Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Kenny wakes up wrong again.

But for his standards, waking up wrong doesn’t mean waking in a weird position causing a cramp or from a nightmare or even by the smell of his mom burning breakfast. 

It is that cold sensation of falling before his body gains consciousness, making you gasp alarmed, only to realize it’s just an illusion created by your own mind to play tricks on you. Except, in Kenny’s case, his body is falling, deep down in an abyss, in a weightless feeling, drifting like he’s fallen out of the helm made of matter.

The world around him is dark, quiet and too… motionless.

He isn’t in his bedroom.

He sees under it.

Support beams stretch out like ribs overhead, while pipes run like veins. Everything is outlined faintly in a grayish blue, as if the whole house has become a blueprint drawn from the inside of a shadow. Or maybe it’s just the way he perceives his own home. The only real brightness is the soft glow marking the place where he should be, the outline of his mattress suspended above him like a doorway.

Kenny sighs into the darkness, his voice echoing. “Not again.” He starts moving back to where he should be.

It feels like swimming through a dense liquid, pushing through invisible currents just to get closer to the faint slice of light above. He’s been doing this since he was little, waking up “under the shadows”, as Karen once said when he was disguised. 

He doesn’t understand it either, but it’s weirdly comforting. It started feeling that way when he was able to control it better and use it to hide when he had problems, whether at school or with his family.

He presses his hand upward and breaks through the glowing surface with a soft pop like a bubble bursting, and lands face-first in a pile of clothes on his bedroom floor.

He groans, rubbing his forehead frustrated. He doesn’t know why or how to explain, but there is something about Wednesdays… It’s not the beginning nor the end of the week. He kind of wishes he didn’t have to go out today.

The house is quiet, at least. That usually means his parents either passed out early or they’re too hungover to yell yet. Kenny pushes himself to his feet and glances around the cluttered room, soda cans, homework sheets, mismatched socks and the usual mess. Yeah, that’s normal enough for him.

But his mind is still on yesterday's events.

On Cartman’s dramatic and insufferable screaming.

On Butters looking like he might faint from nerves every single time someone made a statement.

On himself, wondering how he keeps getting dragged into things like this. He knows he tends to just add some fuel to the fire sometimes, but this time he really didn’t mean it.

He just meant to glance over his shoulder that moment, instead he saw your sleeve, darkened with blood. And not from a fight or a fall or anything obvious enough for everyone to notice.

Now he is pulled to an even worse possibility than any stupid witch infestation Cartman came up with. Kenny doesn’t scare easily, not after everything he’s been through, but that sight… bothered him. Call him a hypocrite, but seeing another person pretend that nothing is happening, makes something sting inside his throat. 

His own problems are enough for this town to ignore, one more? Yeah, no.

Now thinking, the idea of his sister visiting such a place is out of question for him. Did she see something? No, she would have runned to him telling everything. But still. 

And that infuriates him for a reason he doesn’t know, because he truly shouldn’t care. But what kind of vigilant would he be then?

Cartman sees witches everywhere. 

Butters is as clueless as a newborn baby.

And Kenny observes a very possible case of violence. And maybe he’s wrong. 

Probably is.

He grabs his jacket off the ground and pulls it on. The zipper snags halfway, as always. Kicking aside a comic book, he tries to make a miracle in organizing his room so Karen won’t step on anything weird later, and he slips out into the corridor.

In the living room, his mom is asleep on the couch, wrapped around Karen like a blanket, these are the only moments where she is docile enough to show affection. The TV glows silently meanwhile and his dad is nowhere in sight, probably outside smoking, or passed out in the garage.

Kenny takes a piece of bread from the counter, pockets it to eat as he walks along the path to go to the bus stop and steps into the cold morning.

Fog hangs low over South Park. The chill wakes him up more than anything else. He needs to be more attentive or else he won’t reach his destination before stumbling three times.

Fortunately for him, he makes it with one stumble. That’s good enough for him when the criteria is luck.

The bus is already waiting when he arrives, thanks to Stan holding it for him. Gosh, he must have been arguing with the driver again because of him. Kenny thinks about paying Stan back with something, but it’s not like he can do or afford much at the moment. 

Kenny climbs aboard without bothering to look for anyone in particular.

Cartman isn’t there. That’s probably the best thing that’s happened to him all morning. But this peace probably won’t live too long.

Kenny takes his usual seat and lets himself sink against the window. Maybe this is his break for the day. A few quiet minutes before Cartman inevitably finds him and makes him regret having left the house. 

The glass is cold against his temple.

For a while, he watches the neighborhood slide past.

He doesn't fall asleep, although his eyelids begs for it. He just stays there, listening to the engine rumble beneath him and the muffled chatter around him, letting the morning pass without asking anything from him. 

For once, nobody is asking him to do anything. 

And maybe that’s why his mind starts wandering again. 

Things have been getting difficult lately.

Not in one big, dramatic way. Kenny could deal with those. Those usually came with explosions, monsters, accidental murders or something else obvious enough to kill him again.

But the regular things piling up are incredibly harder than the uncommon ones. Is it because he is growing up? He already has so many responsibilities, imagine when there are even more? 

School will get more and more complicated. Cartman will continue with his nonsense. He will most likely work way earlier than the majority of his friends, since his parents aren’t really ideal to save up money. And he is worried if things will change drastically. Will Stan and Kyle still be his friends?

He hopes he is not overreacting.

Kenny scoff for a brief second.

As if this moment of him alone with his thoughts could be compared to Cartman yesterday. When you kicked him in the balls, Kenny didn’t know if he should feel glad that he was alive to see it or sorry for you, because once Cartman is irritated enough, shit will go down.

Sorry for you… Is he… Worried? Nah.

You’ll just show up today like nothing happened. Like your sleeve wasn’t stained yesterday. Like everything is fine.

That would be stupid, because he barely knows you. 

He didn’t do anything to you. He wasn’t the one who taunted you yesterday because of a sentimental keychain. He wasn’t the one making you hide your own problems. Holy Shit! He hadn’t even meant to notice you! He saw Cartman and Butters hiding in a corner of the school and he got a little too curious. That's definitely one of his flaws. 

And somehow he still feels like he’s carrying a forbidden knowledge around with him. 

At the end of the day, Kenny is a hypocrite.

He hates seeing innocent people hurt. He hates being the only one who knows something, hell, he is the only one who remembers that he dies and comes back. And yet, maybe he hates seeing you possibly getting abused by your parents because he sees himself in this situation.

His own parents aren’t kind. Only when they are sleeping, it’s usually when they are not screaming at each other or when they aren’t taking their rage out on him, Karen and Kevin.

Maybe he could have ignored it. He probably should have.

Instead, he let Cartman yank him into another one of his stupid investigations and now Kenny has spent half the morning thinking about whether something is wrong with a girl he barely talks to. What convinced him? Cartman poor attempt at taking some pictures of your hot mom? 

It’s his own damn fault. 

He could have just kept his mouth shut yesterday, like he always does. He could have looked away during the math test. He could have let Cartman think whatever ridiculous thing he wanted and let you deal with it.

Kenny shifts against the window, eyes still closed.

But then another thought slips in his mind.

He could use Cartman. Not help him. Jesus Christ, no.

But if Cartman was already determined to snoop around, create physical conflict, make lists of possible witch activities and generally stick his nose where it didn’t belong, then Kenny could at least pay attention to what they found. 

Maybe he could figure out whether there was actually something wrong with you, without having to ask or show that he knows about the blood thing.

And if Cartman happened to stumble into something useful while chasing his stupid witch theory, well… What kind of vigilante would Kenny be if he let a perfectly good investigation go to waste?

The bus eventually slows in front of South Park Elementary.

Kenny finally opens his eyes.

The moment the doors fold open, kids flood into the aisle all at once, backpacks knocking against seats, shoes scraping over the rubber floor, everyone suddenly in a hurry to get somewhere they’ve had the entire ride to reach. Someone near the back shouts for their friend to wait and another one nearly trips over a backpack left in the middle of the aisle and immediately starts yelling about whoever put it there. 

Kyle and Stan are already talking over each other as they push toward the door, apparently still in the middle of whatever argument they started before Kenny arrived.

He pushes himself up and slings his backpack over one shoulder, stepping into the aisle just as another student squeezes past him. “Move, McCormick.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His voice comes out clearer than usual. He doesn't bother to mind about the stares as he pulls his hood up, nudges a rock down the sidewalk with his shoe, keeping pace with it.

Kenny reaches the main hall with that weird nausea still turning in his stomach, was the bread from this morning spoiled? This is another problem he is used to.

The fog hangs low and dense over the grass outside, blurring the school grounds into blurred shapes behind him as Kenny pushes through the main entrance. He barely makes it past the first set of doors before…

“FINALLY!”

He slowly turns his head with the most neutral face he could perform.

Between two trash cans, half-hidden behind them like he has been waiting there for an ambush, stands Cartman, scribbling in a tiny notebook he must’ve stolen from Butters’ backpack. Butters, on the other hand, stands beside him, shifting nervously from foot to foot like he’s waiting for a dentist appointment.

Of course. Why would Kenny expect this to happen way later during recess?

Cartman throws his hands up the moment Kenny looks at him. “Dude! What took you so fucking long?! Get your ass over here!” He hisses, waving frantically.

Kenny drags himself closer and starts questioning if his whole previous intern monologue was just him being unusually positive.

Butters whispers to him. “We’re in stealth mode.” As if saying it quietly makes the trash-can setup look less stupid.

Cartman snaps the notebook shut, gathering their attention. “So, since everyone is here can we begin? Objections? No? Nothing? Perfect. The operation can begin in full force.”

Kenny raises an eyebrow under his hood. “We’ve been doing this for one day now.”

“Yeah, yeah, but yesterday doesn’t count, mainly because I'm carrying the whole operation, since someone… ” Cartman glares at Butters. “ …can’t stop yelping every time he sees a shadow.”

“I’m sorry Eric!” Butters protests. “You told me that when witches summon demons, they tend to live in their shadows.”

“I said they could, Butters, could! As in hypothetical. I’m not a witch, I don’t know how magic works! That’s deeply offensive!” Cartman huffs dramatically. “God, educate yourself.”

Kenny pinches the bridge of his nose, hiding the smirk of how chaotic this all is. “So yesterday doesn’t count because of what? A kick on your balls?”

Cartman snaps his neck in his direction so fast, Kenny almost suspects a mysterious force has broken his bones like a chicken. “SHUT UP, KENNY!”

The brave boy with immense passion against the dark arts then turns around taking deep breaths to appease his rage. Calm down Cartman, keep your cool. He immediately lowers his voice. “Yesterday was a reconnaissance failure, yes, but today is special. We figure out who she talks to, where she goes and what she does after school, whether she's hiding anything, whether she has suspicious objects… We. Must. Know.” He slams his fist against his palm with every word spoken.

That is… an actual good plan. It’s better than whatever was the dilemma yesterday. That’s exactly what Kenny was hoping for, he is good at doing just observation. Unless, of course, Cartman plans on using him or Butters as a bait for a risky task. Naturally, for the sake of this mission, someone will need to take the bullet and sacrifice themselves.

So Kenny stiffens at the thought, swallowing hard and praying that he won’t need to do anything absurd just as an excuse. He really doesn't want to reveal his true intentions behind this sudden interest in witch hunting.  “So… That’s it?”

Cartman rolls his eyes. “Dude, be my guest and start giving ideas, I’m not endangering my pearls again. We need to be more prepared.”

Butters pats Kenny’s shoulder sympathetically. “Don’t worry.” He comforts. “I found this information on the internet that says that witches are not interested in poor guys, so you are safe, pal.”

Kenny slowly turns toward him. “Butters, where the hell did you read that?” He looks at him confused.

“Well… Eric told me to register on Reddit and search for insights about witches. There is this group called Red Pills…”

A sudden wave of shouting comes from the entrance.

The first few manage to get inside normally. But the rest apparently decide that the school entrance is the perfect place to recreate a sporting event. Someone has brought a basketball, throws it across the hall, bounces off the wall, hits someone’s back and flies straight toward two of the sixth-grade hallway monitors.

One of the ginger kids barely has time to turn before the ball smacks him right in the face. The entire hallway freezes because of the little accident.

Needless to say that the other hallway monitor immediately starts shouting for everyone to stop running while the first one confiscates the basketball and starts marching toward the students responsible. 

Within seconds, half the commotion is being herded toward the principal’s office.

Meanwhile, Kenny watches the chaos from behind the trash cans. His attention drifts toward the entrance again as another group of students makes its way inside.

And then he sees you.

You’re walking beside Wendy, listening to her talk about something with the kind of attention that makes it obvious you’ve heard the same story before and are still willing to let her finish it. Wendy gestures animatedly as she talks, occasionally looking at you to make sure you’re following.

You nod at something she says. Hands grasping your sweater from the cold, your hair is slightly messy from the wind, but there’s nothing particularly unusual about you.

You look like every other kid making their way into school.

He checks your sleeves first, clean today. There are no dark crimson stains this time, but it’s not like Wendy wouldn’t notice and question you if they were. He doesn’t know why that makes something loosen in his chest, but it does.

Beside him, Cartman whispers: “Subject spotted.”

Kenny elbows him hard. 

“What?” Cartman snaps. “If we are going to do this, let’s at least be professional about it. It’s South Park’s future we are talking about!”

Butters squints at you like he’s expecting your eyes to glow red. “She looks normal.”

Kenny nods slightly. “Yeah.”

Cartman scowls. “You pussies! That’s how she gets you!”

Kenny can’t help, but laugh.

You and Wendy disappear farther down the hallway, swallowed by the other students. Kenny's eyes stay on the spot where you were. He stays quiet for a moment, not knowing what to say or soothe the absurd way Cartman is acting.

Then it occurs to him that maybe Cartman doesn't actually need to be involved in every part of this. Actually, that might be the biggest problem. If it wasn’t for him yesterday, Kenny and Butters could have actually talked with you and solved any misunderstanding that exists, but the provocations were so irrational, any kind of dialogue was out of the question.

What's next?

Cartman would follow you around with binoculars and not be very private about it, ask questions loud enough for the entire school to hear and probably accuse someone next to you of being a witch before lunch. Probably Wendy. And then Stan would be involved and Kenny would need to mediate between his two friends, again. 

But Kenny has literal abilities that can help him be stealth enough for you to not even notice his approach. He just wants to know whether the blood yesterday meant anything. Whether there is something happening that you aren't telling anyone. 

And if there is… Well, he will probably notice it before Cartman does.

Kenny looks at Butters, then at Cartman. “You know.” Kenny starts, watching their expressions. “Maybe you two should let me handle the… observing thing.”

Cartman narrows his eyes. “Why?”

Kenny shrugs and unzips his jacket, so he can speak freely. “Let’s be honest, you two suck at whatever you’re planning. I’m less obvious and better than you in not being suspicious.”

And it’s true. On daily occasions, Kenny’s quiet and blends in perfectly. People tend to like him more out of anyone in his group because he isn't as neutral and hypocritical as Stan, demanding as Kyle and an asshole like Cartman. He spends half his life slipping under the radar, sometimes literally.

Cartman folds his arms, not fully convinced, but he has no satisfying argument to say otherwise. “Fine. But anything you see, anything you even feel is supernatural, you tell me first.”

Kenny rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

He heads toward the school corridors, tugging his hood back over his face as the morning chill slips down his back.

He tells himself he’s just being cautious, curious even. He would be lying if he says that he isn’t interested in gossip here and then, but deep down, something tells him that he won’t like what he will find, witch stuff or what he is suspecting.

_________________

You know something’s off before you even reach your locker.

You don’t have this ability of noticing weird atmospheres or knowing when someone else’s aura is weird, but your mother instructed you to always be aware. You are a girl, the world is dangerous for little girls.

Your dad also taught you something interesting. Humans have this perception of being aware when someone or something is watching you. Maybe it’s an instinct that was passed through generations, humans are animals after all. Anyway, if a person has the feeling of being watched, it’s because it is true and they saw the observer before, they were just not paying attention. 

That being said, someone is watching you. They are somewhere around, you just don’t know who and where.

Adjusting the collar of your shirt, you distract yourself by moving things around your locker, not putting anything away or picking up. This is awkward, Wendy and Bebe are waiting for you at the auditorium.

The school is showing a movie for the sixth graders this morning, apparently as part of some lesson about history. The teachers had decided that watching it together in the auditorium would be easier than trying to cram several classes into one room, which meant everyone had been told to arrive early and head there before the first period officially started.

So you are late.

And if it wasn’t enough, yesterday's… situation… plays in your head like a bad TV rerun.

Cartman had no business in dragging your charm. You don’t regret either, you would do everything again. 

Wendy motivated you to grow a backbone and speak your mind. She was very proud when you told her this morning that you kicked Cartman on the balls, but also warned you that he must be already fed up, adding to the whole Halloween booth case.

You exhale through your nose.

You take this time to organize your locker a little. You have this terrible habit of throwing your things away, because you don’t have time to do it daily. So books, papers and everything else piled up and crashed with the weight. You even found some packs of used Sanrio stickers you thought you lost. They are now secured in your backpack

Then you feel it again.

Someone is watching.

You turn your head just enough to look down the hallway.

Kenny is standing near the bathroom doors, leaned on the fountain, hood up and hands in pockets. Nothing unusual, except he’s… not doing anything and completely alone. Just watching the hall with this weird intensity. Making you wonder if he’s analyzing something or if he forgot how blinking works.

When he notices you looking, he flinches like he didn’t expect to be caught, pretending he wasn’t staring at all, calmly pressing the fountain button even though he clearly doesn’t want water.

You narrow your eyes slightly. By the Gods, he is terrible at it.

You close your locker and head to the auditorium, deciding not to think too hard about it. He was involved yesterday, but didn’t do anything drastic, you felt more betrayed by Butters joining Cartman shenanigans than Kenny sticking around. You never really talked with the guy after all.

By the time you reach the place, most of the sixth graders are already finding their seats.

Wendy has saved you a spot between her and Red, leaving just enough room for you to squeeze through without making either of them move. You drop into the seat, setting your things by your feet as Wendy immediately leans toward you.

“What took you so long?”

You glance toward the doors behind you. “Something isn’t right.” The words come out quickly, almost too anxious.

Wendy’s expression changes immediately. “What?”

You open your mouth to explain, but the history teacher steps onto the small stage at the front of the auditorium and taps the microphone.

“Alright, everyone, settle down. We’re going to get started.”

The lights begin to dim and you look toward the screen. The title appears immediately.

Season of the Witch.

You stare at it dumbfounded. Really? The one with Nicolas Cage? Wendy looks at you and suppresses a laugh.

The teacher begins explaining that the movie was chosen because the class has been studying the medieval period, particularly the social and religious changes surrounding the plague.

You sink a little farther into your seat. The plague, that’s it? They’re studying the entire medieval era and this is what they came up with? There have to be better choices.

You glance at the screen again as the opening begins. It already looks inaccurate. Not even five minutes in and you notice they are rewriting half of history for the sake of action.

And then, you feel it again. That small sensation of someone watching you.

You glance over your shoulder, expecting to catch whoever it is this time, but it’s just Butters. He looks a little distracted, but nothing like yesterday. No nervous glances or sudden attempts to scream by subtle movements.

Usually he gives you a tiny smile or a quiet “hi” when you sit down next to him,  he’s polite like that. Whatever Cartman had been talking about probably got into his head and that was that. 

So you try, as cautious as possible, to greet him. “Morning, Butters.” 

The reaction is immediate. His body halts, almost resembling a perfect statue. His eyes go wide and his fingers stop halfway through whatever fidgeting he was doing. His eyes flick toward you for barely a second before dropping back to the ground. 

“Oh! Hi, Misha…” He squeaks. 

Seriously? You hadn’t even done anything. You narrow your eyes slightly, more confused than anything else.

You sit back down slowly, pulling your legs up on the cushion, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of it. 

It hasn’t even been a week since you two were making an art project together. Now he can bear looking at you, as if you would electrocute him in a mere sight. 

Sad by the small exchange of words, you turn back just a little. Sitting beside Butters, is Cartman. Why are you still surprised? 

He is leaning over Butters’ chair, pretending to look through a notebook while very obviously listening to everything happening in the movie.

You stare at him for a moment, brows furrowing as he looks up. As soon as your eyes meet, he lets out a dramatic gasp and goes back to his notes. 

That son of a bitch.

As the movie goes on, you actually try paying attention. The auditorium is dark except for the light coming from the screen and the teachers have mostly given up on keeping everyone completely still. Every now and then someone asks to go to the bathroom at a scene that probably wasn’t supposed to be for kids, followed by a few scattered whispers before the room settles again.

You try to ignore the voices behind you. At first, they’re too quiet to make out the words. Then you start hearing your name multiple times. You glance over your shoulder when you feel someone kicking your seat.

Cartman is talking behind cupped hands, as if that would cover his guilt. Butters respond with a squeaky and panicked voice, while the other boy nods, closing his eyes in a theatrical way, like he is narrating a conspiracy theory.

Some fragments slip through anyway.

“Told you, dude… keep watching, Butters! This is important intel.”

Whatever is the context, they seem to think they’re being subtle. But it is not like you can do much about it. After pecking over your shoulder more than once, Cartman started kicking your chair more often, as if he was trying to either scare you or drive you away. 

Your shoulders tense without permission. It isn’t as if you hate talking, but any kind of idea you have for a comeback to what they have to say sounds too disclosing or simply weak. And if you do something about it again and choose to use your hands, the whole auditorium will go through an outbreak. 

Wendy notices your discomfort before anything is said. It’s not like your body jolting forward by every kick is a mystery to her. 

She turns around slowly, eyes narrowing at the boys behind you. “Can you two shut the fuck up and stop?!”

The whispering stops.

Cartman looks at her with an expression of genuine offense, like she has just committed some incredible personal betrayal. His mouth opens slightly, clearly ready to argue. Then he seems to think better of it. He huffs, rolls his eyes dramatically and turns back toward his notebook.

Wendy turns back around like nothing happened.

“Thanks.” You glance at her.

She shrugs, keeping her eyes on the movie.

The sleeve of your shirt slips up an inch, and you tug it down, heart squeezing tight for a moment. You can still remember the faint warmth before the drop fell, the pressure behind the eyes you hate.

You check your sleeve again.

Clean. Thank the Gods. And Wendy too, for coming in clutch.

The movie eventually reaches what is apparently supposed to be its big revelation. The girl everyone has spent the entire movie suspecting of being a witch wasn’t a witch at all, but a demon. Or, according to the movie's increasingly ridiculous explanation, possibly the Devil himself. 

You lean slightly toward Wendy. “That's stupid.”

Red gives a quiet snort beside you. “Well, I don’t know, but at least the actress is pretty.”

You settle back into your seat, already losing whatever little interest you had left.

Then something thumps behind you. Not loudly enough to draw the teacher's attention, but enough to make you, Wendy and Red all turn around.

Kenny is practically sprawled across Butters' seat. One arm is stretched across the chair, fingers desperately reaching for Cartman's notebook while Cartman has one hand planted against Kenny's forehead, pushing his head away.

“What are you doing dude?!” Cartman hisses.

“What are you doing?! I told you to let me handle it!”

“Get your hands off my notes, Kenny!”

Butters is pressed as far into his own seat as physically possible, looking like he has no idea how he ended up stuck in this position.

You stare at it. Once sleepy by the boredom of the movie, you are now fully awake by how confusing this all is. Are boys always like that? Your brothers are weird, they discuss and fight each other a lot, but it is usually by an obvious matter. This?

And to make things more complicated, when did Kenny even get here? There was no sign of him having walked over this entire time. 

Wendy slowly turns toward you as you sit back. You feel like if you make eye contact with any of these boys, it will only get worse. Ignore them, you tell yourself.

On the screen, the Devil summons demon monks that crawl up the walls. Behind you, Kenny nearly knocks Butters onto the floor, accidentally kicking him. What the hell is going on? Please end this movie now.

Something strange is happening, it doesn’t seem anything dangerous just… you have heard about them multiple times. Craig told you once that he was involved in one of their “adventures”, but the truth was that, somehow, they were deported to Peru. And you have, at least, witnessed their unusual fooleries. You want no part of those, but apparently, you have no choice this time. 

You are being dragged, whether you want it or not. And with Halloween creeping closer every day, you get the sinking feeling that this is just the beginning of whatever nonsense is coming.

_________________

Eventually, the movie reaches its final few minutes. 

The auditorium lights slowly come back on, revealing several hundred students looking equally confused, bored, or relieved that they can finally leave after an underwhelming event. 

The teachers begin directing everyone toward the exits and the scenario immediately turns into a mess of waking up students who feel asleep and students trying to stand up at the same time, jamming the door.

You leave with Wendy and Red, the three of you talking as you make your way into the hallway. Wendy says something that makes you laugh, enough to clasp your hands against your mouth and Red adds her own comment before the three of you reach the other girls waiting outside. 

Bebe is already there, along with Annie and the others and the group quickly folds the three of you back into the conversation as though you'd never been separated in the first place.

Kenny watches from farther behind. 

He officially left “Operation Witch Watch”, if it isn’t obvious enough. Cartman probably doesn’t know yet and it’s better this way. He completely went against what they agreed this morning. Cartman not only messed with you, not only started writing about Wendy and Red names on his stupid notebook but also, in an inexplicable way, changed the movie to one for his liking.

Were they going to watch a medieval movie? Yes. Was it supposed to be Season of the Witch? No. 

He had somehow managed to interfere with the movie. Kenny had discovered that part by accident, you know, like hiding from people’s sight.

The original movie had been sitting in a case backstage that morning. Kingdom of Heaven, that was what the school had actually planned to show for their medieval history unit.  

Kenny had found the case empty. Then, after more investigation, he found the DVD, floating suspiciously in the boys' bathroom, flushed.

He didn't need to ask who did it. Cartman had apparently decided that a perfectly epic medieval movie wasn't good enough for his investigation. He wanted witches, demons and “accurate” depiction of the horror tormenting his town. 

Kenny walks behind the girls at a distance, pretending he’s just going the same direction. He’s not close enough to hear what they’re talking about, but close enough to notice the way you walk slightly behind the group, head dipped, a firm hand on one of your arms.

You look… off.

It really isn’t about your appearance. Sure, there are some dark circles under your eyes, Kenny has seen worse on himself after a bad night and you don't look sick. A little less color in your face, maybe, but nothing that would make him stop and stare long enough for him to think a zombie crossed his path.

He keeps thinking about what happened inside the auditorium. Yesterday, Cartman had spent the entire day bothering you and you eventually kicked him straight between the legs.

And of course, he wouldn’t let go of it after that. He whispered about you, he wrote things down, he used Butters, someone close to you. He even went as far as sabotaging the school's movie just to feed his stupid investigation. 

And you knew he was doing it, yet you didn't say anything.

When the whispering got too annoying, you didn't turn around and tell him off, you didn't throw anything at him, you didn't even give him the same look you'd given him yesterday.

You just sat there until Wendy turned around and told them to shut the fuck up.

That is what bothers Kenny. Maybe you're just tired. Maybe you simply didn't feel like dealing with Cartman today and thought that ignoring him would make him stop, that yesterday was enough to make you decide that fighting him wasn't worth it, like normal bullying happens, but Cartman isn’t normal.

There are plenty of explanations for your detachment. Kenny knows that. Not that knowing anything is helping, he's starting to worry, something that he told himself this morning that wouldn’t happen.

He doesn’t think you're helpless, you're obviously not. If anything, you've already proven that you can handle yourself better than most people in this school.

But maybe…

It's because he doesn't want something bad happening to you. That's the part he doesn't realise just yet. He barely knows you. He repeats and repeats that every time a single drop of worry shows on his face.

Kenny pulls his hands deeper into his pockets and keeps walking.

He tells himself he's only paying attention because of yesterday's blood. Because that's what a vigilante does. He notices things and makes sure people are okay. That's all.

At least, that's what he tells himself.

 _________________

Kenny doesn't usually mind walking across town to pick up Karen.

South Park isn't big, and the walk to the elementary school is familiar enough that he rarely has to think about where he's going. The cold settles into his jacket as he walks, leaves scraping along the sidewalk whenever the wind picks up. 

Except today, it doesn't seem to be just a peaceful walk. His head torments him with every step. He is worried about what Cartman will do next and that’s not all. Kenny should be worried about what they will have for dinner today, if there will be something. However, he is stuck in this dilemma of stopping a disaster from happening at Halloween.

He reaches the elementary school a few minutes before dismissal, slowing down as he approaches the front entrance. Parents and older siblings are already gathering around the sidewalk, waiting for the younger kids to start pouring out.

Kenny pulls his hood farther over his head and stuffs his hands into his pockets to create warmth.

He'll grab Karen, walk home and forget about all of this for a while.

Then the doors open. Kids begin spilling outside in small groups, some running toward their parents, others stopping immediately to show off whatever they made in class.

Kenny looks toward the entrance, searching for the familiar mess of pigtails.

He finds Karen. But then, a few steps away from her, he recognizes someone else.

He has such bad luck. And memory, it seems.

Of course you would be there, your little sister is friends with Karen.

You are standing beside Agnes, apparently waiting for her to finish saying goodbye to Karen, but as usual, the conversation keeps going and going, morphing into a whole new subject in a matter of seconds.

Kenny is not surprised, Karen could talk for hours while he is just listening.

But of all the people he expected to see here… Why you? Why not one of your brothers?

Standing by the sidewalk, backpack slung over one shoulder, the wind lifting a strand of your hair. Not moving much, just shifting your weight from one foot to the other, like waiting out in the open makes your skin itch. You are the same. You just listen patiently, waiting for them to end, not in a rush.

And just like in the hallway, you see him before he announces himself. He thought he was sneaky, but maybe you’re just very observant

Your posture stiffens just slightly, shoulders rising half an inch, chin tipping down like you’re trying to make yourself invisible.

Kenny slows, debating whether to say anything. It’s not like he is scared of you, so why is he concerned about it? He’s not the one following you because he thinks you’ll curse him or turn him into a frog or whatever Cartman’s latest theory was.

So he approaches carefully, like someone creeping up on a cat who might bolt. “…Hey.” He says, softer than usual, the sound not reaching the other girls’ ears, deep in the conversation to notice him.

You blink, eyes flicking to him, then to the street again. “Hi.” Well… a response! That isn’t a bad start.

Kenny pulls his hands from his pockets, plating them on his hips, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “So… How are you?”

You stare at him,  long enough to make the question sound as ridiculous as it is.

Kenny's shoulders sink a little. 

You saw him watching you in the hallway this morning. You saw him practically climb over Butters during the movie trying to get Cartman's notebook. And now he's standing here, asking how you're doing like the two of you haven't spent the entire day orbiting the same stupid situation. 

Your expression seems to say exactly that. ‘Really, Kenny?’

“Okay.” He mutters. “That sounded better in my head.”

One corner of your mouth twitches.“Did it really?”

Kenny kicks a pebble with the toe of his boot to distract himself, watching it skitter across the pavement. He can feel you watching the pebble too, because it’s easier than looking at his face.

Ok, let’s change the question.

He tries again. “Uh… didn’t see you at recess much.” He says. “Girls’ meeting?”

You shrug slightly. “You could say that.”

He hums, a little disappointed by how vague that sounds. God, this is awkward.

Right, Craig did say you didn't talk much to people you didn't like. Considering everything that had happened over the last two days, Kenny can't exactly blame you for putting him in that category.

He shifts his weight. “...Cartman’s been bothering you?” Kenny asks, his eyes following your gaze toward the street. “More than usual?”

You let out the smallest exhale, not quite a sigh, but it was supposed to be one. “When isn’t he?” You say.

It's meant to sound dismissive, but your voice catches halfway through, too thin to completely hide the irritation underneath it. 

Kenny notices the animosity and starts getting nervous. He looks down at the sidewalk, toeing at a crack in the concrete. “I’m not really... with him.” He says quietly. “Like, not in the way he thinks.” 

Your head turns slightly, just enough to show you heard him.

“He says a lot of crap.” Kenny continues. “But that doesn't mean I buy it.” The words come out easier than his attempt at small talk.

He waits for you to answer. And when you do, Kenny almost misses it because he's still staring at the crack beneath his shoe.

“I know.”

His eyes go wide as soon as those words leave your mouth.

You haven't moved much, still keeping an eye on the elementary school entrance while the younger kids continue spilling outside. “You wouldn't have tried to steal his notebook otherwise.”

Okay, that 's fair.

“I wasn't trying to steal it.” You glance at him and he immediately realizes how stupid that sounds. “I mean, I was, technically. But only because I wanted to know what he wrote.”

Why is he lying? He is supposed to discover what is happening to you, not making himself look weird enough for him to want to run away from this situation and bury himself before death does.

Then, unexpectedly, you keep talking. “You’re also very bad at being stealthy. You’re not subtle as you think you are.”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. That’s a lot of words from you. 

Kenny has spent the entire day convincing himself that he was being significantly better at this than Cartman. Apparently not.

You continue before he can recover. “I don’t know what you’re trying to find, but you would be better off stopping”

He's simply trying to process the fact that you have said more to him in the last thirty seconds than you have during almost every interaction you've had before this.

Then a sharp gasp cuts through the moment. “KENNY!” It makes him flinch.

Karen is standing a few feet away from the school entrance, backpack hanging from one shoulder, staring at him with wide eyes.

Apparently, she'd finally noticed him. “Oh my God, you're here!”

Kenny's head snaps toward her, while she beams, tugging on his sleeve. “Yeah! Mom sent me to pick you up.” His mom didn’t send him there, he just knows she would eventually forget about Karen.

Karen doesn’t seem to notice the lie. She’s already too busy telling him about her day. “You know what Agnes and I did today?”

Kenny looks down at her, trying to seem as curious as possible. “What?”

“We made this whole little house out of cardboard for our dolls, but the teacher said we had to clean it up because we were making too much of a mess.” She sounds personally offended by this injustice. “And Agnes used crayons to stylize, she taught me how to do it, but we ended up making too many windows, so we decided to change for a castle instead.”

Kenny smiles faintly. “That sounds amazing.”

“It was!”

A few feet away, Agnes has already wandered over to you.

She is talking excitedly about something Kenny can't quite hear, waving her little hands as you lean slightly in front of her. You listen patiently while fixing the collar of her coat, straightening the fabric where it has folded underneath her chin. 

You nod every now and then, fixing the last crooked part before giving the collar a small tug to make sure it stays in place.

Kenny watches the scene for a moment, you surrounded by warmth and softness and realizes something:

Nothing about you looks like the person Cartman has been describing. Just a girl fixing another little girl's collar while listening to her ramble about school. And maybe Kenny doesn’t have the answers either.

Your hands quietly guiding Agnes, aren’t from the same as the ones from the stupid movie that was put for Cartman’s witch research. 

At some point, you part ways completely, each of you disappearing down your own street. 

Kenny walks the rest of the way home with Karen beside him, her voice filling the silence with another conversation about reaching home faster so she could watch her cartoons. 

The house smells like damp carpet, cigarette smoke and whatever drink his dad spilled on the stove last night. But hey, it is better than not having a house.

He shuts the front door quietly so it doesn’t rattle, stepping over a loose floorboard that squeaks like it’s screaming to be yanked from there. Karen runs past him toward her room, humming the theme song of the tv show, already forgetting the weight in his chest.

By the time he reaches his room, the last of the sunlight is disappearing behind the mountains.

Perfect.

He looks through the window.

The streets are already settling into that strange blue-gray between afternoon and night. Porch lights are coming on one by one, and the shadows between the houses are getting longer.

He doesn't need to go out as Mysterion. It’s not like anyone will be seeing him. 

And if he wants to find out what's going on, he can't keep relying on the version of the investigation that he sees in school. He needs to see something for himself outside.

He checks the window again, the shadows are deep enough now, while for the illuminated surfaces, the light seems to offer solace only to that space.

He jumps out of the window, landing firmly in the mud of his dirty and somewhat abandoned backyard. Kenny steps behind the shed, checks both directions.

Then he takes a breath, holding it tightly for a good five seconds, his head feeling like it’s going to explode. Shadow gathers around him like thick smoke, sinking into his clothes, filling the spaces under his boots, curling gently around his fingertips.

He’d already felt this on his face when he fell from a tall building, the sensation of going into this penumbra is the same. However, unlike the imminent fall, here he holds on, or at least swims in the darkness. What they all have in common is certainly the cold, but it’s not as if things are any different outside.

The car passing overhead emits an echo that seems to come from a more distant place and the movements around it leave ghosts of their past positions, like a camera trying to capture a blurry light.

If Kenny remembers correctly, your house is more or less across the street from Craig’s house, which means it’s quite a distance from where he is. It’s going to be a long way, but he’s already learned the trick to get there faster.

The only downside is that he looks like a penguin chasing a fish, but that can be overlooked, he has other responsibilities that require attention right now.

When Kenny spots your house, he can see through the windows that all the lights are already on. Sometimes, here and there, figures run past. Probably your brothers. From what he heard from Karen, they are quite hyperactive, especially that Castor guy. 

He leaps from the shadows, gaining a small momentum, as if he is being spat out. 

Just a quick look out the window first to see if the coast is clear. 

Agnes is asleep on the sofa with the TV on, probably waiting for dinner to be ready. Speaking of food, the smell can be detected from outside, something with potatoes. Your mother is in the kitchen, it is possible to see her coming through the door, setting the table. When she glances in the direction of the sofa, Kenny ducks quickly. 

Upstairs, he can hear a commotion and an argument going on. From the high-pitched voices of teenagers in the throes of puberty, it's clear they’re from the twins. 

But there’s no sign of you or your dad. That is already a little suspicious, but it’s best not to jump to conclusions yet.

Kenny returns to the darkness, leaning against the icy wall below the window and is immediately sucked in.

The house is as big as any other in the neighborhood, just with the addition of more rooms. 

He levitates to the second floor, experiencing a bit of turbulence from the twins running down the stairs. It wasn’t possible to understand much, but apparently the fight involved a very well-organized notebook that accidentally caught fire. Best not to get involved in that. 

He reaches down a long hallway that ends in a bathroom. One room clearly belongs to your parents. Another was your brothers’, divided so perfectly that it seems like two different spaces, but there is a smell of burning, with a failed attempt to mask it with incense emanating from it. The third room is clearly Agnes’, her tastes matching those of his sister. No wonder she begs to come here every weekend. 

So, the last room must be yours and ironically it’s locked. But a closed door is nothing to someone who passes through solid matter.

‘Cozy’, is the first word that comes to Kenny’s mind. Your bed must have at least three layers of blankets, something he envies, even though he tried to suppress that feeling. Your desk is well-arranged and judging by the amount of paper, notebooks and colored pencils, you like to draw. Butters once said you have a gift for it, but he never paid much attention until now.

The yellowish light from the lamp illuminates the place softly and the clock ticks, making everything monotonous. It’s the room of someone who likes to read books and comics, plays with stuffed animals and enjoys a good horror movie from the eighties. 

Nothing that screams aggression from the start.

He has heard of mistreated children who are neglected by their families and end up with empty rooms, while their siblings’ rooms are full of love and gifts. Or that a more mentally unstable person tends to leave everything very messy. But none of that is here.

Despite all this, even in a warm and inviting bedroom like this, a bedroom Kenny dreamed of having, something is missing. 

The owner.

Where are you?

You aren’t in the dark bathroom at the end of the hall. You aren’t in any bedroom, including your own. You aren’t helping your mom in the kitchen, nor taking care of your sleeping sister, nor chasing your brothers around the house. 

There’s only one place in the house that’s the same in the layout as all the others that he didn’t look for. 

The basement.

Which, by chance, Kenny is looking at from above in the shadows.

Bingo. 

He descends toward the dark square lit only by a lamp, glued to the darker corners, letting shadows pull him the way water pulls a leaf along a current. Compared to the rest of the house, it's very cold here.

In the middle, a tall man and a child hyperventilating, supporting herself on her arms and legs. 

“I can’t…” You speak in long pauses, as if you are drowning.

Your father sighs and places his palm on his forehead, doing nothing to help you stand. "I expected you to be able to handle the pressure by now, but it seems I was wrong."

Your nose is a waterfall of red, dripping onto the concrete ground. 

The man makes a sound close to irritation. "Tch, you're going to lose a lot of blood like that. We need to clean up before mom complains that we overdid it." He helps you up by your arms and guides you upstairs, the wooden stairs creaking with every step.

Kenny jumps out when the door slams shut.

He was right. 

There is no way. 

He thought maybe he was being paranoid. That the blood in your nose was just a sign of dry air. That your discretion was something in your personality, that you genuinely didn't like to talk and was just shy.

How right he was. Whether that's a good thing, Kenny isn't sure.

What kind of father leaves his child lying on the floor bleeding and then complains to their face? Perhaps the one that caused the problem in the first place?

All this time, why didn't you tell anyone? Was it out of fear?

Kenny didn't realize it, but he stood there for five minutes staring into nothingness, his mind racing a marathon, but his body frozen in place. The drops of blood, still fresh on the floor, stared back at him.

When he finally looks around, he feels his lungs ceasing to function, or has he been spat out completely?

A workshop table, with neatly arranged rows of pots, dried herbs, and small tools hanging neatly. But the dimly lit jars on the shelves...

They aren’t filled with flowers or ink.

Are those dead animals?

He reaches out to the nearest one, his fingertips brushing against one of the bottles before pushing it away as if he'd burned himself. The liquid inside barely moves, thick and yellow.

He swallows hard. 

Kenny has faced death many times, but he's never met someone who keeps and preserves it in jars in their basement.

The labels on these jars are also different, the lettering is not very elegant and almost illegible, but even so, the lines are clear, the shapes are sinuous and the symbols he doesn't recognize are distinctive.

Maybe Cartman isn’t right, but this… this is something else entirely.

He forces himself to look away, his eyes scanning the rest of the basement in search of answers.

He passes another table, covered in strange notebooks, filled with diagrams and sketches of small anatomical drawings, like those of a child. Some pages have circles drawn over human hands, human hearts, careful arrows pointing to veins, notes written in that same sharp script.

What the fuck.

But what ends up surprising him isn't all of that. 

A large, old white refrigerator, that at this point can be considered vintage, sits on the wall in front of him, looking like a beast waiting for its turn to be analyzed. What the hell is this doing in this place?

He approaches slowly, each step careful, as if the floor might eat if he moves too fast.

The hum of the fridge is soft, steady, the kind that fills the whole basement with a low vibration.

His hand reaches the handle.

When Kenny opens, cold air rushes out, brushing past his face like a whisper, biting his cheeks. Yet, the air is so dry his eyes begs to close it for an instant.

But the contents don't allow him to remain vulnerable for long. Rows of sealed hospital blood bags hang from hooks, stacked in organized lines. 

He just grabs the edge of the fridge door and steadies himself before he drops something, before he knocks something over, before he makes a sound that will get him caught in the last place he should be.

He steps back, heart pounding so hard he thinks it might echo through the walls.

And all he can think is:

What is going on in this house?