
"Jesus Christ, Pip," Craig says weakly, even as Gregory pulls Pip gingerly to his feet.
Gregory meets Craig's eyes, and Craig nods in understanding.
"Take him back," Craig says. "I'll find everyone else."
Gregory doesn't so much as nod his understanding. He just wraps an arm around Pip's waist and half-drags, half-carries him out. Craig waits until he can't hear their uneven footsteps anymore before he peeks out the door and rushes to the cement stairs again.
They make a sound almost like a high-pitched giggle and morph back into the long winding metal stairs, and Craig climbs up, trying to decide which group would be easier to find.
“The fuck are you doing alive?” a familiar voice asks from the shadows.
Craig nearly jumps out of his skin before thinking that, well, at least he doesn’t have to go looking for trouble this time.
"Damian," Craig says on an exhale. "I thought-"
"Wait," Damian says, narrowing his eyes and taking a step forward. Craig thinks, shit, Death is coming now, but Damian stops two feet away from him, eying the metal staircase behind him suspiciously. "You were just downstairs, weren't you?"
"Uh," Craig says, unsure if the truth or a lie would be better right now.
Damian's eyes start glowing in the darkness.
"Answer me," he says quietly.
Which, okay, yeah.
"Yeah," Craig says.
Damian lets out a breath that sounds more like a growl, baring his pointed teeth menacingly. He takes a step forward.
"Where is he?" Damian breathes.
Craig blinks.
"Sorry, what?"
"Where is Pip?"
There's a moment of complete silence then, broken by Craig's sharp breathing.
"You're fucking kidding, right?"
By the way Damian's eyes flash in the darkness, he guesses that's a no.
Craig has a hard time believing that everyone Chaos has been working with isn't really interested in the whole world-domination thing. Actually, he's got a hard time believing that Damian was coerced into this whole mess the same way Craig was. But he can't deny it. Now that he knows what he's looking for, Damian's furious scowl is marred with just the tinniest streak of fear, concern.
And shit, Craig gets that.
Which is why it takes him less than a second to make up his mind. He turns on his heel and heads down the spiral staircase, straining to hear Damian following him. But he kind of feels like fucking Orpheus at this point, like if he turns around Damian will disappear into a cloud of smoke and run back to Chaos.
When did this shit turn him into a poetic sap?
They're back outside in under a minute; Craig can see three dark blobs out by the nearest tree, and Craig approaches slowly. Stan, Token and Christophe are huddled around the tree, silent as a fucking grave. They've obviously been watching his and Damian's approach, because when they get closer, Craig can see the hate painted across Stan's face, the disgust written in the way Token holds up his gun.
Christophe and Damian eye each other critically; Craig gets the feeling that everything can go sour really quick if these two can't trust each other. Christophe is leaning lazily against the handle of his shovel, and after a terse moment, he pulls it out of the ground and slings it easily over his shoulder.
"Are we doing zis then?" he asks.
"Are you fucking with me?" Stan asks. He turns back to Craig furiously. "I knew we shouldn't have trusted you. You bring fucking Damian, of all people? Are you sick in the head?"
"Dude, shut up," Craig says. "He's on our side. Sort of. In that he’s not really on Chaos’ side."
Damian remains silent, his eyes burning in the darkness. Not exactly the picture of cooperation, but he hasn't killed any of them yet, so Craig thinks that's about as indicative of his position as he's likely to get. Stan seems to realize this too, because after a second his fury melts away into something manageable.
"Where’s Pip?" Damian asks quietly
"With Gregory," Stan says, turns and leads the way back to the dingy shack they met up in earlier.
The walk back feels interminably longer; Craig entertains the thought that Damian somehow moved all of Carl's Warehouse to the other side of Denver before the little building looms on the horizon.
"Did everyone make it out okay?" Craig asks when they're less than a five minute walk from the shack. “Did you find Tweek?”
Stan stumbles slightly, his face ashen in the dim moonlight.
"I lost Kyle," he says quietly, with a tiny waver in his voice. "He told me to go, made me promise. I-"
He stops himself when they reach the front door, looks helplessly to Token for support. Token clenches his jaw and raps on the door with six quick staccato knocks. Craig blinks, can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.
"Kyle's good at getting himself out of shit," Token says, but even to Craig it sounds like a lie.
Stan nods quickly, stuffs his trembling hands into the pockets of his jeans. The door opens and all the four of them scramble into the building.
Craig notes Tweek’s absence immediately, feels it cut into his chest and twist painfully with every second that passes. Gregory, Wendy, and Pip are in the living room. Wendy is busy trying to coax a fire to life in the grate; Gregory is perched on the back of an old chair, feeling around the top of a crumbling bookshelf for something. But it's to Pip that Craig's eyes immediately drag to, the way he's been bundled up in a moldy, moth-eaten quilt, the way his blond hair is lank and unkempt in a way that Craig hadn't notice before.
And then Damian is crossing the room suddenly, energy crackling off of him like he could summon a fucking lightning bolt if he wanted to; in six even, measured steps he's in front of Pip, kneeling in front of him and tucking a strand of blond hair behind Pip's ear in a surprisingly gentle way.
“Damian?” Pip says, quietly, like he can’t really believe it.
Damian brings his hand up to curl protectively at the nape of Pip’s neck, and even though he’s still scowling, even though everything about him is sharp and dangerous and radiates fury, there’s a split second when the image sort of cracks, looks vulnerable and mortal. Damian squints his eyes shut and rests their foreheads together, and Craig has to look away, feeling suddenly awkward, like he’s intruded on an intimate moment.
Gregory steps off the chair with a first-aid kit in hand, his eyes flickering between Damian and Pip, to Christophe, and back again.
“Wendy,” Damian says suddenly. “Move.”
Wendy jumps up from her spot in front of the fireplace. There’s a rustle of displaced energy, and suddenly a fire is crackling merrily in the pile of splintered wood inside the grate.
“So, what do we do now?” Token asks after a moment.
Damian looks up, and his eyes start glowing again, bright blue this time, burning with the heat of a fucking star.
“We go back,” Damian says decisively. “I’ve called back the demons, the labyrinth, his fucking magic tricks. Everything. Let him try and stop us.”
“I’ll stay,” Token says, his voice measured, level. “See what I can do about that infected cut on Pip’s face.”
Gregory hands him the first-aid kit wordlessly, his face grim.
“Are we ready?” Gregory asks, turning to each of them in turn and waiting for them each to give a sign of acknowledgement. “Let’s go.”
“Damian,” Pip says again, the plea obvious in his voice.
Damian looks conflicted for all of four seconds before he drops back down to his knees.
“I’m here, Pip,” he says, taking Pip’s uninjured hand and interlacing their fingers. He turns to Christophe, a different kind of intensity in his eyes than what Craig is used to. “Make him suffer,” he says, and Christophe fucking smiles at that.
***
Butters is waiting for Eric behind Mr. Denkins’ pony ranch for less than five minutes before Eric saunters by, dragging something large and heavy-looking behind him. He sets it down with an ominous thud and wipes his hands idly on his pant legs. When he finally notices Butters, he smiles widely and motions him over. Butters approaches nervously, letting his fingers drag over the tender scabs on his knuckles.
“Heya, Eric,” he says nervously. Now that he’s closer, Butters can tell that the heavy object is like a large metal cube. Butters feels a trickle of fear climb up his spine. He’s not good in enclosed spaces. “Wh-what exactly did you need me for?”
“I need you to test out my new Jew trap,” Eric says calmly.
“Oh, I don’t know, Eric,” Butters says, lacing his fingers together and gripping them tightly. “I-I don’t think you should be hunting Jewish folks like they-like they were rabbits or somethin’.”
Eric rolls his eyes and opens the trap door with some effort.
“Don’t be stupid Butters,” Eric says. “I’m not hunting Jews. Just Kyle.”
“Oh,” Butters says, although that doesn’t really make anything better. “Still, I don’t understand-”
“Butters look,” Eric says, already pushing him roughly into the box. It’s cold and ominously dark in there; Butters isn’t sure if he wants to help Eric with this crazy experiment. “I just need you to make sure Kyle can’t get out of here once I lock him in. Okay?”
“W-well how am I supposed to do that?”
Eric rolls his eyes.
“Kyle is like, the Houdini of Jews, dude,” he says. “I need to make sure this thing is fool-proof before I trap him. So just, I don’t know, try to find a way out once you’re shut in, okay?”
“I-I don’t know, Eric,” Butters says, panicking slightly when the heavy metallic door clangs shut. Butters hears the click of a lock. “I’m not too great with small spaces.”
“That’s great Butters,” Eric says, “try to use that to make yourself feel like you’re actually in danger.”
Butters rubs his knuckles together frantically, ignoring the sharp bite of his still-tender skin.
“Eric, I-I don’t know about this,” he calls out, loudly, in case his protests are muffled by the metal.
“Butters, can you hear me?”
“Y-yeah Eric,” Butters says. “I-I don’t see any way he can get out of here. It just looks like a metal box from in here. C-can you let me out yet?”
“Well of course it still looks like a metal box, Butters,” Eric says, a hint of impatience in his voice. “I haven’t shown you the best part yet.”
Butters hears some light tapping on what is probably a keypad or remote, and a small, rectangular hole appears along the base of the box. Butters can hear a several quick, tapping sounds coming from the darkness there.
“E-Eric,” Butters says, willing his voice not to screech as the first millipede crawls out. “Let me out. Please. I-I don’t know if I can help.”
“Just look for any weaknesses in the design, Butters,” Eric says, and he sounds almost bored.
Butters tries to do as he’s told, but he’s even worse with insects and bugs and-and spiders than he is with small spaces, and when the first eight-footed, long-legged arachnid crawls out towards him, Butters looses it. He starts banging his fists against the side of the box, not caring if Eric thinks he’s a coward.
“Eric! Let me out! Please,” he yells, looks around frantically for something that might help him get himself out of this mess. Nothing but dark metal walls stare back at him, smudged with all sorts of bugs and-“Eric, help me! Please!”
But from outside Butters thinks he hears a low, gruff voice that doesn’t sound like Eric at all. Seconds later, he hears Eric shout out a muffled curse, and a loud gunshot rents the air.
All the breath leaves Butters’ body; Farmer Denkins shoots trespassers on sight, he thinks. He’s all alone now.
Suddenly, it feels as if there’s not enough air to breathe properly. He bangs his fists against the door, desperately, inhaling in a short, frantic, shallow rhythm.
“Help, oh help,” he says to no one in particular.
He’s nauseous suddenly from the fear, feels like he might die if he doesn’t find a way out from all the things crawling up his legs and down the back of his head.
“I can help you, Butters,” Chaos says, and Butters isn’t thinking, can’t see past the bright spots of fear that blur everything and make it technicolor and painful.
Help me, help me, help me, please, he thinks desperately and-
So Chaos stands, brushing the dirt off his shirt slowly, careful to avoid the various animals he's been locked with. Chaos hates, hates being locked away, ignored, forgotten. He will not be ignored.
His name is Chaos, and he will make Eric Cartman pay. If he has to turn the whole planet to ruin, he will make Eric Cartman suffer.
It's easy to escape the metal contraption he's been put into, Cartman's inexpert engineering skills painfully obvious in the weak welding he's used. Chaos feels the bones of his wrist snap as he forces the lock, but it's of no consequence to him. He has things to do.
However, now that he's out of that cage, his rage subsides slightly, and he remembers he's got a promise to keep.
He remembers the way to Linda's house. She's as monotonous as a fucking clock, and oh, how Chaos hates her. He wrote a promise on her bathroom mirror all those months ago, written in her disgusting lipstick that Stephen was first, but don’t worry, you'll be second. He doesn't want to be impolitic and continue with his plans of revenge without visiting her.
The deep black of the night is lightening slightly; Chaos believes it will be another hour, at least, until sunrise. He allows himself a smile. Perfect. This will not take long.
He breaks into her house silently, with the ease of long forgotten muscle-memory, going into the kitchen and searching for something that might make this excursion fun. His eyes linger on the heavy bone shears lying innocently on the counter top.
Yes. Those will do.
The weight of the shears is familiar in his hands, dimming the bright shots of pain that still linger around his wrist bone.
He creeps up the stairs like a breeze ghosting through the drapes, silent. Linda sleeps with the door open; months of living alone have left her feeling secure within her own house. Chaos is disappointed in her. When he moves into the room, he deliberately steps on the creaky floorboards, the ones that will wake Linda up no matter how deep her sleep has been.
Linda's head turns to the side on her pillow, fighting sentience, no doubt. Chaos stands over her and waits; he is in no rush. Finally, her eyes creak open blearily, looking around the room. Her eyes settle on Chaos and for a second, she doesn't react. Then she gasps, pulls herself up into a sitting position and pulls the sheets up with her, like they might offer her a modicum of protection.
"Butters, what are you doing here?" she asks.
"Not Butters," Chaos says, the name a vile, disgusting flavor that sits on his tongue.
Linda blinks, then the memory no doubt swims back into her sleep-addled brain. Chaos can smell her fear.
"Chaos," she breathes.
Chaos smiles.
"My, my, my," Chaos says idly, letting his eyes wander around the bedroom lazily. Her belongings are cluttered around her dresser, the large vanity mirror on the opposite side of the room. It's disgustingly ordinary. "Someone's gotten smarter since we last spoke."
"What do you want from me?" she asks, her voice breaking.
"Nothing in particular," Chaos answers. He smiles at her, all teeth and no amusement. "I just want to have some fun, Mother."
Linda screams, but Chaos is far beyond caring.
Chaos doesn't bother to wash up after he's done with Linda-the bitch, Chaos is glad to be rid of her, glad she screamed like the whore she was when he clipped off her fingers, one by one-figures that the sight will be very impressive to his friend. It is still very early; the sun only just creeping up over the top of the mountains, and Chaos is in a very good mood.
He hums a soft tune to himself as he climbs up the faded porch steps, buzzes the doorbell once. The door opens just a sliver, and a small, red-headed boy peers through.
"Hello Dougie," Chaos says pleasantly.
Dougie opens the door wider, watching him intently. He doesn't say a word.
"I think we need to speak," Chaos says after an appropriately dramatic silence.
In response, Dougie stands aside and allows Chaos into his house. Chaos makes himself comfortable.
"Chaos?" Dougie asks, quietly, like he might be afraid of the answer.
"This is why we're friends, Dougie," Chaos says, baring his teeth in a mangled approximation of a grin. "You always get my name right."
"What are you doing here?" he asks, pushing his glasses up the ridge of his nose.
"I need your help," Chaos says sincerely.
Dougie looks surprised for the span of a heartbeat; to his credit, he gets over the shock quite well.
"Oh."
"That's what pals are for, anyway, right?" Chaos asks, in an echo of the tentative voice that so many people trust.
Dougie blinks at him, before a tentative smile appears on his face.
"Yeah," he says. "I guess so."
"You're a real pal, Dougie," Chaos says and means it.
"What did you need my help with?"
"Oh, you'll see," Chaos says, and allows himself a brief, indulgent smile.
***
This time, they fly across the miles separating their shack and Carl’s Warehouse, seeming to get there within the span of a heartbeat. The rusty, metal door creaks open loudly when they try it, and for a second Craig doesn’t know where the fuck they are, he’s so used to the maze Damian had turned the warehouse into. But now, there are old, dusty crates pushed up against the walls, long grey tarps covering moldy boxes nearly eaten away with time. It’s dank and still pretty creepy, but for the first time in a long while, it looks almost normal.
Stan immediately runs off, disappearing within seconds behind the stacks of crates and boxes; Craig knows exactly who he’s looking for. Which reminds him suddenly, that Tweek is still trapped in here somewhere too, and he sets off in a random direction, searching.
It takes him longer than he would have thought to find Tweek, maybe because his body still wants to weave its way through trap doors and spiraling staircases that no longer exist. Oddly enough, he finds the steep cement steps leading to the basement easily enough, and the roughly carved archway also. Craig wonders at it for a second, but then he hears voices drifting up from the bottom landing, and Craig doesn’t have time to think about a fucking archway.
He takes the steps two at a time, nearly falling on his face when he reaches the uneven ground; it looks exactly the same as it had earlier, with its sealed chambers and roughly carved out walls. Kyle is sitting at the far end of the tunnel, hands on his knees and gun trained easily on the people before him. Kenny is on his knees in front of Chaos, who’s curled in on himself and shaking. On the floor in front of the two of them is a mangled body, bloody and beaten until it’s nearly indistinguishable. Craig can see a cap of shining brown hair and thinks, holy shit, that’s-
“Craig?” a familiar voice asks, and Craig’s thoughts scatter away easily. How the fuck did Craig not see him?
Craig drops his gun with a loud clatter and rushes to Tweek, catching the boy in his arms, everything else forgotten for the moment. Tweek is shaking in his arms, violently, and it takes Craig less than a second to recognize his own body is trembling as well, just enough so that Tweek can feel it and grip him tighter.
“Shit Tweek,” Craig says, breathes into the space above Tweek’s ear. “I’m sorry.”
“Dude, I’m sorry!” Tweek tries to flail in Craig’s arms but just ends up elbowing Craig in the stomach. “I didn’t believe Stan when he said that you were-you know. And so I went to your place to find some answers but then like, the whole place was crawling with demons and-”
“Do you guys think you can have this little heart-to-heart sometime later?” Kyle asks from across the room. “Totally not the time.”
Less than a second later Stan rushes in, takes a long look around the room and stumbles over to Kyle, making himself comfortable in the space between Kyle’s knees. To his credit, though, Kyle hugs him back fiercely for about four seconds, before pushing Stan away and aiming his gun back to Chaos and Kenny. Craig tears his eyes away from Tweek for a minute and really looks at the pair of them, at Kenny and Chaos in the middle of the floor.
Kenny looks terrible; there are deep purple bags under his eyes, and a slowly purpling bruise is blooming on his cheekbone. There's a lot of blood on him, but he doesn't know if it's from Kenny himself or the body lying to their side.
"Craig," Kenny says, finally looking up. "Help me."
And shit, Kenny sounds so fucking desperate, about an inch away from flying apart. Chaos is still shaking, and now that he's listening for it, there's a strange anguished groaning emanating from him, like he's-
"Is he crying?" Craig asks, and all the anger evaporates from his body. "Is that-?"
"Butters," Kenny says, and he sounds so lost, five fucking years old again and doesn’t have a clue what to do. Craig doesn't know what to do. "Help me," he says again.
It feels like Craig doesn't have a choice. He turns to Tweek, who catches his eye and nods at him sharply, giving permission. Then he kneels beside Kenny and-Butters. It really is Butters; Craig can tell the second the boy lifts his head.
"I'm-I'm sorry Craig," Butters whispers, his voice hoarse and utterly wrecked. "I'm so, so sorry."
Craig looks away, can't stand the sight of pure suffering that Butters has now become, the desperate way Kenny holds onto Butters' blood-soaked hand. His gaze falls on the bloody corpse beside them, and from this angle, Cartman's eyes stare up at him, shocked and glassy and very blank. In the dirt there are tiny rivulets of blood that run through strange, jagged crevices along the floor. Craig stares at them until they form a sentence in clear, methodical script.
Chaos always gets his revenge.
It doesn't make sense to Craig, but it takes his mind off of the choked-off, retching noises Butters is making at his side. He looks up again and sees Christophe, Gregory and Wendy all standing at the mouth of the tunnel, looking from Kyle and Stan in one corner, to Tweek in the other, and finally, down to Kenny, Butters, Craig and Cartman's body in the center of the clearing.
Christophe is the one who moves first. He walks up to Butters, nudges him with the sole of his boot until the boy is looking up at him with his tear-streaked eyes, and offers him his gun, handle-first. Butters looks at it for a long time. He takes a deep, ragged breath and blinks up at Christophe.
"Th-thank you," Butters says. Christophe shrugs and moves away, back to Gregory's side. Butters turns back to Kenny, his eyes clear and very blue again. Craig can't remember Chaos being anything other than darkness and death, thinks he’d remember if Chaos ever had blue eyes like that. "I'm sorry, Kenny," he whispers.
Very suddenly, Craig knows exactly what he plans to do. Kenny and he react almost in perfect synchronization, reaching towards Butters to take the weapon from his grip.
"Butters, no-"
"Don't-"
But the shot rings out loudly through the small rounded tunnel. Craig turns his head and closes his eyes, tries to pretend he doesn't hear Butters' limp body hit the floor with a dull thud.
"Butters," Kenny whispers, his voice quiet and strained like Craig's never heard it before.
He feels something brush against his neck, and when he looks up, Tweek is standing beside him, running his fingers reassuringly through Craig's hair. He takes a long, deep breath and stands.
"Let's go home," he says, mostly to Tweek.
Tweek smiles at him, and it feels like the first sunrise at Stark's Pond all over again, when he first realized he loved Tweek. Tweek leans against him and kisses him, short and chaste and sweet.
"I'd like that," he says.
It’s not okay; he doesn’t ever think he’ll be okay, not after this. But with Tweek hugging him sweetly like he never wanted anything different, he lets himself hope that maybe, things can get better.
--End.
Rating: R
Summary: Less of a "love story," and more of a "detached tale of modern alienation." Except, you know. With guns. And death.
***
When it happens again, when he blacks out and wakes up again somewhere strange, Butters goes to Dougie. He thinks, hopes, that Dougie is a little bit like Kenny, that Butters can talk to him about all the strangeness going on in his life without the bewildered expression he might get from someone else. He wants to go to Kenny, wants to listen to Kenny’s soft, unwavering voice telling him that they can work through this, but he can’t erase the image of those letters sliced into the flesh of Kenny’s torso, Chaos’ name carved into the world for all to see again.
Dougie blinks at him once, almost mildly, when he opens the door; Butters is standing on his doorstep, shivering in the chill of late spring.
“Heya Dougie,” Butters says nervously. He wants to rub his knuckles together, but he’s wrapped the bloody mess of his right hand carefully, knows that such an action will merely cause him pain and more anxiety than anything else. “Can I come in?”
Dougie stares at him for a second, almost shrewdly, before he steps aside and lets Butters in. Butters crosses to the dining room, pacing nervously around the large square table. He doesn’t really know where to start.
"Heya Dougie," he says again, aware suddenly that he must look stupid, fidgeting anxiously with the bindings on his hand only minutes after dawn. "I-I think I've got a problem."
"Oh, you mean that Chaos thing?" Dougie says after a moment. "Yeah, I kinda figured."
Butters shakes his head, confused.
"H-How do you know about Chaos?" Butters asks, whispering the name, like saying it aloud will summon him.
Dougie shrugs, circles around the dining room table and into the kitchen.
"Are you thirsty?" he asks. "I've got Diet Coke and orange soda."
"Dougie, hold on a sec," Butters says. "Who told you about Chaos? And well, orange soda, please."
Dougie brings a can of store-brand soda, Butters watches the condensation trickle down the side of the can like teardrops.
"You did," Dougie answers. "Well, Chaos did."
They're silent.
"C-Chaos talked to you?"
"Well, yeah," Dougie says. "Don't you remember?"
Butters shakes his head, clutching his soda can tightly in his hand. He remembers the inch-long marks on Kenny's torso, written in blood across his best friend's body. He can't imagine the same thing happening to Dougie, who's sixteen and nearly half a foot shorter than the kids in his grade, suffering through the same and speaking so nonchalantly about it to the man who did it.
"What did he want?"
Dougie shrugs, takes a long drink from his can of Diet Coke.
"Nothing really," he answers. "Wanted to know if we were still friends." He hesitates suddenly, looking away and pushing his glasses up his nose in a nervous gesture. "We are, right Butters? Still friends, I mean?"
"Well, yeah Dougie," Butters answers, feels the first smile in weeks creep up his face. Dougie looks up from where he's been inspecting the floor and grins weakly. "Of course we're pals."
When he leaves Dougie's house, he doesn't have any of the answers he had come for, but he's got an optimistic swell in his gut that has him smiling to himself nonetheless. He hasn't talked to Dougie in a long time, since the first time Chaos came and-and-killed his dad. It's good to know that after almost a year, they're still friends.
He's humming to himself softly, not really watching where he's going, when he bumps into Cartman suddenly.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Eric," Butters says, giving his friend a hand up. The heavy-looking trash bag he'd been carrying tumbles to the floor, and Cartman hastens to pick it up, even as a rip begins to appear near the bottom. "Heya Eric, did you need some help with that bag?"
"No, no Butters, it's cool," Cartman says, obviously distracted. Suddenly, his head snaps up in a way that reminds Butters, somehow, of his problem with Chaos. "Actually, Butters, I think you can help me. I've got this...project, right?" he waves his hand vaguely over the black bag at his feet. "But I don't know if it'll work. I need a test subject."
"A test subject," Butters repeats, automatically rubbing his knuckles together and snatching them apart when it causes an excruciating burn to run up his arm. "Well, gee, Eric, I don't know."
"Oh come on Butters, don't be such a pussy," Eric needles.
Butters has always been powerless against Eric Cartman's needling, for reasons even Butters doesn’t really understand. He takes a deep breath, fidgets with the gauze carefully wrapped around his knuckles.
"Well, all right, Eric," he says, and Eric grins widely, in a way that doesn't make Butters feel better about his decision.
"Awesome," he answers. "Meet me out behind Old Man Denkins’ pony ranch at midnight."
And without even waiting for Butters to agree to the meeting, he hauls his bag over his shoulder and marches off.
Butters has a deep sense of foreboding the second Eric walks away.
He goes home and has to rewrap his hand again, disinfecting his bloody knuckles and trying very hard not to listen to the news report about three grown men beaten to death in Denver by an unidentified assailant. After all, Denver is a dangerous town. It could have been anyone.
***
It turns out, Gregory has been formulating a plan to storm Chaos' lair or something for a while now. Apparently, he had been waiting for fucking Christophe to get bored or something, which, wow, isn't something Craig wants to think about. It's simple, really. They go in pairs, meticulously searching the compound until they find either Tweek or Chaos. Craig tries really hard not to imagine them running into Damian or Cartman instead. But he does think of Kenny, stubbornly refusing to leave Chaos' side because he still has a shred of hope that Butters will emerge from Chaos' insanity.
He wants to tell them, to warn The Resistance not to hurt Kenny, but they walk with a steely determination that Craig's ashamed to admit he doesn't know how to penetrate. Mentally, he says his goodbye to Kenny and sighs.
It doesn't take them too long to reach Carl's Warehouse; they all know the city too well already. He leads them through the hidden entrance, the heavy cellar doors about three feet away from the building that open up impossibly to a long, winding staircase, made almost entirely of metal. If the others are surprised, they don't show it.
"Stay close," Craig whispers, afraid that his very breath may be enough to alert Chaos of his presence.
He climbs the winding staircase with Gregory at his side, the other boy as silent as a fucking ghost, his face determined and unreadable. Craig sort of understands why him and Christophe are friends now.
Craig doesn't want to see Gregory, ever composed, lose his temper.
Fifty-four steps later, they reach the first landing. Craig stops, listens to the next group as they slowly climb up to meet them. Stan and Kyle emerge first, and Craig nods them up.
"The next floor up is where the demons usually meet," he says quietly. "Cartman may be up there, maybe Damian if you're really unlucky. Don't go through the door painted red; it'll lead you straight to Hell. There's a painting of an old man being eaten by a bunch of crows up there somewhere; it changes location every forty minutes. Behind it is a hallway. It'll lead you to Kenny's bedroom. If you're lucky-"
But he doesn't finish his sentence, doesn't know how without asking Stan and Kyle to show one of their oldest friends mercy, and he doesn't know if they can, after everything. Stan and Kyle nod, almost in unison, and start up the stairs.
Token and Wendy show up afterwards. Craig waves them over, motioning to the tall, narrow hallway around them, twisting out of sight and branching off into innumerable dead-ends.
"Keep right," he says. "If a door looks like it's hanging open, don't trust it. Damian cooked up this illusion that makes his wormholes look like open doors. If you fall into one, you're as good as dead. Eventually, you'll get to the holding cells and interrogation chambers."
Token and Wendy nod tightly, tightening their grip on their guns.
"Keep right," says again. "It'll feel like you're going in circles, but you're not. Trust me."
Wendy licks her lips, something like apprehension flashing quickly through her eyes. She turns quickly and silently makes her way down the hallway. Token follows; less than a second later, they vanish into the darkness.
"We go down," Craig says.
Gregory doesn't answer; Craig doesn't expect him too. When he steps back onto the staircase, it groans under his feet and transforms into a set of steep cement steps, with an archway engraved with dusty-looking runes Craig can’t quite translate. He takes a deep, fortifying breath, and leads the way down.
Craig's only ever been down here once before, two months and four days ago, about a week after Chaos elbowed his way into their lives again. The steps around them become grimy, stained with dirt and dried blood, and further down, the blood glistens in a faint, flickering way that tells Craig they're nearing the basement now. Eventually, the stone steps turn into dirt, and they level out into a long tunnel. There are torches lining each side of the tunnel, and it goes on for about a hundred yards, until it makes a sharp left.
On either side, there are seven heavy wooden doors, each bolted shut by an enormous block of wood. Craig wonders when, exactly, they ended up in a 1930s horror film.
"What do you expect to find here?" Gregory asks almost pleasantly.
Craig shrugs.
"This is the place Chaos keeps most secret," Craig answers. "I figured that whatever is most important to him would be down here."
Gregory doesn't answer, just crosses into the tunnel and starts peering into the tiny, roughly carved portholes on the first few doors. Craig follows suit, unsure what they might be looking for. Almost immediately, he wishes he had sent anyone else down here.
There are people in those rooms, or, the remains of people. The first room he looks into is almost pitch black, but the little light that bleeds into the room from the tunnel falls across something red and slimy and still oozing. Craig thinks of the pictures in his old anatomy book, detailing the four chambers of a human heart and feels sick to his stomach. He goes to the next door, which isn't much better. At least the person chained to the wall is alive, although his labored breathing suggests that he won't be for much longer.
"Here," Gregory says, and Craig tears his eyes away from the sight to where Gregory is trying to heave the heavy wooden crossbeam off of its hinge.
Craig rushes over to help, and together, they manage to heave the crossbeam up and away. The door creaks open loudly, and Craig quickly scans the tunnel around them, terrified that someone will have heard them. Gregory is already in the room, rushing to the figure bound to the metal chair in the center of the room. Gregory pulls a knife from somewhere and cuts his bindings, and when the boy's hair flashes in the torchlight, Craig feels the bottom of his stomach drop. He rushes over and rips the bindings off, but when he circles to face the boy, Craig feels his hope bleed out of him in bitter disappointment.
"Pip?" he says, bewildered.
Pip looks up at him; his eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and a long gash runs from his forehead, down through his right tear-duct, and down to his upper lip, swollen and angry with infection.
"Hello, Craig, Gregory," he says, his voice sounding raspy. He brings a hand up to gingerly rub at his unmarked eye, and Craig sees that there is an oozing purple stump where his pointer should be. "I guess you've found me."
"Jesus Christ, Pip," Craig says weakly, even as Gregory pulls Pip gingerly to his feet.
Gregory meets Craig's eyes, and Craig nods in understanding.
"Take him back," Craig says. "I'll find everyone else."
Gregory doesn't so much as nod his understanding. He just wraps an arm around Pip's waist and half-drags, half-carries him out. Craig waits until he can't hear their uneven footsteps anymore before he peeks out the door and rushes to the cement stairs again.
They make a sound almost like a high-pitched giggle and morph back into the long winding metal stairs, and Craig climbs up, trying to decide which group would be easier to find.
“The fuck are you doing alive?” a familiar voice asks from the shadows.
Craig nearly jumps out of his skin before thinking that, well, at least he doesn’t have to go looking for trouble this time.
"Damian," Craig says on an exhale. "I thought-"
"Wait," Damian says, narrowing his eyes and taking a step forward. Craig thinks, shit, Death is coming now, but Damian stops two feet away from him, eying the metal staircase behind him suspiciously. "You were just downstairs, weren't you?"
"Uh," Craig says, unsure if the truth or a lie would be better right now.
Damian's eyes start glowing in the darkness.
"Answer me," he says quietly.
Which, okay, yeah.
"Yeah," Craig says.
Damian lets out a breath that sounds more like a growl, baring his pointed teeth menacingly. He takes a step forward.
"Where is he?" Damian breathes.
Craig blinks.
"Sorry, what?"
"Where is Pip?"
There's a moment of complete silence then, broken by Craig's sharp breathing.
"You're fucking kidding, right?"
By the way Damian's eyes flash in the darkness, he guesses that's a no.
Craig has a hard time believing that everyone Chaos has been working with isn't really interested in the whole world-domination thing. Actually, he's got a hard time believing that Damian was coerced into this whole mess the same way Craig was. But he can't deny it. Now that he knows what he's looking for, Damian's furious scowl is marred with just the tinniest streak of fear, concern.
And shit, Craig gets that.
Which is why it takes him less than a second to make up his mind. He turns on his heel and heads down the spiral staircase, straining to hear Damian following him. But he kind of feels like fucking Orpheus at this point, like if he turns around Damian will disappear into a cloud of smoke and run back to Chaos.
When did this shit turn him into a poetic sap?
They're back outside in under a minute; Craig can see three dark blobs out by the nearest tree, and Craig approaches slowly. Stan, Token and Christophe are huddled around the tree, silent as a fucking grave. They've obviously been watching his and Damian's approach, because when they get closer, Craig can see the hate painted across Stan's face, the disgust written in the way Token holds up his gun.
Christophe and Damian eye each other critically; Craig gets the feeling that everything can go sour really quick if these two can't trust each other. Christophe is leaning lazily against the handle of his shovel, and after a terse moment, he pulls it out of the ground and slings it easily over his shoulder.
"Are we doing zis then?" he asks.
"Are you fucking with me?" Stan asks. He turns back to Craig furiously. "I knew we shouldn't have trusted you. You bring fucking Damian, of all people? Are you sick in the head?"
"Dude, shut up," Craig says. "He's on our side. Sort of. In that he’s not really on Chaos’ side."
Damian remains silent, his eyes burning in the darkness. Not exactly the picture of cooperation, but he hasn't killed any of them yet, so Craig thinks that's about as indicative of his position as he's likely to get. Stan seems to realize this too, because after a second his fury melts away into something manageable.
"Where’s Pip?" Damian asks quietly
"With Gregory," Stan says, turns and leads the way back to the dingy shack they met up in earlier.
The walk back feels interminably longer; Craig entertains the thought that Damian somehow moved all of Carl's Warehouse to the other side of Denver before the little building looms on the horizon.
"Did everyone make it out okay?" Craig asks when they're less than a five minute walk from the shack. “Did you find Tweek?”
Stan stumbles slightly, his face ashen in the dim moonlight.
"I lost Kyle," he says quietly, with a tiny waver in his voice. "He told me to go, made me promise. I-"
He stops himself when they reach the front door, looks helplessly to Token for support. Token clenches his jaw and raps on the door with six quick staccato knocks. Craig blinks, can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.
"Kyle's good at getting himself out of shit," Token says, but even to Craig it sounds like a lie.
Stan nods quickly, stuffs his trembling hands into the pockets of his jeans. The door opens and all the four of them scramble into the building.
Craig notes Tweek’s absence immediately, feels it cut into his chest and twist painfully with every second that passes. Gregory, Wendy, and Pip are in the living room. Wendy is busy trying to coax a fire to life in the grate; Gregory is perched on the back of an old chair, feeling around the top of a crumbling bookshelf for something. But it's to Pip that Craig's eyes immediately drag to, the way he's been bundled up in a moldy, moth-eaten quilt, the way his blond hair is lank and unkempt in a way that Craig hadn't notice before.
And then Damian is crossing the room suddenly, energy crackling off of him like he could summon a fucking lightning bolt if he wanted to; in six even, measured steps he's in front of Pip, kneeling in front of him and tucking a strand of blond hair behind Pip's ear in a surprisingly gentle way.
“Damian?” Pip says, quietly, like he can’t really believe it.
Damian brings his hand up to curl protectively at the nape of Pip’s neck, and even though he’s still scowling, even though everything about him is sharp and dangerous and radiates fury, there’s a split second when the image sort of cracks, looks vulnerable and mortal. Damian squints his eyes shut and rests their foreheads together, and Craig has to look away, feeling suddenly awkward, like he’s intruded on an intimate moment.
Gregory steps off the chair with a first-aid kit in hand, his eyes flickering between Damian and Pip, to Christophe, and back again.
“Wendy,” Damian says suddenly. “Move.”
Wendy jumps up from her spot in front of the fireplace. There’s a rustle of displaced energy, and suddenly a fire is crackling merrily in the pile of splintered wood inside the grate.
“So, what do we do now?” Token asks after a moment.
Damian looks up, and his eyes start glowing again, bright blue this time, burning with the heat of a fucking star.
“We go back,” Damian says decisively. “I’ve called back the demons, the labyrinth, his fucking magic tricks. Everything. Let him try and stop us.”
“I’ll stay,” Token says, his voice measured, level. “See what I can do about that infected cut on Pip’s face.”
Gregory hands him the first-aid kit wordlessly, his face grim.
“Are we ready?” Gregory asks, turning to each of them in turn and waiting for them each to give a sign of acknowledgement. “Let’s go.”
“Damian,” Pip says again, the plea obvious in his voice.
Damian looks conflicted for all of four seconds before he drops back down to his knees.
“I’m here, Pip,” he says, taking Pip’s uninjured hand and interlacing their fingers. He turns to Christophe, a different kind of intensity in his eyes than what Craig is used to. “Make him suffer,” he says, and Christophe fucking smiles at that.
***
Butters is waiting for Eric behind Mr. Denkins’ pony ranch for less than five minutes before Eric saunters by, dragging something large and heavy-looking behind him. He sets it down with an ominous thud and wipes his hands idly on his pant legs. When he finally notices Butters, he smiles widely and motions him over. Butters approaches nervously, letting his fingers drag over the tender scabs on his knuckles.
“Heya, Eric,” he says nervously. Now that he’s closer, Butters can tell that the heavy object is like a large metal cube. Butters feels a trickle of fear climb up his spine. He’s not good in enclosed spaces. “Wh-what exactly did you need me for?”
“I need you to test out my new Jew trap,” Eric says calmly.
“Oh, I don’t know, Eric,” Butters says, lacing his fingers together and gripping them tightly. “I-I don’t think you should be hunting Jewish folks like they-like they were rabbits or somethin’.”
Eric rolls his eyes and opens the trap door with some effort.
“Don’t be stupid Butters,” Eric says. “I’m not hunting Jews. Just Kyle.”
“Oh,” Butters says, although that doesn’t really make anything better. “Still, I don’t understand-”
“Butters look,” Eric says, already pushing him roughly into the box. It’s cold and ominously dark in there; Butters isn’t sure if he wants to help Eric with this crazy experiment. “I just need you to make sure Kyle can’t get out of here once I lock him in. Okay?”
“W-well how am I supposed to do that?”
Eric rolls his eyes.
“Kyle is like, the Houdini of Jews, dude,” he says. “I need to make sure this thing is fool-proof before I trap him. So just, I don’t know, try to find a way out once you’re shut in, okay?”
“I-I don’t know, Eric,” Butters says, panicking slightly when the heavy metallic door clangs shut. Butters hears the click of a lock. “I’m not too great with small spaces.”
“That’s great Butters,” Eric says, “try to use that to make yourself feel like you’re actually in danger.”
Butters rubs his knuckles together frantically, ignoring the sharp bite of his still-tender skin.
“Eric, I-I don’t know about this,” he calls out, loudly, in case his protests are muffled by the metal.
“Butters, can you hear me?”
“Y-yeah Eric,” Butters says. “I-I don’t see any way he can get out of here. It just looks like a metal box from in here. C-can you let me out yet?”
“Well of course it still looks like a metal box, Butters,” Eric says, a hint of impatience in his voice. “I haven’t shown you the best part yet.”
Butters hears some light tapping on what is probably a keypad or remote, and a small, rectangular hole appears along the base of the box. Butters can hear a several quick, tapping sounds coming from the darkness there.
“E-Eric,” Butters says, willing his voice not to screech as the first millipede crawls out. “Let me out. Please. I-I don’t know if I can help.”
“Just look for any weaknesses in the design, Butters,” Eric says, and he sounds almost bored.
Butters tries to do as he’s told, but he’s even worse with insects and bugs and-and spiders than he is with small spaces, and when the first eight-footed, long-legged arachnid crawls out towards him, Butters looses it. He starts banging his fists against the side of the box, not caring if Eric thinks he’s a coward.
“Eric! Let me out! Please,” he yells, looks around frantically for something that might help him get himself out of this mess. Nothing but dark metal walls stare back at him, smudged with all sorts of bugs and-“Eric, help me! Please!”
But from outside Butters thinks he hears a low, gruff voice that doesn’t sound like Eric at all. Seconds later, he hears Eric shout out a muffled curse, and a loud gunshot rents the air.
All the breath leaves Butters’ body; Farmer Denkins shoots trespassers on sight, he thinks. He’s all alone now.
Suddenly, it feels as if there’s not enough air to breathe properly. He bangs his fists against the door, desperately, inhaling in a short, frantic, shallow rhythm.
“Help, oh help,” he says to no one in particular.
He’s nauseous suddenly from the fear, feels like he might die if he doesn’t find a way out from all the things crawling up his legs and down the back of his head.
“I can help you, Butters,” Chaos says, and Butters isn’t thinking, can’t see past the bright spots of fear that blur everything and make it technicolor and painful.
Help me, help me, help me, please, he thinks desperately and-
So Chaos stands, brushing the dirt off his shirt slowly, careful to avoid the various animals he's been locked with. Chaos hates, hates being locked away, ignored, forgotten. He will not be ignored.
His name is Chaos, and he will make Eric Cartman pay. If he has to turn the whole planet to ruin, he will make Eric Cartman suffer.
It's easy to escape the metal contraption he's been put into, Cartman's inexpert engineering skills painfully obvious in the weak welding he's used. Chaos feels the bones of his wrist snap as he forces the lock, but it's of no consequence to him. He has things to do.
However, now that he's out of that cage, his rage subsides slightly, and he remembers he's got a promise to keep.
He remembers the way to Linda's house. She's as monotonous as a fucking clock, and oh, how Chaos hates her. He wrote a promise on her bathroom mirror all those months ago, written in her disgusting lipstick that Stephen was first, but don’t worry, you'll be second. He doesn't want to be impolitic and continue with his plans of revenge without visiting her.
The deep black of the night is lightening slightly; Chaos believes it will be another hour, at least, until sunrise. He allows himself a smile. Perfect. This will not take long.
He breaks into her house silently, with the ease of long forgotten muscle-memory, going into the kitchen and searching for something that might make this excursion fun. His eyes linger on the heavy bone shears lying innocently on the counter top.
Yes. Those will do.
The weight of the shears is familiar in his hands, dimming the bright shots of pain that still linger around his wrist bone.
He creeps up the stairs like a breeze ghosting through the drapes, silent. Linda sleeps with the door open; months of living alone have left her feeling secure within her own house. Chaos is disappointed in her. When he moves into the room, he deliberately steps on the creaky floorboards, the ones that will wake Linda up no matter how deep her sleep has been.
Linda's head turns to the side on her pillow, fighting sentience, no doubt. Chaos stands over her and waits; he is in no rush. Finally, her eyes creak open blearily, looking around the room. Her eyes settle on Chaos and for a second, she doesn't react. Then she gasps, pulls herself up into a sitting position and pulls the sheets up with her, like they might offer her a modicum of protection.
"Butters, what are you doing here?" she asks.
"Not Butters," Chaos says, the name a vile, disgusting flavor that sits on his tongue.
Linda blinks, then the memory no doubt swims back into her sleep-addled brain. Chaos can smell her fear.
"Chaos," she breathes.
Chaos smiles.
"My, my, my," Chaos says idly, letting his eyes wander around the bedroom lazily. Her belongings are cluttered around her dresser, the large vanity mirror on the opposite side of the room. It's disgustingly ordinary. "Someone's gotten smarter since we last spoke."
"What do you want from me?" she asks, her voice breaking.
"Nothing in particular," Chaos answers. He smiles at her, all teeth and no amusement. "I just want to have some fun, Mother."
Linda screams, but Chaos is far beyond caring.
Chaos doesn't bother to wash up after he's done with Linda-the bitch, Chaos is glad to be rid of her, glad she screamed like the whore she was when he clipped off her fingers, one by one-figures that the sight will be very impressive to his friend. It is still very early; the sun only just creeping up over the top of the mountains, and Chaos is in a very good mood.
He hums a soft tune to himself as he climbs up the faded porch steps, buzzes the doorbell once. The door opens just a sliver, and a small, red-headed boy peers through.
"Hello Dougie," Chaos says pleasantly.
Dougie opens the door wider, watching him intently. He doesn't say a word.
"I think we need to speak," Chaos says after an appropriately dramatic silence.
In response, Dougie stands aside and allows Chaos into his house. Chaos makes himself comfortable.
"Chaos?" Dougie asks, quietly, like he might be afraid of the answer.
"This is why we're friends, Dougie," Chaos says, baring his teeth in a mangled approximation of a grin. "You always get my name right."
"What are you doing here?" he asks, pushing his glasses up the ridge of his nose.
"I need your help," Chaos says sincerely.
Dougie looks surprised for the span of a heartbeat; to his credit, he gets over the shock quite well.
"Oh."
"That's what pals are for, anyway, right?" Chaos asks, in an echo of the tentative voice that so many people trust.
Dougie blinks at him, before a tentative smile appears on his face.
"Yeah," he says. "I guess so."
"You're a real pal, Dougie," Chaos says and means it.
"What did you need my help with?"
"Oh, you'll see," Chaos says, and allows himself a brief, indulgent smile.
***
This time, they fly across the miles separating their shack and Carl’s Warehouse, seeming to get there within the span of a heartbeat. The rusty, metal door creaks open loudly when they try it, and for a second Craig doesn’t know where the fuck they are, he’s so used to the maze Damian had turned the warehouse into. But now, there are old, dusty crates pushed up against the walls, long grey tarps covering moldy boxes nearly eaten away with time. It’s dank and still pretty creepy, but for the first time in a long while, it looks almost normal.
Stan immediately runs off, disappearing within seconds behind the stacks of crates and boxes; Craig knows exactly who he’s looking for. Which reminds him suddenly, that Tweek is still trapped in here somewhere too, and he sets off in a random direction, searching.
It takes him longer than he would have thought to find Tweek, maybe because his body still wants to weave its way through trap doors and spiraling staircases that no longer exist. Oddly enough, he finds the steep cement steps leading to the basement easily enough, and the roughly carved archway also. Craig wonders at it for a second, but then he hears voices drifting up from the bottom landing, and Craig doesn’t have time to think about a fucking archway.
He takes the steps two at a time, nearly falling on his face when he reaches the uneven ground; it looks exactly the same as it had earlier, with its sealed chambers and roughly carved out walls. Kyle is sitting at the far end of the tunnel, hands on his knees and gun trained easily on the people before him. Kenny is on his knees in front of Chaos, who’s curled in on himself and shaking. On the floor in front of the two of them is a mangled body, bloody and beaten until it’s nearly indistinguishable. Craig can see a cap of shining brown hair and thinks, holy shit, that’s-
“Craig?” a familiar voice asks, and Craig’s thoughts scatter away easily. How the fuck did Craig not see him?
Craig drops his gun with a loud clatter and rushes to Tweek, catching the boy in his arms, everything else forgotten for the moment. Tweek is shaking in his arms, violently, and it takes Craig less than a second to recognize his own body is trembling as well, just enough so that Tweek can feel it and grip him tighter.
“Shit Tweek,” Craig says, breathes into the space above Tweek’s ear. “I’m sorry.”
“Dude, I’m sorry!” Tweek tries to flail in Craig’s arms but just ends up elbowing Craig in the stomach. “I didn’t believe Stan when he said that you were-you know. And so I went to your place to find some answers but then like, the whole place was crawling with demons and-”
“Do you guys think you can have this little heart-to-heart sometime later?” Kyle asks from across the room. “Totally not the time.”
Less than a second later Stan rushes in, takes a long look around the room and stumbles over to Kyle, making himself comfortable in the space between Kyle’s knees. To his credit, though, Kyle hugs him back fiercely for about four seconds, before pushing Stan away and aiming his gun back to Chaos and Kenny. Craig tears his eyes away from Tweek for a minute and really looks at the pair of them, at Kenny and Chaos in the middle of the floor.
Kenny looks terrible; there are deep purple bags under his eyes, and a slowly purpling bruise is blooming on his cheekbone. There's a lot of blood on him, but he doesn't know if it's from Kenny himself or the body lying to their side.
"Craig," Kenny says, finally looking up. "Help me."
And shit, Kenny sounds so fucking desperate, about an inch away from flying apart. Chaos is still shaking, and now that he's listening for it, there's a strange anguished groaning emanating from him, like he's-
"Is he crying?" Craig asks, and all the anger evaporates from his body. "Is that-?"
"Butters," Kenny says, and he sounds so lost, five fucking years old again and doesn’t have a clue what to do. Craig doesn't know what to do. "Help me," he says again.
It feels like Craig doesn't have a choice. He turns to Tweek, who catches his eye and nods at him sharply, giving permission. Then he kneels beside Kenny and-Butters. It really is Butters; Craig can tell the second the boy lifts his head.
"I'm-I'm sorry Craig," Butters whispers, his voice hoarse and utterly wrecked. "I'm so, so sorry."
Craig looks away, can't stand the sight of pure suffering that Butters has now become, the desperate way Kenny holds onto Butters' blood-soaked hand. His gaze falls on the bloody corpse beside them, and from this angle, Cartman's eyes stare up at him, shocked and glassy and very blank. In the dirt there are tiny rivulets of blood that run through strange, jagged crevices along the floor. Craig stares at them until they form a sentence in clear, methodical script.
Chaos always gets his revenge.
It doesn't make sense to Craig, but it takes his mind off of the choked-off, retching noises Butters is making at his side. He looks up again and sees Christophe, Gregory and Wendy all standing at the mouth of the tunnel, looking from Kyle and Stan in one corner, to Tweek in the other, and finally, down to Kenny, Butters, Craig and Cartman's body in the center of the clearing.
Christophe is the one who moves first. He walks up to Butters, nudges him with the sole of his boot until the boy is looking up at him with his tear-streaked eyes, and offers him his gun, handle-first. Butters looks at it for a long time. He takes a deep, ragged breath and blinks up at Christophe.
"Th-thank you," Butters says. Christophe shrugs and moves away, back to Gregory's side. Butters turns back to Kenny, his eyes clear and very blue again. Craig can't remember Chaos being anything other than darkness and death, thinks he’d remember if Chaos ever had blue eyes like that. "I'm sorry, Kenny," he whispers.
Very suddenly, Craig knows exactly what he plans to do. Kenny and he react almost in perfect synchronization, reaching towards Butters to take the weapon from his grip.
"Butters, no-"
"Don't-"
But the shot rings out loudly through the small rounded tunnel. Craig turns his head and closes his eyes, tries to pretend he doesn't hear Butters' limp body hit the floor with a dull thud.
"Butters," Kenny whispers, his voice quiet and strained like Craig's never heard it before.
He feels something brush against his neck, and when he looks up, Tweek is standing beside him, running his fingers reassuringly through Craig's hair. He takes a long, deep breath and stands.
"Let's go home," he says, mostly to Tweek.
Tweek smiles at him, and it feels like the first sunrise at Stark's Pond all over again, when he first realized he loved Tweek. Tweek leans against him and kisses him, short and chaste and sweet.
"I'd like that," he says.
It’s not okay; he doesn’t ever think he’ll be okay, not after this. But with Tweek hugging him sweetly like he never wanted anything different, he lets himself hope that maybe, things can get better.
--End.