Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If Stan Marsh could go back in time, he'd give his fourteen-year-old self one crucial piece of advice.

Stay alert.

Why? Because being a demigod will be like looking both ways before crossing the street only to be hit by a missile.

As he powered up the ancient cash register and swung open the door to his Uncle Jimbo's toy store, Stan braced himself for the onslaught of frazzled parents and hyperactive kids. The scent of plastic mingled with dust. Another day, another shift. He didn’t hate the job, but he didn’t love it either — it was just a way to earn pocket money and pass the summer.

To fend off the mind-numbing boredom, Stan usually turned to games like Temple Run or Colour Switch or whatever the fuck Apple taunted him with that day. Lately, though, even opening Instagram Reels made him feel physically sick. At first, he thought it was a phase. Maybe he’d finally rejected doomscrolling. Only, it kept getting worse. A teenager who couldn’t use his phone? He might as well have been dead.

As the day dragged on and daylight dimmed, Stan resigned himself to another round against the pricing gun. Just as despair was setting in, the doorbell chimed.

In a neon green coat, bald head glistening in the light, a man scuttled inside. Around his neck, a bow tie threatened to cut off blood flow to his brain. Great chunky glasses made his eyes look huge. 

When he knocked a toy Pegasus off the shelf and didn’t pick it up, Stan raised a brow. Either this guy was the world's worst shoplifter, or there was something going on.

But before he could investigate, trouble arrived in a second form: an elderly woman looming over the counter. She looked like the kind of old woman you could tell had been hot back in the day, but now she’d entered the “haunted oil painting” phase of life. Her smile revealed teeth that looked like they’d survived both World Wars, and her pastel pink cardigan made her appear deceptively harmless.

Until Stan saw her basket.

A mountain of bouncy balls. At least twenty. 

Yeah. He was going to suffer.

He met her eye with the thousand-yard-stare of every underpaid cashier before him. "Would you like a bag for that?" 

"If you wouldn't mind," she croaked.

Stan sighed, shot one last glare at the cash register, and got to work. It was one of those relics that seemed to predate even the dinosaurs (the register – not the woman) where every digit of every price had to be laboriously typed in. One wrong keystroke and there was no turning back.

By the time he’d finished, he’d mentally aged into his forties. He slid the bag across the counter with relief. However, the lady's lips tightened into a thin, rigid line, like a drawn bowstring ready to release an arrow of unrestrained fury.

"I never wanted a bag," she declared.

Stan blinked. "Oh, sorry. I thought—”

“I didn’t ask for a bag!”

He forced himself to laugh, cupping his neck. “Right. Uh— you want it?”

Slowly, she leant forward. Wrinkled eyes narrowed at him as she looked him up and down. “Did I ask?”

Stan frowned. “Not really.”

"See!”

"You did say yes, though.”

She gasped, jolting back. "I did not!"

Stan steadied himself on the register, glancing toward the back door. Jimbo was usually better at handling nightmare customers — all disturbingly friendly eyes and a smile that warned parents to “tame these little bastards” before he did.

But today, he was off donating old stock to an elementary school a few miles away.

That morning, Jimbo voiced concerns about leaving Stan alone. Stan had shrugged. Quietest time of day — what could go wrong?

Neither had anticipated Gangster Granny: The Sequel.

Stan exhaled slowly. "Dude, can we just— can we not? Do you want a bag?”

She shook her head. "Don't raise your voice at me!"

“I’m… not.”

“Take them out! Take them out!”

Stan gaped, eyes wide. He looked at the bag on the counter, then to the old bag screaming at him. 

“You sure?"

"Take them!”

Stan had a feeling she was not really sure. This was apparently expressed in his face, as the woman's pink cheeks darkened to a bruised purple.

"I don't want it!"

"Okay!”

Stan seized the bag in his grasp and upended it. A torrent of bouncy balls scattered across the room like confetti. As they bounced and danced with reckless abandon, Stan savoured the chaos. But his amusement quickly turned to guilt as the old woman's trembling voice cut through the chaos.

"Pick them up," she demanded, her tone laced with indignation. "I have every right to call the police, you know!"

Stan waited for the balls to bounce less viciously before leaving the counter. He dropped to his knees to get to work but couldn’t ignore the sudden stench of rotten eggs. He scrunched up his nose.

Was that… her?

With each one he picked up, he couldn't help but wonder how the woman intended to leave the shop without dropping a single one. She had a tremor, for crying out loud! Expecting her to carry nearly thirty rubber balls in her two feeble arms without dropping anything was ludicrous. He was being charitable by giving her a bag. Hell, he wasn't even sure he charged her for the thing with the balls on his plate — awful sentence, sorry.

Stan reached for the last bouncing ball, his fingers brushing against its smooth surface. But before he could grasp it, a searing pain shot through his ribs, as if a red-hot poker had been plunged into his side.

The force of the blow sent him sprawling backward, his body slamming against a hard shelf with bone-jarring force that caused a Barbie doll to fall down and whack him in the face.

That was gonna bruise.

As Stan lay gasping for breath, his vision swimming with spots of light, he looked up to see the old woman standing over him, cheeks red as she snarled. In her hand, she brandished a gnarled cane, its tip sharp and jagged.

She raised this cane high above her head and brought it crashing down towards Stan's prone form. Instinctively, he rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the deadly blow as she struck the floor with a resounding crack.

But before Stan could gather his wits, the old woman was upon him once again, her grip like iron as she seized him by the collar and hoisted him to his feet. With a savage growl, she swung her cane once more, the air whistling with its passage as it sliced through the space where Stan's head had been just moments prior.

Pain flared in Stan's side as he stumbled backwards, eyes wide. This wasn't just an angry old lady — this was something else, something she’d hidden.

With his heart pounding in his chest, Stan scrambled to his feet and dashed behind the nearest shelf. There, he watched in horror as her features contorted and twisted, her skin stretching and rippling like molten wax.

A guttural growl escaped her lips as her body began to swell and elongate, her bones audibly cracking and snapping as they rearranged themselves into grotesque new shapes, feathers stabbing through discoloured skin. Her fingers elongated into razor-sharp claws, tearing through the fabric of her clothes as if they were mere tissue paper.

Stan's blood ran cold. Her eyes glowing with an otherworldly light as her humanity was slowly consumed by the ancient, primal force that now possessed her. With each passing moment, she became less human and more monster, a creature of nightmare and myth unleashed upon the unsuspecting world.

And then, with a final, bone-chilling roar, the transformation was complete. The frail old woman was now a towering monstrosity, her form twisted and distorted into a nightmarish parody of its former self.

Stan panted for dry air, alarmingly close to heaving. Sharp, beak-like protrusions jutted from her face. Skeletal wings unfurled from her back, damp like perspiring skin. With a swipe of her clawed hand, she sent shelves and toys crashing to the ground. A foul stench of blood stung the air.

Stan's heart pounded, realising he was just as vulnerable as the prized Jellycats being torn to shreds.

He needed to go.

Now.

His Converse slapped against the linoleum as he sprinted through the toy-cluttered aisles, searching for a hiding spot. Thank God for Temple Run. He dodged shelves and choked clouds of dust, the stench of rot making his eyes water.

Finally, he spotted the storage cupboard. He lunged forward, fumbled the handle, and slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

Darkness pressed against his sides. 

He pushed himself against the far wall, ears ringing as he listened for any sign of the creature's approach. He could hear the heavy thud of footsteps echoing through the shop, growing louder and louder with each passing moment. Stan held his breath.

He was going to die, wasn't he?

Then, apparently answering his question, the door of the cupboard exploded inward, sending splinters of wood flying through the air. Stan recoiled in terror as the monstrous figure loomed over him, its eyes blazing with a primal hunger. His breath hitched. 

Respect your elders, huh.

But just as all hope seemed lost, there was a high pitched twang. Then another. And one more after that.

With a guttural shriek, she crumpled to the floor. 

And standing behind the fallen monstrosity, breathing heavily and clutching a bow in his trembling hands, was none other than the familiar figure from before. The guy in green. Pegasi abuser.

He looked, Stan thought, like a very stressed teacher.

"Uh, n-none of that," he stammered, leaning against the bloody wall. "Monsters are bad, m'kay?"

Chapter Text

Stan’s heart pounded in his chest, breath coming in short gasps as he struggled to make sense of the chaos around him.

“I— the— dude?”

The shifty guy extended a steady hand towards him, only for Stan to recoil on instinct. At this, the man looked somewhat sad. “We need to get out of here,” he urged, tapping a finger against the bow in his grip. "It isn't safe, m'kay?"

Stan's gaze dropped to the literal corpse stretched between them. “Is she okay?”

The man answered Stan’s question by looking away. "No time," his voice was heavy. "We need to leave.”

Before he could process this disturbing turn of events, Stan found himself pulled to his feet. Then, he was walking. Stumbling after the man who marched ahead like a stray puppy.

Stan’s eyes widened as they passed through the store. Shelves were overturned, toys scattered like casualties of a miniature war. Fuck. His uncle had only recently started trusting him to handle the store alone. How could Stan just throw that away?

What had he done?

The man cleared his throat. "Call me Mr. Mackey, m’kay."

The words barely registered. Stan’s hands trembled, fingers curling into fists in a futile attempt to steady his nerves. All he could think of was the anger that flashed across the old woman’s face, the claws, the sharp ache where he got kicked in the ribs. "What was that thing?"

“You need to take me to your mom, Stan."

“Why should I do that?” His voice cracked with incredulity. “You’re just some dude with a bow and arrow who attacked an old lady. Why would I take you to my mom?”

“Do you want to die?”

“Woah!” His voice wavered, phantom pins prickled at his neck. “Seriously, what the fuck?”

"I'm not trying to scare you, m’kay? You had your first monster attack five minutes ago, that’s all.”

“First monster— dude? Are you tapped in the head?”

Ignoring Stan’s skepticism, Mr. Mackey tightened his grip on the bow. “Take me to your mom.”

“You gonna shoot her?” he blurted out, almost reassured when Mr. Mackey quirked a brow.

“Why would I shoot your mom?”

“Why would some old lady turn into a chicken mutant and try to kill me!”

Mr. Mackey’s tone turned stern. “Being rude doesn’t get you anywhere, Stan. M’kay. Being rude is bad—”

“How do you know my name?” Stan asked, goosebumps stabbing through his skin. “What are you? A stalker or something?”

“That was hurtful, Stan.”

“You know my name again! Why?” He asked, then took a step back. He raised a brow. “Are you my dad? Please say no.”

“I’m not your dad, Stan, but that’s offensive.”

As Stan's frustration simmered down, he found himself weighing the pros and cons of just giving up and taking this guy to see his mom. He would never admit it, but curiosity tugged at his mind. Sure, he couldn’t quite catch his breath and his whole body shook, but Mr. Mackey may have answers to all the questions rattling through him. Stan wanted to understand. He needed to understand.

There was also the small concern that Mr. Mackey was just an ordinary dude having a psychotic break in sync with Stan. What if he needed genuine help? What if Stan needed genuine help?

He sighed in defeat and gestured for Mr. Mackey to follow him.

“When you came into the store earlier, you didn’t have a bow,” Stan said, his eyes narrowing as he awaited Mr. Mackey’s response. “We don’t sell those. Where’d you pull that from?”

"Wanna see something crazy?"

“Not really.”

In a flash of shimmering light, the bow and arrow in Mackey’s hands transformed into a sleek, stylish bow tie.

Stan paled, jaw loose. 

But Mr. Mackey grinned proudly as he adjusted the newly formed bow tie around his neck with a flourish. “It’s my bow,” he explained with a chuckle, oblivious to Stan realising his entire life was a lie. “Like bow for bow tie, but then also bow for bow and arrow. Bow.”

“Nice,” Stan said, forcing himself to maintain a facade of calm despite the rising tide of fear churning in his stomach. He took a deep breath and tried a smile. “C’mon, Katniss.”

They approached his apartment building, Stan's thoughts turned to his mom, Sharon, who would likely be at home working on her latest book – she had always been a creative. Stan liked to believe that was something he could inherit. Sharon had raised Stan with storybooks and poetry and all the music he could dream of. He adored it. Adored her. And while he sometimes found it a tad overwhelming, he pondered over the kind of man who could fall deeply in love with his mother, only to vanish afterward.

Was he someone who revelled in the beautiful tunes her soul emitted? Or was he akin to the raven, always ready to swoop down and consume his prey – the curious mockingbird?

The elevator doors slid shut. Stan pinched himself. Reality didn’t feel very real. Speakers above him blaring the local radio station in the elevator certainly didn’t help his nerves. Bob Marley was a great musician and all, but Three Little Birds was a song that only mocked him as he was told to not worry about a thing, because Stan did not feel like every little thing was going to be alright.

He stole a cautious glance at Mr. Mackey. “What do you think people will say when they find the body?”

“They won’t.”

“Excuse me?”

Mr. Mackey shifted, fidgeting with the hem of his green coat. “They won’t. The mist will hide it, m’kay.”

“Mist?”

“The glamour. Stops mortals seeing the supernatural by twisting it into something their minds can understand, m’kay.”

“Should’ve guessed.”

Mackey nodded. “And that there was a harpy.”

"Am I supposed to know what that is?" Stan asked.

Mr. Mackey tensed his jaw. “Half-woman, half-bird.”

“Sure it wasn’t a dinosaur?”

“Yes.”

Stan’s gaze darted around the elevator, his foot tapping a nervous rhythm on the floor. “Did you notice the balls it had?”

Mr. Mackey's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Well, it was quite the determined bird, but—”

"No, I mean real balls. Like, bouncy balls,” Stan said, crossing his arms. “She— it argued with me over whether or not she wanted them in a bag. Why’d it do that?”

"Fun.”

Stan tried to ignore how his blue jacket shook, hands trembling in his pockets. "But what’d I do?"

"Nothing, m'kay. Absolutely nothing."

The elevator doors slid open, Stan guided Mr. Mackey down the hallway to his and his mom's apartment, mind buzzing. He had witnessed the transformation with his own two eyes, yet he still couldn't bring himself to believe that the old woman was a monster. It seemed too surreal, too absurd. Maybe this was all just some elaborate prank show, like the ones on TV where unsuspecting people were secretly recorded and then broadcasted to the entire world.

As they reached the door to the apartment, Stan hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob. What if he opened the door and found everything back to normal, his mom bustling about in the kitchen, completely unaware of the chaos that had unfolded at the toy store? What if it was all just a figment of his imagination, a result of stress or lack of sleep?

What if it wasn’t?

It swung open. Sharon stood in the doorway. At first she looked confused, but when her gaze fell on Mr. Mackey, her face drained of colour.

Stan looked between the them. Any hopes of an ordinary evening reading comics in front of the TV caught fire. "Mom, what's going on?"

Sharon shook her head. "Nothing, sweetie. Come on in."

They stepped inside and Sharon bolted to the kitchen to make Mackey a cup of herbal tea. Stan watched her through glossy eyes. He wasn’t sure who but somebody had claws wrapped around his heart, red flesh blossoming around their fingers as they tightened their fist. Something was seriously wrong with his mom.

"Go change your clothes, Stan," Sharon said, her voice strained. "You're covered in dust."

Stan forced a clunky nod, mind racing with unanswered questions. But before he closed the door to his room, he paused, pressing his ear against the wood to eavesdrop on the conversation in the living room. Sharon's voice quivered as she pleaded with Mr. Mackey.

"Please, can't you give us a little more time?" she begged, gripping her own cup of tea. Chamomile. She only drank that when she was frantic. "He's just a boy."

Mr. Mackey's frown softened slightly. "M'kay, Sharon, I know this is tough, but we don't have much time," he said, his voice adopting the familiar cadence of a counsellor. "We gotta do what's best for everyone here, m'kay?"

Tears welled in Sharon's eyes, torn between her maternal instinct to protect her son and the harsh reality that this may not necessarily include her.

“He’s a child," she whispered.

Mr. Mackey's voice took on a reassuring tone. "I understand, Sharon. I do. But he's not safe here. He needs proper training."

"I can train him!"

"Sharon, what happened at the store wasn't some little monster," Mr. Mackey insisted, he tapped a finger against his drink. Sharon probably regretted making it. "He's grown up, m'kay? We can't ignore the danger he poses, not anymore."

As he changed out of his dusty clothes and into something cleaner, Stan couldn't shake the frustration clinging to every nerve. Why did everything have to be so cryptic? He just wanted to know what was going on.

The tears glistening in his mother's eyes pierced Stan's heart as he returned to the living room. A surge of instinctual protectiveness flooded his form; nobody fucked with his mom. He turned to Mr. Mackey. "Stop upsetting her," he demanded, his fists clenching at his sides. But as Stan sat beside his mom, she only stroked his arm. Perhaps she thought her touch was reassuring. To Stan it only reaffirmed the fact that something was seriously wrong.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, he broke it with a whisper. "Mom, what's happening?"

Sharon took a deep breath. She looked down at her baby pink slippers. “This isn’t safe for you, Stan.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You’ve been… fuck, sweetheart,” she sighed, Stan’s heartbeat quickened. “Listen to me carefully. You’ve… you’re attracting monsters, Stan.”

Fat chance. Maybe she’d accidentally put something other than chamomile in her tea.

“Mom, are you feeling alright?”

Upon hearing Stan’s dismissive tone, hurt flickered in her wide blue eyes. “You have to believe me,” she sounded desperate, now clutching Stan’s hand in his lap. “You've seen it with your own eyes. At— at the store.”

“Mom, c’mon.”

“Please.”

Stan's frown deepened. In the elevator he had slightly played into the fantasy, believing Mr. Mackey to be kinda insane. But now his mom believed this bullshit, too? Stan was not amused. This wasn’t Scooby Doo.

Sharon reached out, her hand trembling as she gently brushed a lock of hair away from Stan's forehead. "I know it's hard to believe, it is. But after what happened tonight… Jimbo should’ve been there.”

Stan's heart pounded in his chest as he searched his mother's eyes for any hint of deceit, but all he found frothing up in those ocean waves as they broke was fear. 

Mr. Mackey interjected; his voice gentle but firm. “Sharon’s right, Stan. You need proper training and protection.”

“I’m safe here.”

“No. No, you’re not.”

Stan’s breathing hitched. “But what did I do wrong?”

Sharon took a deep breath. “Stan, your dad… he’s not like other dads.”

“Well, yeah, I know that. Most dads, like, show up.”

“He’s a god.”

“You’re joking, right?” he scoffed, leaning away. “This has to be some kind of prank. Mom, tell me you don’t actually believe this.”

Sharon’s bottom lip trembled. “I wish I could, Stan,” she said. “I’m sorry– I’m telling you the truth.”

Stan shook his head. “Mom, please, just... just stop. Okay.”

He forgot that Mr. Mackey was even there until he stood, hands on his hips as though he had any authority here. Stan just wished he’d fuck off now. “I know it’s hard to believe—”

“My Dad is not God,” Stan pushed, fear crackling in his voice. “I am not Jesus.”

“Not the son of a Christian God, m’kay,” Mr. Mackey said, arms raised in mock surrender. “But a Greek one.”

Stan’s mind spun. Something hot inside of him popped. “No. Get the fuck out. I’m not doing this.”

“Stan—”

“I’m not some freak. Got that? I’m not Heracles or whatever, okay? I’m Stan. I am literally just Stan. Leave.”

Despite Stan’s protests, Sharon and Mr. Mackey remained steadfast in their conviction.

“Kid, you need to go to Camp Half-Blood,” Mr. Mackey urged.

They would literally need to kidnap him. He scoffed. “What even is that?”

“The only place where you’ll be safe.”

Stan’s heart sank. His ribs still twinged. Proof the monster had been real, even if the gods weren’t. He looked to his mom. “But what about you? What about us?”

Sharon’s eyes finally filled with tears as she reached out to embrace her son. “We’ll figure it out, Stan. But right now, your safety comes first.”

Mr. Mackey bleated. “Your mom is right, Stan. You need to go. It’s not safe for you to be around her.”

A lump grew in Stan’s throat. 

His toothbrush still sat in its cracked ceramic cup by the sink, the bristles bent in the shape of his bite. His phone charger was still tangled at the bottom of his bed. Tomorrow was cereal and cartoons with Mom, exactly at nine. Now, they were threatening to take that away. When Stan’s eyes misted over, Mr. Mackey frowned.

"I can prove it,” he said. “That all of this is real."

Stan was two seconds from telling him to shove his proof up his ass when Mr. Mackey did the unthinkable.

With a sudden, heroic rip, the man tore off his jeans.

Like a trapdoor giving way, Stan’s jaw fell open. The room fell into stunned silence. Even Sharon recoiled.

Mr. Mackey had goat legs.

Mr. Mackey was a goat.

A goat saved his life. Dear god. A goat saved his life.

Stan blinked. "Why are you... like that?"

Mr. Mackey's expression remained inscrutable as he met Stan's gaze. "I'm a satyr, Stan," he replied, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation. "And I'm here to take you to safety, m'kay, whether you believe me or not."

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still as Stan grappled with the enormity of what was unfolding before him.

"Mom?"

Sharon pulled him into a hug. Stan strained against it.

"Mom, please," he tried one final time, hands clutching the fabric of her shirt the same way he would as a baby. "Don't do this."

Sharon held him close, her own tears mingling with his as she stroked his hair soothingly. "I'll be waiting for you, sweetheart. You'll be safe there."

"Mom, you know as soon as I get to that camp I am coming right back home. You hear me? I'm not staying."

"Please, it's only for summer," Sharon whispered, her touch gentle yet firm. "After summer, after you've been trained up to protect yourself, you can come home. Okay?"

A few hours ago, he was meant to die. 

He’d panicked, ran like a wimpy kid. If Mr. Mackey hadn’t rocked up in time, Stan would have been mauled in that storage cupboard.

Maybe they had a tiny point?

“But what if I don't want to stay the entire summer?"

"Then we'll talk about it," she replied, expression softening. "But for now, you need to go.”

Stan forced himself to take a breath, to be mature in a situation he had absolutely no clue how to deal with. He felt like a dick for making his mom cry. "I can come home after summer, yeah?"

Sharon laughed, wiping her tears. “You can always come home.”

The tension in the room was palpable as Stan processed his mother's words.

Fuck, dude.

“But what about you?" he asked, lump blossoming in his throat. "I can't just leave you here."

"You have to do this," she said. "You're strong and you're brave and I know you can handle whatever comes your way."

“I’m not… I don’t know.”

Sharon simply gave his hand a squeeze. “Other kids like you exist, sweetie,” she said. “You might make some good friends, yeah?”

Stan didn’t want friends. He wanted his mom. To soothe himself, he played back the agreement. He just had to learn to fight. He could be back within weeks. Heck, perhaps it’d be revealed that they were all being affected by mass psychosis and he could just go back to his ordinary life.

“I’m gonna be back."

Sharon's eyes shone with pride as she squeezed tighter, as if he was slipping away. "I love you," she whispered. “I love you, Stan, I’m sorry.”

"I’m coming back," Stan replied, his own voice trembling. He wanted this to be as simple and quick as possible. “I’m not staying.”

And as they clung to each other in the face of an uncertain future, Stan knew that no matter what lay ahead, he would always carry his mother's love with him, like a beacon of light.

Chapter Text

Shuffling along behind Mr. Mackey, Stan felt like a reluctant sidekick in a buddy cop movie where the cop was a talking goat and the sidekick was a guy who just wanted to fall asleep and never wake up.

Sound familiar?

Each step deepened his discomfort, unlaced Converse like lead weights as he trudged along the ground that wanted to keep him there. He twisted the hem of his shirt, finding solace in the familiar fidgeting.

Inky hair tickled his forehead as they drew closer to the car park, wind sweeping through tainted with the heavy scent of gasoline and decay. Their shadows flickered on the pavement. Stan’s eyes widened upon seeing the vehicle he suspected would be their ride. An obnoxiously beat up Ford Fiesta had been tucked away in the corner of the parking lot, rocking a sickly shade of neon green that peeled in patches like old wallpaper. He shot Mr. Mackey a dubious look, brows practically disappearing into his hairline.

"This your car?"

Mr. Mackey slapped the roof with a metallic thunk and grinned. "Been cruising this bad boy for years, m'kay."

Stan gave a slow nod. "And the whole goat-driving thing doesn't pose any problems?"

"You're in good hands, m'kay, trust me."

Stan half-expected him to say hooves. With a deep breath and a muttered prayer to the automotive gods (if they even existed), Stan buckled up and prepared for the worst. But as Mr. Mackey turned the key in the ignition, all they got was a sad little sputter followed by a series of pathetic coughs. The car lurched forward, then promptly stalled.

"Smooth ride," Stan smiled, grip tight on his seatbelt. This mode of transport did not feel appropriate for a mythical goat dude; it wasn’t fast, furious, or even functional. "We sure this is totally safe?"

Mr. Mackey just shrugged and tried the ignition again. Not a very reassuring move. Anxiety coiled tighter in Stan's stomach. But soon the engine purred to life and they were off.

"Now, Stan, you gotta remember," Mr. Mackey said, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road. "No using phones and laptops and computers and iPods, m'kay. Because technology is bad. Technology is very bad."

Stan didn’t even look at Mr. Mackey when he shot him a weak thumbs up. He was too busy focusing on the passing landscape as the car rumbled away from his mom – his home. In his chest, his heart pulsed a frantic rhythm, facade of nonchalance crumbling more and more each second.

Sensing turmoil in the young boy, Mr. Mackey eventually tried to lighten the mood. "You okay there, Stan?"

The low rumble of the engine filled the car, punctuated by the occasional squeak of worn-out suspension and the rhythmic thud of tires against uneven road. Stan managed a weak smile, throat throbbing a little. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Mr. Mackey shifted. He coughed. "Listen, Stan," he began awkwardly, "it's normal to feel scared, you know? This demigod thing can be overwhelming. But just know, I'm here for you, okay? I've got your back."

Stan appreciated the sentiment, he really did, but it did little to ease the knot of fear in his chest. He was hurtling towards an uncertain fate, the world outside the car window a blur of passing lights and shadows. “How long left?" He asked, landscape soaring past them.

"We're almost there," Mr. Mackey said. "Just hang in there a little while longer, m'kay?"

The winding road was endless, but each moment that passed brought the forest closer. Swaying trees cast long shadows that danced in the fading sunlight. Nature had always been a source of comfort for him. He pondered the idea of a demigod who could talk to trees.

Mr. Mackey broke Stan’s trance by coughing. “We're super close to the border now, m'kay," he smiled.

Stan frowned. There was a border? Soon, they parked the car and made their way up the hill towards the forest. With each step, Stan felt the soft grass tickling his ankles and the cool mud squishing slightly beneath his feet. The air was thick with the scent of pollen and earth, a heady mixture that filled his senses.

Stan moved a few paces behind the satyr, thoughts swirling with apprehension as he walked. Suddenly, Mr. Mackey stopped and turned back, flashing Stan a friendly smile.

Stan felt it when he took a step forward – the sensation of falling into a cold lake, chill flooding his sinuses and crackling along his spine. With that single step, he’d crossed an invisible threshold.

"Dude, this is seriously messed up."

"Welcome to Camp Half-Blood! That was the border, m'kay," Mr. Mackey said. Stan hated how mundane he found it. "Let's go meet Mr. Garrison."

He raised a brow and kept walking. "Should I know who that is?"

"Oh, you'll see. He's... something else."

As they walked deeper into Camp Half-Blood, Stan couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder at the sights and sounds around him. The camp was a bustling hive of activity, with children who he assumed to be demigods training in the fields, playing games, and chatting animatedly with each other. Stan's eyes widened as he caught sight of a group of campers practicing swordplay under the watchful eye of a centaur instructor. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy at their skill and camaraderie.

Mr. Mackey chuckled at Stan's expression. "Impressive, huh? Just wait till you see the archery range."

He'd never wielded a bow and arrow before, terrified of creating a human pincushion. He wasn’t exactly Robin Hood.

"So, uh, who thought it would be a good idea to round up a ton of dangerous kids and put them in one place?"

"You see, Stan," Mr. Mackey began, his tone lowering slightly, "Mr. Garrison is a cousin of Chiron. He created the camp to prove to Chiron that he was just as capable of training up demigods, m'kay."

Stan frowned. He didn't really know much about mythology beyond the basics like Medusa and… yeah, Medusa. "What did Chiron do again?"

"He trained some awesome heroes like Achilles, Jason, and Heracles. He also was known for treating wounds and illnesses for mortals and immortals... skilled in music and prophecy, m'kay. Then he also went with Jason and the Argonauts on their quest for the Golden Fleece..."

"So what did Mr. Garrison do?"

Silence. Mr. Mackey itched the back of his neck. “Uh.”

"Ah." Stan provided a slow nod and made a note to himself: if you're looking to advertise something, do not get Mr. Mackey involved. Avoid him at all costs.

They slowly approached a grand, imposing building at the heart of the camp. The heavy door groaned ominously as they pushed their way inside, startling Stan when it slammed shut with a resounding bang. Inside, the air was thick with the musty scent of old books, and the flickering candlelight cast eerie, dancing shadows along the walls. Mr. Mackey navigated the labyrinthine corridors with practiced ease, eventually leading Stan to a door adorned with a weathered sign.

"Mr. Garrison - Supreme Camp Director."

Mr. Mackey rapped three times on the door, the sound reverberating through the silent hallway. After a tense moment, it creaked open, revealing a scene that left Stan thoroughly unsettled.

Perched behind a desk strewn with papers was a man who looked more fit to exist in a tiki bar than a summer camp. Adorned in a cacophony of colours, his Hawaiian shirt seemed to clash with the ancient elegance of his form, which boasted the glossy legs and torso of a majestic horse, seamlessly melding with his human upper half. Despite this intriguing contrast, he exuded an effortless aura of confidence, casually sipping from a martini glass as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Stan blinked in disbelief. He tilted his head and creased a brow. It was hard enough to cope with the fact Mr. Mackey was part goat. This dude was half horse. If it weren't for the fact he'd stopped fully comprehending the world a couple hours ago, Stan would have totally bet ten dollars on all of this just being a fever dream.

Mr. Mackey cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence. "Stan, meet Mr. Garrison. He's a centaur."

Mr. Garrison's eyes lit up. "Well, well, well, what do we have here?" he mused, a confusing stew of enthusiastic and apathetic. "Another lost soul seeking refuge at Camp Half-Blood, I presume?"

"I guess, yeah."

"Ah, just what I thought!" He exclaimed, rubbing his hands together like a plotting fly. "Then how'd you feel about a tour around camp? Get you settled in?"

Stan hesitated for a moment. This was all happening too fast. "Sure."

"Excellent!" He clapped his hands and turned to Mr. Mackey. "Bring me the Grin Reaper if you wouldn't mind, mhm?"

Mr. Mackey smiled a little at the name but shot Stan an apologetic look before excusing himself, leaving him alone with the strange horse man. Stan picked at his nails and wondered who this Grin Reaper was. Interesting name. But as soon as the door clicked behind him, Mr. Garrison fixed Stan with an intense stare that zapped the thought from his mind.

"So, Stanley," Mr. Garrison began, swirling his martini glass. "What the hell are you doing in my crappy shack?"

Stan's mind lagged. Mr. Garrison, with his tacky Hawaiian shirt and questionable choice of beverage, seemed like something straight out of a messed-up dream.

"I, uh, I'm not really sure," Stan muttered, eyeing him warily. "Some harpy attacked me outta nowhere, so here I am."

"A harpy, huh?" Mr. Garrison raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, apparently.”

Mr. Garrison chuckled, taking a swig of his martini. "Well, ain't that just peachy. Guess I should've given your mom a heads-up earlier."

"My mom didn't have anything to do with this.”

"Alright, calm down there, kid," Mr. Garrison said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You're here now, and that's what matters. Let's just roll with it, okay?"

Uncomfortable with the dismissive tone, Stan shifted in his seat. "Cool.”

"Now, let's talk about why you're really here," Mr. Garrison said, leaning forward slightly. "You see, Stan, Camp Half-Blood isn't just a summer camp for demigods. It's a training ground, a sanctuary for those like us who walk the line between the mortal world and the world of the gods."

"Yeah, my mom told me."

"Anyways, let me tell you, you've got quite the potential," he continued, gesturing towards Stan with his martini glass, spilling a little as liquid splashed up the sides. Gross. "But first, we need to figure out what you're capable of."

Stan's lips twitched with uncertainty, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for the right words to express his confusion. "What?"

Mr. Garrison leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "Every demigod has unique abilities, Stan. Powers granted to them by their divine parent," he explained. "We just need to unlock yours. Gotta get claimed."

"Right. So, uh, how do we do that?"

"You'll get claimed soon enough," Mr. Garrison spoke with a casual shrug, bringing his lips to the glass. "Give it a couple years and then–"

"Years?" Stan jolted forward. "I'm not coming back, dude. I'm doing my one year and leaving."

"Now, now, Stanley. Don't be so harsh," the centaur reprimanded, "we have quite a nice atmosphere here at camp, if I do say so myself."

Stan had no words. This was a literal nightmare. Here he was, sitting in a dimly lit room with a half-human, half-horse creature, discussing his newfound identity as a demigod. He did not want to be here. He had just been driven here by a goat. A fucking goat. Perhaps he was still at the toy store right now? Maybe he'd been drugged or something? Yeah, yeah that made sense. Stan had clearly just been drugged.

Suddenly, a firm knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Mr. Garrison called out for the person to enter and Stan couldn’t help but flinch at the booming voice. With a squeal, the door inched open, and Stan felt something in the air shift. Lights dulled. It was suddenly very, very cold.

Then, strolled in a boy who couldn't have been much older or younger than him, with dirty blond hair and dark eyes that somehow both soothed and prodded at Stan's soul when they met his own pair. It was easy to understand the nickname "Grin Reaper." His smile, impish and friendly, stretched across his face like a crescent moon. Stan hadn’t known whether to smile back or to run away.

"Ah, excellent, Kenny. You're a lifesaver." Mr. Garrison turned to Stan. "Now, Stan, Kenny here is gonna give you a tour around camp and show you what's what. He's practically a veteran around here, ain't that right, Kenny?"

Kenny shrugged. "Yeah, sure thing."

As Stan stood up, a subtle sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach, like a whisper of doubt lingering in the air. He couldn't help but notice the slight tension in Kenny's smile and the nervous twinkle in his eyes. It was enough to make Stan feel a tad awkward, his usual guard instinctively rising in unfamiliar social territory.

"Alright, let's get this show on the road," Kenny chirped, motioning for Stan to follow him out of the room. Stan gave a hesitant nod, falling into step beside him, mentally preparing himself for whatever awaited them outside.

As they stepped into the dimly lit hallway, Stan couldn’t shake the feeling of foreboding that washed over him like a tidal wave. The air felt thick and heavy, tinged with an unspoken tension that made his skin prickle with apprehension. He stole a quick glance back at Mr. Garrison, whose expression seemed oddly inscrutable, before turning his attention back to Kenny, who was already striding purposefully ahead.

Kenny’s black jeans clung to his legs with a casual ease, while his vibrant orange shirt seemed to emit its own faint glow, standing out against the muted surroundings. Over the shirt, he wore a sienna zip-up jacket. He looked like a very happy tangerine.

Kenny glanced back at Stan, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "You alright, dude?"

Stan nodded, though his throat felt tight with apprehension. "Yeah, just... taking it all in, I guess," he replied.

Kenny flashed him a sympathetic smile before turning his attention back to the path ahead. "Don't worry, man. I'll show you around, make sure you don't get lost in this maze," he chuckled.

They left the building, door slamming shut behind them. The sunlight, once warm and inviting, seemed to have dimmed, casting a chilling glow over the campgrounds. A brisk breeze whipped through the trees, causing Stan to pull his hoodie tighter around himself to ward off the sudden chill.

"Is it always this creepy around here?"

The sound of birds tweeting in the sky took on a sinister edge, their chirps sounding more like shrieks. Each noise seemed to echo in his ears, reminding him uncomfortably of the harpy that had attacked him just the night before.

Kenny's grin faltered for a moment before he responded, “Sorry dude, that's probably me."

“Huh?” Stan frowned. For the first time, he noticed the beaded necklace hung round Kenny’s neck: seven beads.

"Yeah, son of Hades."

Surprise shot through Stan. Brows shot up. Dear lord, he forgot they were demigods for a minute. Right. "Oh! So that explains the Grin Reaper thing."

Suddenly, Kenny froze. He turned to face Stan, his gaze piercing and predatory, devoid of its previous impish charm. The muscles around his eyes tensed, narrowing with a focus that reminded him of the harpy moments before trying to kill him.

“Hey, man. Let’s not call me that,” his voice was firm and controlled, each word carrying a weight that made Stan’s heart thump slightly louder, rattling without his ears. “Ever.”

So he’d touched a nerve with Kenny, the first normal person he’d spoken to all day.

Great.

"Sorry, dude," he murmured, genuine regret seeping into his voice. "I didn't mean to... I didn't realize–"

Kenny raised a hand, cutting him off with a blunt gesture. His gaze softened slightly, but there was still a guardedness about him. "It's fine, man. I get that Mr. Garrison likes to cause shit. Not your fault. Just never call me that, yeah?"

Relieved, Stan nodded vigorously. "Got it. No more Grin Reaper."

"Nice."

As they continued their tour, Stan found himself warming up to Kenny's easygoing attitude. Despite their rocky start, he’d proved to be an informative guide, sharing anecdotes about camp life and pointing out landmarks along the way. Stan appreciated his forgiving nature, though the guilt from his slip-up still gnawed at him. How was he to know Mr. Garrison was being mean by calling him that? And why did the name seem so serious to this kid?

Kenny led Stan to the amphitheater, where a group of demigods were deep in rehearsal. Stan watched with interest as Kenny explained how the amphitheater served as a hub for campers to share stories, perform skits, and revel in their triumphs.

"So… Hades?" Stan inquired, his gaze lowered slightly. He struggled to meet Kenny's eyes after inadvertently upsetting him. A wave of guilt churned in his stomach. "Sounds pretty interesting."

Kenny shrugged casually. "Eh, could be worse."

He thought back to Mr. Garrisons words. “Got any abilities?”

Kenny scratched his head. "Maybe, but I've never really bothered to find out."

Stan frowned. "So you're not sure?"

"Pretty much. I've just never felt the need to explore it fully," he explained with a shrug. "People tend to steer clear of me anyway. I wouldn't want to give them actual real reason to."

Stan blinked in surprise, his mind struggling to reconcile Kenny's laid-back demeanor with his claim of being avoided. When Stan had upset him, Kenny had seemed on the verge of retreating into himself. Yet, he had forgiven Stan surprisingly quickly. It was admirable.

"But you're so... chill," Stan remarked, gesturing vaguely in Kenny's direction. "How could anyone avoid you?"

He laughed. A pained noise. With a sharp edge of bitterness slicing through each strained chuckle, as if trying to swallow a pill while forcing a smile. "Yeah, I've got a strange vibe or something. It tends to unsettle people, I guess. Whatever, not my problem."

Stan tilted his head, studying Kenny with newfound curiosity. That explanation seemed to shed light on the inexplicable urge to keep his distance. Since meeting the boy, he’d felt the overbearing impulse to take up running as a hobby. Just exclusively away from him. “A strange vibe?"

He nodded. "Yeah, being a son of Hades does that, I think. Makes people uneasy."

Being ostracized because of something beyond his control struck him as profoundly unfair. "That's rough, man.”

"Eh, has its perks."

But Stan could see through the facade, recognizing the underlying sadness in Kenny's midnight blue eyes. It was a familiar feeling, one he had experienced countless times himself. "Well, if it's any help, I don't find you creepy," Stan smiled. It was only slightly a lie.

Kenny looked surprised, head tilted back. Stan could pinpoint the exact moment he fully processed that statement, as if he’d just been told the largest compliment imaginable. "Thanks, man. That means a lot. Seriously."

As they continued their stroll around camp, Stan was happy that he seemed to be on pretty good terms with Kenny. But then he noticed something slightly strange. Everywhere he looked, campers sported orange shirts. Initially, he’d believed Kenny to just have a pretty flashy fashion sense. But this was excessive. Had Stan accidentally joined a cult? He stayed silent.

However, as they passed yet another group of campers clad in orange, Stan's curiosity got the better of him. "Hey, Kenny," he began tentatively, "what's with all the orange shirts?"

"Oh, those?" Kenny replied with a chuckle, adjusting the collar of his own vibrant top. "Well, they're kind of our camp's trademark. Makes us stand out, y’know? Plus, they're enchanted to repel certain monsters, so they're not just for fashion. Safety first and all that."

Stan shakily exhaled. He really needed to get better at just accepting things. "Enchanted shirts? Seriously?"

Kenny flashed him a grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Hey, you're in a camp for demigods, man. Anything's possible." He paused, then added with a wink, "Besides, orange is the new black, didn't you know?"

"You say that like it's the most normal thing in the world."

"Guess it just kinda is now, man. Been here since I was seven.”

Surrealism hung in the air like thick fog as they ambled through the campgrounds. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the ground beneath his feet was made of quicksand, threatening to swallow him whole at any moment.

"Look, dude, I need to ask... is this for real?" Stan’s voice wavered slightly. "Like is this actually happening or is this just some massively shitty prank?"

"Sorry man, this is the real deal," Kenny replied, his own voice tinged with a hint of apprehension.

"Seriously? Cause it all feels kinda... out there."

"Like you've hit your head too hard, right?" Kenny chuckled and solidarity bubbled in Stan's chest.

"Exactly! I got attacked by a monster or something before coming, maybe I hit my head or some shit."

"I don't know, being attacked by a monster in the first place isn't exactly normal. Is it?" Kenny paused, his expression turning serious. "Look, man, the gods are real. Monsters are real. All of this is real, and we've just got to deal with it."

"And you're cool with that?"

"What other choice do I have?" Kenny asked, unusually stoic for a fourteen-year-old.

"I guess, it's just a lot to wrap my head around."

"Totally get it, man. But hey, if it helps you ain’t the only one. We're all just trying to work shit out and not die."

Stan nodded and they strolled in silence for a while before approaching a cluster of cabins, the vibrant hues and intricate symbols painted on each structure looming overhead, each casting a spell of awe and trepidation over Stan's senses.

"Whoa.”

Kenny flashed a mischievous grin, the edges of his lips hinting at a secret. "Pretty cool, huh? Ready to see your temporary home?"

Stan's throat tightened, a blend of excitement and nerves coursing through him like an electric current. "Yeah, let's do it," he managed, his hands trembling faintly at his sides.

As they approached the row of cabins, the Hermes cabin stood out amongst the others, its facade adorned with symbols of winged sandals and caduceus intertwined with snakes, shimmering in the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees.

Stan's heartbeat quickened, the pulse of anxiety growing louder in his ears. The earthy scent of fresh pine mingled with the sweet scent of flowers. Shadows danced along the ground, casting eerie shapes on the path ahead.

Reaching the cabin door, Kenny shot him a sheepish glance. "Just a heads up, it's a bit snug in here," he offered, a note of apology lacing his words. "Where all the unclaimed kids go, so…”

Stan nodded, a surge of determination coursing through him. "I can handle it."

And so, with a theatrical flourish, Kenny swung open the door.

Chapter Text

The door swung open and Stan's eyes widened as a barrage of noises slapped him square in the face. Each note thrashed for his attention. Humming lights above him. Whispering to his right. Laughing to his left. Squealing directly in front of him. Arguing from a corner. Somebody singing for whatever freaking reason.

Kenny saw Stan wince and looked back with a weak smile. "Sorry about the noise, gets kinda rowdy."

Stan ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. There was no need for Kenny to apologise, he didn't create the noise, nor was he the reason Stan had such sensitive hearing. He'd always had it. As a kid, doctors told his mom to keep an eye out for signs of autism or neurodivergence to explain the sensory sensitivity. They’d call it hyperacusis, but his mom would always recite the tale of how, as a baby, he supposedly swallowed a minuscule microphone that amplified all sounds to superhuman levels. He preferred that option. The mental image used to make his stomach ache from giggling as a kid. Now, though, anything seemed possible. Perhaps his mom hadn't even meant it as a joke? May he have actually believed microphones to be part of a balanced diet?

"It's fine, seriously, don't worry about it," Stan reassured Kenny as they entered the cabin. The sound only grew more intense but he kept moving, determined to wade through the thick audial concrete.

But as they went, he couldn't ignore the wary glances directed at Kenny by other campers – some shrunk back, others puffed their chests out as though anticipating a threat. Stan had watched animal documentaries as a kid that depicted meerkats with that same posture scouting for predators, tall, rigid, and threatened. Clearly, Kenny wasn't lying when he'd mentioned people avoiding him.

Feeling the weight of the curious stares, Stan increased his pace to keep up with Kenny's quick strides, his curiosity piqued by the whispered conversations that followed in their wake. Specific words sprung out. Trashy was one. Creepy was another. He didn't get it. Stan looked at the back of Kenny's head as he strolled forward. What was the big deal with this kid?

They made it to a bunk bed in the far corner of the room.

The top bed was neatly made with fairy lights draped around the frame, casting a soft glow over the bed. A teal blanket was neatly laid out, and a single shelf adorned the wall, displaying an array of colorful books and trinkets, each item seemingly placed with purpose. Clearly, the owner of the top bunk had put a lot of care into their decor. It was a masterpiece. However, the bottom bunk looked a little more... abstract.

It was a mess, basically. An absolute disaster. Shambolic. The bedding lay crumpled at the end of the bed, revealing sheets that looked slightly questionable, and this shelf boasted a jar of pickles and a collection of empty soda cans precariously balanced atop a stack of comics. Not trinkets. Not books with pretty spines.

Pickles.

Two boys were sat on the bottom bunk playing with a deck of cards. Stan could take a solid guess at who owned each bed just by looking at them.

"Stupid Hermes reflexes," the first boy spat, reddish mahogany eyes narrowing at the guy sat opposite. Unlike everybody else sporting the Camp Half-Blood shirt, this dude had taken a sharpie to it, crossing out the camp logo and replacing it with Camp Half-Assed. Creative.

The second boy chuckled, blond hair bouncing with a pearly hue that shone closer to white. "We can play something else if you'd like?" He asked politely, clearly winning.

"Fuck no. We're playing until I beat your sorry ass."

And just as he reached for the deck, the blond kid glanced up and caught sight of them. "Hey there, fellas!" He greeted with cheer, voice carrying a warm tone that permeated the room. When his gaze settled on Stan, he cocked his head to the side like an inquisitive puppy. "Who's this?"

Stan cleared his throat, feeling a bit uneasy as all eyes shifted towards him. “Uh, hey. I'm Stan.”

The kids eyes lit up with genuine interest as he extended a hand. "Nice to meet you, Stan! I'm Butters, and this guy here is Cartman," he said cheerfully, nodding towards the scowling figure beside him. At least one of them seemed nice. However, as his gaze lingered on Butters, Stan noticed something peculiar.

The scar.

It snaked down the left of his face like a frozen stream. The side previously concealed by his seating position. It was more than just a mark; it was a jagged seam cutting through pale skin, like a fissure in porcelain, the ridge of skin slightly raised. But what caught Stan's attention the most was the eye beneath it; a cloudy, discoloured hue, lacking the vibrancy of his right. It looked dead. Stan had first encountered facial scars while watching Harry Potter, but Harry's pathetic little lightning scar had nothing on this guy.

Kenny stepped forward and clapped Stan's back with a resounding thud. "He's joining us for summer."

The clumsy smile on Butters’ face stretched further, and he sprang to his feet with such sudden energy that Stan couldn't help but marvel at the ability to do that without blacking out. It was as if pure childish joy radiated from every pore of his being. Whether it was legitimate or not was a different story, but Stan suspected it to be slightly plastic. Nobody was that welcoming. Nobody.

"So, what do you think of camp so far?" Butters beamed.

Stan had to look to his healthy eye before responding, transfixed by the other. "It's... interesting," he muttered. The background noise had now dimmed to a low buzz, but it did little to drown out his skepticism. "The shirts are nice, I guess."

Cartman scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Oh great, another gay shirt-loving hippie. Just what we need around here.”

“But they’re shirts, dude. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal, Stan, is that only hippies wear stupid colourful shirts like these without being forced. Next thing you know, you’ll be singing Kumbaya and hugging trees.”

Kenny rolled his eyes. "Don't be an ass, Cartman."

“I’m not, I’m not,” he insisted, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Just saying, I can totally see this guy hugging trees. You a tree hugger?”

“Not exactly,” he crossed his arms.

“Score. Keep it that way.”

“Well, regardless of labels or whatever, we’re glad to have you here, Stan,” Butters said, smiling kindly again.

As buzzing voices in the cabin crescendoed, a group of campers near the door clumsily dropped a heavy box onto a nearby table, causing a deafening bang that reverberated through the room like a thunderclap. The sudden noise sent a jolt of fear through Stan, making his heart race and his breath catch in his throat.

"Scare you?" Cartman grinned.

This guy was actually the worst.

Kenny gave Stan a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Hey, don't sweat it," he said, his voice calm and steady. "It can be kinda rowdy but you won't be here long. Just until you get claimed."

"Or you could be a Hermes kid like me," Butters added with a pained laugh, not exactly helping. "Then you'd be stuck here forever."

"What was he god of again?" Stan asked, not quite seeing the connection between the delivery company and the Greek god.

"God of commerce, thieves, travellers, among other stuff," Butters explained, voice tinged with a sense of pride. "So, y'know, all-around pretty cool guy."

Cartman snorted derisively, his lip curling into a sneer. "Yes, because being the god of mailmen and package thieves is such an honour.”

Butters' smile faltered for a moment, a hint of hurt flashing across his face before he quickly covered it up with a laugh. "Aw shucks, I reckon he's not too bad," he said with a sheepish grin.

"Ever met him?"

Butters shook his head. "No, but–"

"Point proven. Case closed."

"Hey, Cartman, chill out," Kenny muttered, his voice both quiet and firm. It was clear to Stan from an outsider looking in that these three were a lot closer than their bickering let on. "No need to be such a downer. Maybe he's not so bad."

"Honesty is the best policy," he shrugged. "He knows I'm right. Don't you, Butters?"

"Oh, hamburgers," he chuckled weakly. Why was Cartman such a monumental asshole?

Then, Stan frowned. He looked to the heavyset boy. "So Kenny is a son of Hades, Butters is a son of Hermes, who's your godly parent?"

The corners of Cartman’s mouth twitched, a wicked gleam dancing in his reddish eyes. For a moment, Stan was convinced he saw an outline of humiliation. “Well, well, well, brace yourself, because here it comes,” he began, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s none of your business.”

Stan’s frustration bubbled up, his patience wearing thin. “He’s unclaimed,” Butters blurted out, words flying from his mouth like bullets from a gun. “Been that way for ages.”

Stan thought back to Mr. Garrison's previous statement about some kids being unclaimed for years. The thought terrified him a little. Imagine going through all the shit of accepting this as real only to then be left on the worst cliffhanger. “How long have you been here?"

"May I state again, asshole, that it's none of your business?" Cartman retorted, his ears now glowing pink. "Lay off."

"Don't mind him," Kenny interjected, rolling his eyes. "He's just bitter because his mom probably hooked up with some minor god who doesn't know he exists."

"Stop disrespecting my mom, dickhead," he snapped back, tone venomous. "But yeah, stupid whore couldn't even remember which God it was. Dumb bitch."

Sounded respectful.

"Is being unclaimed really all that bad?" Stan asked, starting to feel self-conscious about his own status.

"Oh, please," Cartman scoffed. "Being unclaimed is like being the last kid picked for dodgeball. Nobody wants you on their team, and you're stuck sitting on the sidelines watching everyone else have fun."

"Have much experience with that?" Butters asked innocently, earning a glare from the boy.

"Die."

Kenny shook his head at the remark and turned to Stan. "Nah, being unclaimed isn't the end of the world," he reassured. "Just means you ain’t found your godly parent yet. Plenty of folks here have been through the same thing. Took Butters a year to get claimed. You just gotta hang in there."

Butters nodded in agreement. "Yeah, sometimes it just takes time. My mom always said, 'Good things come to those who wait.'"

Cartman’s eyes narrowed as he reached for a nearby playing card, with a swift flick of his wrist, he sent it sailing through the air to thud against Butters’ face. "Yeah, well, tell that to the guy who's been waiting, like, four whole years and still hasn't been claimed," he muttered bitterly. "Dumbass gods don't know what they're missing."

Kenny shot him a warning look. "Don't be like that, dude. It'll happen soon, just wait."

Butters frantically nodded along, putting the stray playing card back with the pack. "And, uh, and maybe don't call them that, they're powerful, y’know?"

"Easy for you to say," Cartman glanced past the son of Hermes and spoke to Kenny. "Not everyone can be a son of the big three and just get claimed on sight, lucky asshole."

Kenny’s jaw tensed, a subtle flicker of irritation crossing his features before a loud crash from the nearby games table sent everyone jolting in surprise. Stan instinctively took a step back while Butters practically jumped. Cartman just audibly sighed, muttering something under his breath about reckless bastards. The term wasn't factually incorrect. Everybody here must have been a bastard.

"Hey, thinking of games," Kenny piped up, his eyes glinting mischievously as he stared at Stan, eager to change the subject. "How'd you feel about joining capture the flag this week? It's like a total camp classic."

Stan hesitated, stealing a quick glance at Cartman, whose skeptical expression could have curdled milk at a hundred paces. The narrowed eyes bore into Stan like lasers, silently daring him to say something foolish. But before Stan could respond, Butters jumped in.

"Oh, it's gonna be awesome! Kenny and I can even give you some pointers on weaponry beforehand!"

Stan shifted on his feet, torn between the desire to fit in and his own reservations. The thought of getting involved in something new both thrilled and terrified him. What if he messed up? What if he couldn't keep up with the others?

But then again, Stan really had nothing to lose here. His life was already in shambles.

After a moment of internal debate, Stan sighed. "Yeah, sure, why not," he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. With Cartman's judging eyes boring into him, he couldn't resist the urge to prove the boy wrong.

"Wow, hippie, look at you trying to be all brave," Cartman scoffed, his tone oozing with condescension. "Guess you're not as big of a wuss as I thought. But don't think for a second that you're not gonna regret it if you screw this up. The gods might be watching, embarrass us and you’re dead.”

Stan shrugged, his expression betraying a hint of irritation. "Whatever, dude," he said. "And if anyone messes up, it’ll be you.”

"Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that. I'm basically Luke Skywalker with this shit.”

Stan bit his tongue, hands hidden in his pockets. Wasn’t Luke Skywalker’s entire thing learning who his dad was? He looked Cartman up and down. Seemed pretty out of reach for this guy.

"Consider it a date," Kenny exclaimed, clapping Stan on the back a tad too enthusiastically. He stumbled forward slightly. And then, just like that, he dropped a bombshell. "We got until Wednesday to train you up."

Dude.

What the fuck?

“This week?”

“Yup.”

Stan cocked a brow, and let fear assault the space between his belly-button and ribs. “It's Monday.”

“Yup.”

“And you’re aware that I’ve never held a sword before?”

Kenny shrugged and dismissively waved a hand. "One day is all we need, you'll be transformed into a whole new man."

Fat chance there.

"Yeah, good luck with that," Cartman mocked and for the first time that day, Stan agreed with him. "Just try not to die, hippie, alright? Feel free to drop out if it's too big and frightening for you to handle. Wouldn't want you pissing your pants in front of everyone. We gotta win.”

And thus, with a mixture of nervousness and excitement churning in his stomach, Stan couldn't help but wonder if he was making a huge mistake.

Chapter Text

As darkness blemished the sky and the cabin grew tired, Kenny's departure left Stan alone with Cartman and Butters. And although the absence of Kenny was felt, Stan was shocked to find that conversation still flowed relatively well between the trio left behind.

Interestingly, Cartman seemed to mellow out a little in Kenny's absence. Stan thought it rather strange for a boy who'd previously been so lippy. He retreated into his own world, cocooned under the covers with a comic book. It was an unexpected change for somebody so outspoken, but since Cartman wasn't running his mouth, Stan had literally zero reason to care.

Meanwhile, as Butters reached for the pack of cards they had earlier been using, Stan felt a twang of anxiety hit his chest. He wasn't exactly well-versed in card games beyond the basics like snap. But faced with Butters' offer, he figured it was better than sitting in silence, twiddling his thumbs and contemplating the cosmic joke that was his current existence.

"Ever played blackjack?" The son of Hermes asked, nimble fingers effortlessly shuffling the cards. Stan leant forward, watching them blur into a mesmerising dance of motion. He cleared his throat, somewhat intimidated by how well they were handled.

"What's that?"

"It's a classic, you'll love it," Butters replied with a gentle smile. "You try to get as close to 21 as possible without going over. The dealer gives you cards, and you decide whether to take another or stick with what you've got."

Stan furrowed his brow, his mind racing to grasp the concept. "Sounds easy enough," he muttered, though the prospect of navigating the game made his palms sweat.

The boys were seated cross-legged on a sleeping bag beside the bunk beds. This makeshift bed was now Stan's home, a testament to the overcrowded conditions of the Hermes cabin. Looking around, most campers suffered a similar fate, forced to sleep on hard floorboards, their bodies forming a mosaic of shivering children amidst the dimly lit room.

Initially, Stan had found the game of blackjack relaxing. But as the game unfolded, Butters hit a winning streak that made him question the honestly at play. Seriously, every card seemed to swoon in his favour. It was like he could predict the outcome before the cards even hit the table. Butters won again. And again. And again. Okay, this kid just had to be cheating.

He let out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is getting out of hand, dude."

Butters giggled. "Thank you! Guess it's my lucky day."

"Seriously, you'd give the guys in Vegas a run for their money," he joked. "Bet you're deadly in a casino."

Then the realisation slapped him in the face. Butters was was a son of Hermes, god of trickery – of course the kid could gamble! And if Butters was cheating, which Stan kinda doubted, his divine parentage would make it a hell of a lot harder to catch on to.

They played a couple more rounds until Cartman eventually set aside his comic book, leaning in with a disdainful smirk. "Lose again, Stanley?"

He shuffled uncomfortably. "Well, kinda."

Cartman rolled his eyes, scoffed, and shook his head. "Crafty little bastard, ain't he?"

As the game wound down, Stan couldn't shake the frustration of realising Butters' likely divine assistance in his winning streak. However, Butters collected the cards with a contented smile, seemingly oblivious to any advantage he may or may not have had. "Well, I suppose it's time for bed," he chirped cheerfully, stretching his arms overhead.

Cartman, now less engaged, yawned dramatically. "Yeah, whatever. Night, losers."

Stan managed a weak smile, bidding them goodnight as Butters practically bounced up the ladder to his own bed. As he settled into the crunchy sleeping bag, discomfort gnawed at him. The floor felt hard and unforgiving, every lump and bump pressing into him in all the wrong places. These cabins had to be pretty old – he just knew he'd be waking up with splinters tomorrow.

Stan sighed. Why was he the one being punished for the gods' lack of sexual protection? It wasn't his fault his dad (whoever he was) couldn't keep it in his pants. Or robes? Stan frowned. Did gods even wear pants? The question felt oddly philosophical.

Broken only by the occasional rustle of blankets and murmurs of sleep-talkers, the previously bustling cabin had fallen into an eerie silence. But, to Stan, this lack of noise was incredibly loud – hints of snores, groans, and whispers grating on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Sleep was impossible. When counting sheep failed miserably, he decided to do the next best thing and just try suffocate himself with a pillow. He was left equally as awake, only now with a pillow smushed into his face. Great.

At least with plenty of noise in a room, one sound could block out another. But this was hell. It didn't help how sensitive his hearing was. He clung to every noise. But it got worse. His brain seemed to have a personal vendetta against him, conjuring up vivid scenarios of himself stumbling and falling during capture the flag, only to be met with laughter and ridicule from the other guys. He was already starting to regret his decision to join them and he hadn't even picked up a weapon yet.

But it wasn't just the fear of failure that kept Stan awake. No. He could still see the harpy in the back of his eyelids. Lunging for him. Swiping for his mom. Static. A man with a black moustache. Big bird– no, harpy again.

Stan teetered on the edge of sleep, his consciousness fading in and out like the flickering flames of a dying candle. Until he was abruptly jolted awake by the twanging of metallic strings being plucked and strummed; a melodic, transcendent sound.

He snapped open his eyes and found himself standing on the edge of a vast field, hair swaying gently in the breeze, bringing the distant murmur of a brook. Soft grass tickled at his bare feet. This was lovely, far better than the dusty floor of cabin eleven. Chirping filled the air, a warbling chorus that seemed to soothe his troubled mind. But amidst this idyllic scene, it was a figure that caught Stan's attention.

A man with a moustache was sitting on a fallen log, hair the same shade as Stan's own. A tree swayed beside him, tall with lance-shaped, glossy leaves like that of a laurel tree. The vibrant green belly of the meadow seemed to intensify around the man. Then, the image of him flickered into another. Stan squinted. Now sat a young woman with a microphone gripped in one hand. It happened again. Moustached man with a pungent smell of weed.

The meadow rippled and lurched out of focus, transforming into a desolate plain shrouded in darkness. This was nothing like the previous scene. Towering mountains loomed in the distance; their jagged peaks obscured by clouds. The thunder rumbled, echoing through the air. Stan longed for the music as lightning crackled overhead, intensifying with each flash. He instinctively clutched his hands over his ears as deep, resonant thunder rolled across the sky.

The man from before flickered into view as a tiny dot on the horizon, miles away. Then, a remarkable transformation unfolded: he grew taller and more imposing, to the size of at least three football fields stacked atop one another – forgive Stan's unconventional American metrics. Awe turned to sheer terror. His heartbeat raced, body trembling uncontrollably.

"Stan," the man's voice boomed, cutting through the storm's fury and shaking the earth beneath them. A lone raven perched on the man's shoulder, a mere speck against his titanic figure. "Listen closely, bud, for within the calm of the hurricane lies a hidden truth. Make some noise, Stan. Destiny hangs over you like a cloak; shed light upon it – show some integrity."

Stan absorbed the words, torn by conflicting feelings. He wondered what would happen if he just shouted back, "no!"? The wind howled louder, pushing him back. Dark lashes whipped across his eyes, stung by the biting wind. He shivered. Blinking away tears, he looked up and nearly collapsed to his knees at the sight before him.

A jagged black boulder hurtled his way, lightning flashing to reveal the imminent danger in stark clarity. Panic gripped him, instincts clamouring for flight. Yet, fleeing was pointless. As Stan readied for the collision, a wave of resolve swept over him. He shielded his face, drew a breath.

Bones snapped. Meat squelched.

"Χρόνος πάντα κρίνει."

Stan's eyes snapped open. He sat up abruptly, elbows on knees, sweat beading on his clammy forehead. He was back in his sleeping bag. Yet, his stomach churned. He felt ready to vomit. It had been a dream. Frantically scanning the dimly lit room, his gaze darted from shadow to shadow, hunting for any trace of the nightmare's lingering grip. It was still dark outside. Frustration gnawed at him, struggling to shake off the residual fear.

He clenched his fist against his chest, as if to restrain the frantic pounding of his heart, each beat a stark reminder of his vulnerability. He longed for his mom. Closing his eyes, he buried his face in his hands, the rough fabric of the sleeping bag scratching against his skin as he fought to steady his trembling breaths.

It was just a dream.

But oddly, Stan could now hear ticking of a clock. A clock which certainly had not been there before.

"Am I dreaming, or is this seriously the best freaking day ever, you guys?"

"Cartman, it's a bacon sandwich," Kenny remarked with a smirk, his arms resting casually on the breakfast table. "Up your standards a little."

"Stay in your own lane, McCormick."

That morning, Stan trailed behind Cartman and Butters as they led him to the breakfast pavilion under the warm sun. As they bantered, Stan couldn't help but smile faintly, longing for a similar connection. He'd never had a best friend before, and the way Cartman and Butters interacted made him yearn for that bond. Despite only knowing them for a short time, their closeness was evident. They were an unexpected duo – like a lamb befriending a bull. He wondered what must've happened to make such opposites align.

As they walked, Stan couldn't help but fidget with the hem of his hoodie, tugging it down over his hips to conceal the god-awful orange shirt he was wearing. Blue had always been his colour, complementing his natural tones and bringing out his eyes. So being forced to wear the camp uniform was uncomfortable to say the least. He understood why Cartman had taken a sharpie to his own to showcase his disapproval. When Butters handed it to Stan that morning with a shy smile, Stan wanted to crawl back inside his sleeping bag like a very stubborn caterpillar refusing to undergo metamorphosis to become an obnoxiously vibrant butterfly. However, seeing Butters' kindness, he decided to wear it, albeit layered under his trusty blue hoodie, allowing just a hint of vibrant orange to peek out.

Stan, his stomach rumbling in response to the tantalising aroma of breakfast, followed Cartman and Butters into the breakfast pavilion, a charming building with grand white columns and lush green vines adorning its exterior. As they entered, Stan's eyes scanned the bustling room until they landed on Kenny, who was already seated at a table, eagerly awaiting their arrival. With a warm smile, Kenny joined them at the buffet in the centre of the room before they settled back into their seats, plates piled high with food.

"Did you sleep well, Stan?" Butters inquired between bites of his toast.

Stan glanced up, offering a tight-lipped smile. "Like a baby."

It wasn't technically a lie, so long as the baby's crib was strapped onto a rollercoaster and the lullabies were sung by a banshee. Whatever, not his problem anymore. As far as he was concerned, it was all just one stupid nightmare. He wasn't going to let it make him look like a pussy. Not happening, that whole ordeal was staying between him and the sleeping bag. Nobody else.

Butters gave a nod, tapping patterns into the table. "That's good," he smiled. "Heard you thrashing around a little in your sleep, that's all."

Stan only shrugged. His own toast now tasted bitter, of course he'd picked up a burnt piece. "I slept fine."

At this, Kenny glanced up. Unlike Butters and Stan, who seemed pretty content to tiptoe around the elephant in the room, Kenny grabbed a spear and went straight for it. "Getting nightmares is, like, super normal around here, man."

"Is it?"

"Hell yeah, pick any demigod in this room and I bet you five bucks they had a nightmare last night," he said, pausing to take a bite of oatmeal. "It's just part of the experience, y'know."

Stan nodded, subtly releasing a breath that had been buzzing around the back of his throat. Well, that was good. Not good in the sense that everybody was getting nightmares. But good in the sense that Stan wasn't a complete freak. This was just a demigod thing. Cool.

Cartman, however, just had to open his mouth. "Nightmares? Please," he drawled, arrogance oozing from every word as he waved his sandwich dismissively. "My dreams are too busy being awesome."

Kenny and Stan exchanged a knowing glance, silently agreeing to let Cartman have his delusions. Butters, undeterred by his bravado, continued to gently prod. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Nah, it wasn't that deep."

"It could help us figure out who your godly parent is?"

At this, Stan's head snapped up. He glanced around, feeling the weight of the suspense. It had only been twenty-four hours since the whole demigod thing had started, and he was already struggling with being unaware who his godly parent was. He wondered how somebody like Cartman could cope with waiting for four whole years. Years are long. Four of them would drive Stan insane. Then he spotted Cartman, face buried in a bacon sandwich, and suddenly it all made sense how the boy coped. Stan had no intention of getting to that point.

"Alright, what you need to know?" He leant forward, dropping his own toast onto the plate with a dull slap.

"Any weird people or animals?" Kenny asked.

"Yeah, that's a good one!" Butters chimed in. "I used to have dreams about being chased by donkeys and never made the connection."

"Butters, how in the hell do donkeys relate to Hermes?" Cartman interrupted.

Butters blinked, taken aback by the sudden attention. "Uh, well, you know, like, manual labor, travel, and commerce and stuff."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard, Butters. Stick to your toast."

Stan supplied an encouraging nod. That had made a shocking amount of sense, actually. "Right, okay. Uh– there was a man?"

"No need to add so much detail," Cartman quipped with an eye roll that prickled something in Stan's chest. He wished Cartman could just be quiet for once.

"A man with a moustache, and black hair, and... he was next to a laurel tree?" He specified regardless, frustration creeping into his voice.

Kenny scratched his head, his foot tapping lightly beneath the table—a familiar gesture that kept Stan grounded. Then, with a contemplative sigh, he asked, "Sure it was a laurel tree?"

"Definitely." He passionately nodded. "Had those super glossy dark leaves and white flower clusters and everything.

"Well, aren't you a foliage freak," Cartman muttered, leaning forward with his fingers interwoven, much like a shady businessman. Suddenly, the table jolted, and Cartman let out an exaggerated yelp. "Quit kicking me, Kenny, you bastard!"

"What was the weather like?" Kenny persisted, undeterred by Cartman's interruption.

"It was, uh, kinda nice? At first, anyways. Then there was a thunderstorm."

"Could it have been Poseidon?" Butters chimed in; voice tinged with hopeful curiosity. It made Stan feel kinda warm inside just how willing these guys were to help him out.

"Maybe," he replied with a shrug, happy The Little Mermaid movie had taught him a lot about this guy. "He was god of the sea, right?"

"Poseidon was also the god of earthquakes, too!" Butters chimed in; his eyes wide with curiosity as he leaned forward. "Could you see the ocean?"

"Nope," Stan replied. "But the ground kinda shook a bit."

"Hold on, you guys," Cartman interjected, his words slightly muffled by a mouthful of sandwich. "Wasn't Poseidon more of an olive tree guy? Not laurel trees?"

Kenny cleared his throat, drawing the group's attention. They all turned to the son of Hades, who took a satisfyingly crunchy bite from his apple. "Another problem is that Poseidon is one of the big three."

Cartman narrowed his eyes, his chewing slowing as he processed Kenny's words. "So?"

"So, Stan would've been claimed by now," Kenny explained, prompting Cartman's brows to furrow deeply in irritation. "I got claimed literally the day I arrived."

Cartman groaned dropped the bacon sandwich onto his plate with a resounding thud. "Oh, great, the chosen one graces us with his presence," he retorted, shoving away the remnants of his now unloved breakfast. "Get a real personality, asshole."

Kenny shot him a glance, while Stan sat awkwardly, pitifully lost. "Who are the big three?" He asked, half expecting them to be a crappy boyband or something.

"The three most powerful gods in the pantheon," Butters began, adopting a more scholarly tone. "Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades. King of the gods, god of the sea, and ruler of the dead. It's a pretty intense combo. They aren't really allowed to have kids."

"And why can't they have kids?" Stan pressed, eager for more information.

"All the kids turn into crazy bastards," Cartman interjected with a smirk.

Butters suddenly found himself engrossed in his nails, not wanting to get involved, while Kenny rolled his eyes. "Don't say that. It isn't funny."

"I ain't joking," Cartman retorted. He turned to Stan. "Our good pal Kenny here is actually brothers with Jack the Ripper."

Stan's eyes widened in disbelief as he turned to Kenny, who visibly tensed up. A subtle chill descended over their corner of the room. "You're kidding?"

Kenny gently placed down his unfinished apple, taking a composed breath before responding. "Technically, that's just a theory–"

"They're all batshit crazy, no offence Ken," Cartman interrupted, Kenny remained silent and Stan couldn't blame him. "I get why the gods would ban you guys. But don't worry, it's not just Hades' kids. I also have a theory that a Zeus kid was behind 9/11."

Kenny's facade of composure crumbled as he buried his face in his hands, emitting a groan of frustration. Stan entertained the thought of stuffing the apple from Kenny's plate into Cartman's mouth just to silence him, like skewering a pig on a spit.

"Don't say that, oh my gods," Kenny begged, speech muffled from behind his palms.

Cartman seemed apathetic to Kenny's obvious discomfort. "There's also a theory that Genghis Khan was a Hades kid."

Stan's gaze shifted between the two boys, a wave of disbelief washing over him as he realised the depth of what was being discussed. It felt like uncovering a hidden layer of reality that had remained concealed until this moment. As his attention turned to Kenny, he noticed how frozen the son of Hades seemed, his hands clasped tightly together, his knuckles whitening as if he were bracing himself against an unseen force.

"Christopher Columbus, too," Cartman added casually.

"Okay, just stop. Seriously," Stan pleaded, his hands raised in exasperation as he tried to process the insanity that was unfolding before him.

Cartman, oblivious to the mounting tension, carried on as if he were delivering a stand-up routine. "Yeah, god of death and all that crap. The guy had a thing for fighting, what can I say?"

Stan's disbelief deepened with every word. It was like being trapped in a fever dream where logic went to die. His attention shifted to Kenny again, blue eyes darting around the room. He looked vaguely anxious. Had Cartman's comments actually been upsetting him? Hopefully not.

Stan followed Kenny's gaze until his stomach tensed up, landing on his plate.

Earlier, apple resting on Kenny's plate had been plump and firm. Once a symbol of freshness and vitality, it now resembled something out of a nightmare. Its flesh had turned a sickly shade of brown, oozing with putrid juices that pooled ominously. Fuzzy patches of mould, ranging from white to blue to sickly yellow, sprawled across its surface like some malevolent growth. The sheer rapidity of the decay was chilling.

Stan's mind raced with horrifying possibilities. Could Kenny somehow be responsible for this? The idea seemed absurd, yet as he glanced at the son of Hades, a primal fear gripped him. Was it possible for the friendly boy to do that to a human? Cause rapid rot or even spontaneous death? Stan felt a frosty tremor shoot down his spine. In hindsight, Stan could pinpoint this exact moment as the catalyst for his understanding of why the friendly boy had come to be such an outsider at camp.

Kenny McCormick was a ticking time bomb.

"We apparently screw with history too much, is what he's trying to say," Kenny muttered, quickly tossing a napkin to hide the decayed fruit. He seemed keen to ignore whatever had just happened, as did Butters, and shockingly, Cartman, who sat with a frown that almost looked concerned. "My dad and his brothers promised never to have kids around a hundred years ago, coincidentally close to the Ripper shit. Only Hades was first to break that rule, resulting in me."

At that, Butters' head snapped up again, his eyes widening with realisation. "Wait one second," he started, brows furrowed. "I thought Dwayne Johnson was supposed to be Poseidon's kid?"

Stan blinked. Just as he was beginning to accept all of this shit, fate just had to throw another curveball at him. Awesome. Thank you. "Are you... are you for real?"

"Yeah, and he calls himself the Rock because of Poseidon's earthquake stuff," Butters said, his confusion evident. "He, like, rocks the earth, ain't that right? Fellas?"

Celebrities raced through Stan's mind, so many of them could have been demigods. Hell, many could have been gods themselves. Cartman only shot Kenny a look of disbelief before turning back to Butters. "Dude, I'm not sure you should believe that."

"Why not?" Butters protested, his confusion mounting. "Well, you see, fellas, in Moana, he controls the sea and stuff, and in San Andreas, he fights earthquakes. In Baywatch he's a lifeguard? So, it's like he's got some serious water and earth mojo going on, right?"

Stan found the logic surprisingly sound, but Cartman pinched the bridge of his nose and spoke to nobody in particular. "Is he seriously Hermes' kid?"

Kenny merely shrugged, leaving Cartman to face Butters again. "What does that even have to do with anything?" Butters questioned.

"Butters, c'mon," Kenny interjected, gentle like a parent telling their child that the family dog didn't actually go to live on a farm. "Who told you that?"

"Eric."

"And you believed him?"

Butters' face fell like a deflating balloon, his disappointment palpable. "What?"

"Butters, I made it the fuck up," Cartman finally declared, half-exasperated and half-humoured. "I can't believe you fell for that, holy balls."

"That's cold, man," Stan shook his head in disbelief.

"Not my fault the dude's gullible. He's literally a son of Hermes, how did you not realise I was bullshitting?" Cartman chuckled.

Butters' cheeks flushed a shade of pink as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze dropping to the table. "Aw, shucks. Is Ryan Reynolds still a Hermes kid?"

Stan could guess the answer to that question based purely on the mischievous glint in Cartman's eyes. "You're twisted," he sighed, crossing his arms in resignation.

"Cut me some slack, I'm just trying to spice things up around here!" Cartman retorted, throwing his hands up in surrender. "There's nothing to do but wait for quests we don't get and train for fights we can't have! Forgive me for trying to make life exciting again."

"But is he?" Butters persisted. "Is Ryan Reynolds–"

"Yeah, yeah, Ryan Reynolds is still a Hermes kid. Fuck, you're dense."

"Speaking of fights we can't have, what time is it?" Kenny voiced, eyes darting around the room for something that may tell the time. He then gestured towards Stan. "Gotta make sure you don't die tomorrow."

Dread gave him a heavy kick to the stomach. Stan had forgotten about capture the flag and was momentarily happier because of it. Oh shit. He supplied a nervous laugh, already picturing himself tripping and falling over his own feet, fumbling with a weapon, and inadvertently injuring somebody in the same moment. In school, Stan had no issues with cramming. He even found it kinda thrilling. But in a demigod camp where the very real threat of failing to cram effectively meant death, it was slightly less fun.

Stan could feel it, somebody was going to get seriously hurt in capture the flag. He had an even stronger feeling that it would be him. "We don't have to," he suggested, would it be too late to drop out of the game? "Really, guys, let's not worry about it–"

"I thought you said you've never held a sword before?" Kenny raised a single brow.

Stan's eyes darted around as Kenny and Butters stood from the breakfast table. He needed an excuse to get out of this. Fast.

"What if I wanna keep my sword virginity?"

Perhaps that wasn't the smartest thing to say in front of Eric Cartman, who promptly burst into a fit of giggles. Kenny, on the other hand, maintained a concerned expression. "You're a demigod," he stated bluntly. "I'm not sure you wanna be doing that."

It was only when Butters nodded along with Kenny's words that Stan felt compelled to agree. The imposing scar etched into Butters' face lent added weight to his cautionary advice. He sighed in defeat and slowly rose onto his feet. "Fair enough."

As the group of four reached the door, they were surprised to find Cartman heading in the opposite direction, his hands buried in his pockets. However, he quickly pivoted around when Butters spoke up.

"You coming to help train up Stan?" He asked, somehow still friendly despite finding out he'd been severely duped by the older boy. Stan respected how mature he was. "Or are you gonna be too busy making up more lies about the gods? Be careful, that’s kinda disrespect."

"I was just messing around,” Cartman shrugged, vaguely confused. “It wasn’t personal to you, asshole.”

"Not disrespectful toward me... towards them."

Cartman didn't seem to have an argument against that. He puffed out his chest. "For your information, I've got far more important things to do than lying."

"Like spying?" Kenny teased, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Get off my dick, Ken-doll.”

"So, yes," Kenny pressed on, undeterred by Cartman's deflection. "Athena cabin again?"

"Yeah, whatever. Just gotta know what the freak is planning for his team tomorrow," Cartman shrugged as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "And it ain’t stalking. Just healthy studying from a distance."

Stan gave him a look, one brow raised. "Is that not literally the definition?" He asked.

"Hey, it's called reconnaissance, alright?" Cartman argued, then paused. Stan received a harsh look up and down. "I'm actually prepared, unlike some people."

Stan was just about to snap back, finally getting pissed off, when Kenny stepped in. "Whatever, dude. Just report back to us, yeah?" He asked and Cartman gave the son of Hades a thumbs up before sauntering off into the distance.

"Right," Kenny loudly clapped his hands, causing Butters and Stan to jump as they both were snapped out of glaring at Cartman's turned back. "We ready for some training montages?”

Stan forced a laugh, his attempt to conceal the terror pulsing through his veins disrupted by a voice crack that split his next word in half.

"Totally."

Chapter Text

As Stan stepped into the training arena, the air was thick with the pungent odour of sweat-soaked leather, a scent that mingled with the heavy metallic tang of weapons, assaulting his senses and filling his lungs with each inhale. The cacophony of sound assaulted his ears, the clanging of swords meeting shields reverberating through the space like thunderous applause. Shouts of encouragement from trainers and fighters alike pierced the din, intermingling with the grunts of exertion from combatants locked in intense sparring matches.

It overwhelmed Stan just how much chaos was packed into this one arena, because let's face it, if anyone here was gonna give Stan Marsh a concussion, it was gonna be Stan himself.

He shuffled along behind Kenny and Butters, hands clenched at his sides. As Butters marched off to retrieve three swords for them to use, Stan anxiously scanned the room, frantically searching for a window or fire exit to swan dive out of, until he noticed a boy.

The boy had olive skin, focus intensely directed at the spear clutched in his hands as he sat cross legged with his back resting against the cool wall of the arena. Dark hair fell across his forehead as he tinkered with the weapon, jaw clenched in either determination or frustration. Stan was unsure which. Who was this boy? And what was his reason for taking apart his spear piece by piece?

Stan stared at him, like a child in a zoo, until Butters popped back up and knocked him out of his trance by thrusting a sword into his grip. The unexpected weight momentarily startled Stan, yet it proved manageable, much to his dismay. There was too much responsibility now in his clammy hands. His breathing quickened, fuelled by the idea that he should be much more uncomfortable holding an object literally designed to take lives – something he, like most people, was opposed to. The slither of the blade housed subtle nicks and scratches, remnants of past clashes with foes or unforgiving training dummies. A sort of sick awe shot through Stan's spine – he'd never before considered that, while people gained scars from weapons, weapons could also gain scars from people.

Thankfully, Kenny wasn't blind to the discomfort rattling through each cell of his body, wasting no time in starting their training session. "Let's begin with the basics," he jumped in. "No need to be nervous, remember, it's just a piece of metal."

"I dunno," Stan shook his head. This was so much more than just a piece of metal. "What if I hurt someone?"

"Then you'd be doing it right."

"I guess."

Kenny gave him a pat to the back, an action that was quickly becoming familiar. "You got this man," he smiled. "Trust us, you'll be lethal in no time."

Stan forced an uneasy grin, trying to convey anything other than the dread that statement had slapped into him. He didn't want to be lethal. Like most people, Stan was pretty open to the idea of chilling the hell out.

"You will!" Butters encouraged, then used the gleaming tilt of his own sword to gesture towards Stan – who had never before felt so politely threatened. "We probably first should teach you how to hold one of these properly."

Stan provided a jerky nod, shoulders hunched. Somebody nearby dropped an axe with a loud clang and he jumped out of his skin. He wasn't cut out for fighting. He was built for like... frolicking. But Butters seemed confident, effortlessly demonstrating the sword's grip and swing as Stan tried to imitate him, but his movements felt clumsy and forced. He preferred being bad; it meant he wasn't "lethal" yet. But Butters' gentle prodding left Stan determined to slice through his conviction just to get this over with and return home, one awkward swing at a time.

"Hey, man, lemme show you something," Kenny said, gesturing for Stan to face him. "You're overextending a bit. Here, let's try a super slow sword fight. Focus on your footwork."

Was Stan grateful for Kenny's guidance? Yes. Did that stop his heart from racing? No, not exactly. He had no clue what half those words meant. All he heard was a polite version of "hey, dude, you kinda suck."

They started their "dual" when Kenny began circling Stan, sleek form gliding silently. A twinge of fear shot through him. Kenny moved with the fluid grace of a panther while Stan moved with all the grace of a clodhopping kitten on a slippery kitchen floor.

The sword in his hands felt warm and clammy to touch. He was panicking. But Kenny shot him a Cheshire-cat grin, offering a reassuring laugh when Stan stumbled over his feet. "Focus on your footwork," he reminded, voice surprisingly gentle. "You need a solid foundation or your offence is shit."

Stan nodded, trying to push aside his fears, he momentarily felt calm. In hindsight, the next few years of his life would teach him that feeling calm as a demigod was only ever a path to disaster. Example A: Kenny lunging forward, blade aimed at Stan's chest. Stan had barely any time to react, sword clanging against Kenny's with a sloppy block. But Kenny was too quick. With a swift twist of his wrist, he disarmed Stan in one swish, sending his sword clattering to the ground.

Stan stood there, frozen, dazed and breathless. He felt almost ashamed, the primal instinct to stay alive clashing with his deep-seated aversion to violence. He had a choice to make. Would he learn to defend himself, or would he commit to mastering the art of running away? As a demigod, he had to choose one to stay alive. The third option, death, didn't seem all that appealing.

"Hey, man, don't sweat it," Kenny said, picking it up and handing it back to Stan. "It takes time to get this stuff. You're doing fine."

“We've all been there,” Butters said.

"Thanks, I guess I'm just learning... slowly. Very slowly. Like, incredibly slowly."

"That's the spirit!" Kenny clapped Stan on the back, missing the point. "Let's try some more drills. Wanna take over as teacher, Professor Butters?"

"Gee whiz – thank you, Mr. McCormick!" Butters’ enthusiasm shone in his smile, a sunrise painted across the horizon of his face. And as they dived into these acts of public humiliation, Stan found himself slowly coming to grips with the process. Sure, he was shit. This was all shit. But it was better than messing up tomorrow with people actually trying to hurt him. Here, he could learn, both boys willing to nurture his ability to create moves so awful that they became unpredictable. And Stan was quickly learning that, in a fight, unpredictability meant perfection.

This showed itself no greater than when Stan had sparred against Butters. He exerted himself, but Cartman's remark about Butters' "stupid Hermes reflexes" rang true. He could anticipate Stan’s every move, grunting as he skillfully dodged each swing. Suddenly, Stan tripped over a raised ridge on the floor, causing a loud thud as they both crashed down, just so happening to land after Butters. Stan claimed victory amidst Kenny's chuckles and calls of luck, attributing it instead to his strategic cunning.

Kenny's grin stretched from ear to ear, one brow perked as if challenging Stan to take back his previous declaration. "So, you're ready for shields?" He asked, arms crossed. "Don't need anymore sword-training today?"

Stan blinked and opened his mouth as if to say something but no words came out. This was not part of the plan. Abort. Abort mission. Abort.

"Aw, come on! You gotta believe in yourself!" Butters nudged him, his pearly hair now tousled from their tumble.

"Yeah, but shields are so... bulky," Stan replied, scratching his head.

Kenny shrugged. "Could be useful for tomorrow, plus I was only joking about the sword thing – we can go back to those later if you wanna. Shields are good."

Stan's guard dropped, enticed to agree. Like a stubborn child, he loved the illusion of choice. "Sure, why not."

This time, it was Kenny who hurried off to retrieve a set of shields. Stan watched him go, honoured that both boys seemed pretty willing to help him out. The sword in his hand was quickly becoming less awkward, and Stan could proudly state that he had indeed learnt something.

“Wanna do shield bashing with me?” Butters asked. “It's basically human bumper-cars.”

Horrific. "I'm in."

With a tentative step forward, Stan initiated the exercise, his shield raised in a shaky yet resolute grip. Seemed simple enough. Human bumper-cars, how could that go wrong? But as he ran forward, his gaze flickered toward the corner of the room, where the tinkering boy from earlier was no longer sat down, but instead engaging a dummy in what appeared to be a training exercise. Stan finally understood why the boy had been so focused on his spear earlier. Time slowed down. Stan forgot that he was gliding toward Butters.

The tanned boy brought his arm back, drawing the spear behind him in a controlled arc. His muscles tensed as he coiled his body like a spring, preparing to unleash the full force of his throw. With a sharp huff, he propelled the spear forward, his arm extending in a powerful release.

The spear sliced through the air with a satisfying whoosh, its trajectory true as it hurtled towards the dummy. As it struck the target with pinpoint accuracy, a satisfied smirk played across his lips. But then, something incredible unfolded. Stan's eyes widened, still charging forward. The spear seemed to come alive, sprouting six metallic legs that worked in unison to extract it from the dummy. Like a terrifying spider, it crawled down the dummy's torso before returning to the boy's grasp. He didn't even have to move.

Mesmerised by the spectacle, Stan's attention wavered for a split second, allowing Butters to seize the opportunity. With a swift and calculated maneuver, Butters plowed into Stan with unexpected force, he grunted, shields colliding with a resounding clang. Stan stumbled backward, his footing unsteady. Before he could regain his balance, Butters pressed his advantage, delivering a decisive blow that sent him sprawling to the floor with a thud.

His skull throbbed as he stared up at the ceiling, wishing he could hang himself from it. Butters rushed forward, eyes wide with panic – he looked more concerned than victorious. But Stan's mind was elsewhere. He groaned, slapping his hands over his face. He just knew he'd be adopting the Grandpa-stance tomorrow, painted black and blue.

"I'm so sorry!" Butters started in a hurry, he held out a hand, allowing Stan to propel himself back to his feet. "I didn't even realise–"

"Nah, you're good. You're good, dude. I got distracted, sorry."

Kenny joined them and gave Stan a quick once over, midnight blue eyes darting over him in an almost paternal fashion – strange, considering the son of Hades was almost an entire year younger than him. "You hit your head?"

"Just a bump, don't worry," Stan said, forcing a smile to reassure Butters, who was nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot and absentmindedly brushing his knuckles together. "It was, uh, it was fun."

"Whatever you say, man."

After his fall, and Butters' tsunami of apologies, the trio decided to move on from shields, finding it wise to probably stick to using shields as, well, shields. Not bumper cars. At least until Stan became slightly more proficient at this stuff. The pain in his skull didn't linger, thankfully. But as the trio moved to finding Stan a second weapon he could learn to use as a back-up, just in case no swords were accesible tomorrow, he found himself dwelling on the urge to try everything in this room just to feel safe.

Next, he tried daggers. Very brave for a boy probably rocking a concussion. But Butters took to showing Stan exactly how to properly use one. He'd never before realised it was this complicated, he missed when knives were just for buttering toast and cutting food, there were now so many different ways to hold the blasted things – the hammer grip, the saber technique, the forward grip, the RGEO, the reverse knife grip. It was all relatively straightforward, and boring, until Butters decided to showcase a talent that would have absolutely landed Stan in the hospital, or police station, if he tried it.

Knife throwing.

"This looks safe," he quipped, skepticism evident in his tone.

Butters flashed a bright grin. "Oh, it really is, Stan! I've been practicing super hard."

Concerned, Stan looked to Kenny, who could only shrug, eyes fixated on the blond boy. And as Stan processed Butters' words, a silver blur sliced through the air, dagger thudding into the dummy with a sound similar to the sharp snap of a twig breaking. Stan winced, joining the chorus of pained groans from nearby campers. Kenny cackled. Somehow, Butters had managed to hit the dummy straight in the groin.

“Aw, hamburgers, that one slipped!" Butters exclaimed, looking sheepish.

Stan raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Weren't you aiming for the, y'know, the... dick?"

Butters shrugged nonchalantly. "It doesn't have one of those."

Stan shook his head, unable to suppress a smirk. "Probably cause of people like you."

Kenny took a step forward, his grin mischievous as ever. "Alright, enough with that. Let's try something less deadly."

"Yeah, sure," Stan agreed, though his tone betrayed a hint of uncertainty. Was anything in this arena not deadly? Whatever, he was just happy to get away from Butters and his attempts at DIY circumcision.

Approaching the weapons rack, Stan scanned the army of potential tools, his gaze eventually settling on a mace. “Um, what about this?" he suggested tentatively, pointing to the spiked ball attached to a handle. "Looks kinda like a hammer.”

Kenny raised a brow, noticing Stan's hesitation. "Sure, if you're up for it. Unique choice.”

Stan nodded slowly, his hand hovering over the mace with cautious uncertainty. "Yeah, I suppose so. Can't hurt to try something new."

"That's the spirit!"

With a hesitant breath, Stan hefted the mace, feeling its balance shift in his hand. It weighed him down, made one arm drag closer to the ground. And as he swung it experimentally through the air, the whooshing sound it made echoed in his ears, making him stumble forward just to remain in grip of it. Even with it smelling of oil and soggy pond water, Stan did not want this unexpectedly leaving his grip. No. He enjoyed not being a murderer, thank you very much.

Returning to their corner, Stan and Kenny found Butters still lingering by the dummy, stood beside a blond boy with sunken cheeks. The unnamed boy had tightly coiled curls framing a face marked by wide, nervous eyes – they were talking animatedly about something, something Stan couldn't quite gather due to the distance between them, but he couldn't help wonder who this boy with the cavernous face was. Butters grinned at him as though speaking to an old friend, but the boy looked at Butters as though he were grasping at a star just slightly beyond reach.

"Who's the blond kid?" Stan finally asked Kenny.

"Butters."

"No– dude, the other one."

"Oh, that's Bradley," Kenny mumbled, now inspecting the handle of his own mace that he'd picked up purely to try teach Stan. "He's like, the son of Aphrodite, goddess of love, or something."

"That's cool."

"Yeah, he's cool. They've been friends forever," Kenny muttered, then paused as if debating whether to tell Stan any more. He continued, voice barely audible. "Dude survived a freakin' quest."

Stan felt that statement was probably supposed to shock him. "What's a quest?"

"So, y'know what the oracle of Delphi is?"

"No?"

"They speak the prophecies of Apollo, y'know Apollo? Sunshine guy, anyways– the oracle speaks the prophecy, then a quest is given because of that prophecy, usually to retrieve something or do something,” he said, slightly shouting as clunking from a spar in one corner of the arena grew louder. “They're kinda rare but usually get you pretty noticed by the gods, that's why Cartman's, like, obsessed with them."

"Sounds safe."

"Yeah... no,” Kenny shook his head, grimacing as though his tongue was a lemon. “Most quests kill at least one demigod."

Stan's eyes widened. That was a little intense. For the first time, he fully understood why Mr. Mackey had dragged him to this camp. “Seriously?"

"Bradley and Butters went with another kid when they were about nine. It's a miracle they're alive."

Stan blew out his cheeks, mace growing heavier in his grip. "There's another kid?"

"Used to be.”

The clunking around them stopped. Silence swamped the pair.

"Oh."

"Yeah. Son of Nemesis, goddess of vengeance, he's… he ain’t here anymore.”

Stan didn't need to ask where this mysterious son of Nemesis went, Kenny's hollow breathing told him enough. He wished he could read him easier, but he looked pretty intent on avoiding eye contact.

"That sucks, dude. Seriously.”

"Yeah, he was alright, poor kid," Kenny shook his head. He sighed. “Real strong in a fight, too. Seriously tough, even at like nine."

Only then did his words fully click in Stan's mind. The clattering around them bubbled up once more, he raised a harsh brow. "Hold on now, camp sent three nine year olds on a quest?"

"Yup."

"That's... wrong."

"Yeah, it was his quest, too. The kid who died," Kenny said. "Trent Boyett was, like, right there in the prophecy, only one mentioned by name.”

"Fuck, dude.”

"Meant he just had to go along with it. Took Butters and Bradley for whatever reason, didn't even really speak to them before that."

"That's awful."

"Yeah, yeah– sorry about that. Where were we again?" Kenny's voice trailed off for a moment before he snapped back. "Oh yeah, training. Be patient with me, I'm not the best with maces."

Stan nodded, acknowledging Kenny's words, and resumed their training. As Stan repeatedly swung, Kenny’s words kept on punching his brain. Nine years old was freaking young. Incredibly young. In this case, terrifyingly young.

Nine year olds were supposed to have toothy grins. Nine year olds were supposed to have silly jokes and infectious giggles. Nine year olds were supposed to have scabby knees and dirty hands from exploring with their friends. Nine year olds were not supposed to die, clutching to their lives until their nails cracked and smiles faltered. Stan couldn’t ignore Butters’ scar anymore. Had that been where he’d got it from? Fuck, dude.

Engrossed in his thoughts, Stan's hold on the mace weakened. Suddenly, with a sharp jolt, the weapon slipped from his grasp, eliciting a gasp of alarm to rip from his lungs.

It hurtled through the air at petrifying speed. Time seemed to slow as the mace soared dangerously close to the tanned boy from earlier, still practicing with his technologically advanced spear. He turned around just in time to see the deadly projectile hurtling towards him.

A look of shock and fury flashed across his face as he narrowly dodged the mace, his spear clattering to the ground as he stumbled backwards. Stan's heart pounded in his chest as he watched the scene unfold, guilt clawed at his pupils, but he couldn’t look away. He watched. Watched as the boy's panting wore off. Watched as his eyes narrowed at Stan. Watched as he almost instinctively flipped them off. Watched as he lunged forward.

"The hell was that about?" He spat, voice nasally and sharp, each syllable abrasive.

Stan stepped back, arms raised in surrender as his breath became raspy. "Dude, I'm so sorry–"

"No, dick. You almost took my head off."

Kenny quickly jumped in, squeezing between Stan and the boy. He raised an arm in front of him, an attempt to move him back. "Listen, Craig, chill out. It was an accident–"

"Back off, Grin Reaper, this has nothing to do with you."

At the nickname, Stan’s jaw quite honestly dropped. He took a step back, quickly glancing at Kenny to gauge a reaction. Oh fuck.

Fist clenched, knuckles white as bone, Kenny was pissed. He straightened up, standing taller than usual. Chin lifted slightly, he’d drawn his lips into a thin, tight line. “Watch it,” he spat like frozen rain, each word hitting with a harsh sting. It was crazy how quickly he’d shut down. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

Stan stepped in once a familiar chill descended over them. He’d felt this before – he’d felt it at breakfast, right before Kenny accidentally created a zombie apple. Butters looked over with eyes wide as planets, even Bradley looked more petrified than before. Stan needed to act. Fast.

“Seriously, I didn't mean to, alright?” He apologised, quickly looking between them. “I honestly slipped, I'm sorry, Craig. Really, won’t happen again.”

"Fuck up like that again and you're dead.”

Stan nodded furiously. "Yeah, I consent to that."

"Great. Then stay away from me,” he said, tone blunt, turning his back on them to retrieve the spear that he’d dropped in the rush.

"Cool, yeah. That's cool,” Stan mumbled, and just as Craig was out of earshot, turned to Kenny. "He was a real charmer."

"Asshole plays for the other team."

Stan scrunched up his nose, not really understanding the relevancy. "He's gay? There's nothing wrong with being gay, Kenny–”

He earned a blank stare. "No– man, capture the flag.”

“Oh.” Stan’s eyes widened as Craig kicked the fallen mace, striding confidently back towards them with his spear now in hand. “Oh…” His stomach churned with unease. He was totally gonna die tomorrow. All the discipline he hadn’t received today was only going to be dealt tomorrow masked as a game. Ah, shit.

Kenny offered a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Stick with us, he won’t touch you.”

"I, uh..." Stan faltered, searching for words as Craig approached, passing them on his way to the door. His eyes briefly landed on the intricate carvings decorating the length of Craig's spear: stars, planets, asteroids, and spaceships. "They're... pretty cool?"

Craig didn’t even look at him, strut uninterrupted.

"Asshole," Stan muttered under his breath, mirroring Kenny's signature judgmental-aunt stance with arms crossed and a glare that could cut through steel. He waited until Craig had disappeared from sight before adding, "Gotta admit, though, that spear was kinda cool."

Kenny scoffed. "Less cool when it's flying at your face.”

"Shit."

"Whatever, he's more bark than bite,” he shrugged. “Even being the biggest dick in cabin nine."

"Cabin nine?"

"Hephaestus, God of tech," Kenny muttered, then bitterly laughed. "Checks out. I swear, he's got it out for humanity. Reckon Craig’s gonna be the one leading the machine uprising."

As if on cue, Stan's stomach twisted with unease. That sounded vaguely threading. And even despite Kenny’s words ringing true, Stan apparently could be pretty lethal, he didn’t feel any less alarmed with the realisation that he’d just made his first enemy.

With a trembling breath, Stan looked up at the sky, his eyes squeezed shut in a silent plea. He really wasn’t looking forward to this game. “Pray for me, Kenny. Pray for me."

Chapter Text

For the rest of the evening, Stan hung out with Kenny while Butters and Bradley went on a stroll.

The Hades cabin, noticeably smaller and shabbier than the others, stood as the thirteenth and last in line. Stan couldn't help but think this unfortunate number only added to Kenny's already unfair reputation for being creepy. But while it looked a mess outside, with loose wooden panels and overgrown foliage guarding the door, inside was somewhat cosy as the two boys sat on the squeaky mattress pressed up against three of four walls.

It was a welcome distraction from tomorrow's game. Kenny had even taken it upon himself to teach Stan some Ancient Greek. When he got a translation right, Kenny would grin and snap him a square of chocolate from a bar that Butters had stolen from Cartman. However, while Kenny was teaching Stan Ancient Greek, that didn't necessarily mean teaching him to read Homer or Plato – that would only give him a headache. Instead, Stan learnt far more practical phrases.

Kenny grinned. "Translate... aphòdeuma."

Stan blinked. "Damn?"

"Nope."

"Whore?"

"Sorry man, that's androkàpraina."

Stan sighed, blowing out his cheeks. One last guess. He wracked his brain.

Then, epiphany.

"Shit!"

Kenny cackled and snapped him a square of chocolate, Stan picked it from his hands and it basically melted over his tongue. Aching from a mix of training bruises and laughing too hard that evening, Stan realised that he was truly happy for the first time since arriving at this hell camp.

"Thanks for bringing me here, dude," he said, chewing the chocolate.

"Anytime, man, thanks for coming."

"I like this cabin far more than the Hermes cabin," he explained. Truth be told, cabin eleven made Stan want to rip out his eyes and stuff them into his ears. It was just so cluttered and noisy. Cabin thirteen was far more relaxing. Even while being the size of a garden shed.

Kenny raised a brow, proud smile drawn from ear to ear. "That's good, put it together myself."

"You built this?" He asked. From the loose screws and borderline dangerously slanted roof, it was absolutely believable. But Kenny's heritage made that story feel wrong. Was Hades not one of the big three?

"Yeah, cabin eleven wasn't exactly my vibe," Kenny chuckled. "Felt too... trapped. Kids there were mean."

Stan nodded. "There's a lot of them."

"It wasn't always super shit," Kenny mumbled with a shrug. "When I was ten, when Cartman rocked up, it got better. The guy is, well, you've met him."

"A dick?" He supplied.

"Yeah, knows how to stick up for himself. The other kids backed off," Kenny said. "I just wish there was a way to prove I'm not a bad guy who wants to destroy the world."

"People really think that?"

"I reckon that's part of it. Big three kids are kinda off limits," he shrugged and looked away. "There was also a dumb rumour, apparently the last oracle said the next big three kid was gonna wreck the planet, whatever that means."

"What like global warming?" Stan asked.

"All I know is that nobody wants to play Just Dance with the bringer of the apocalypse."

Stan rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't hurt a fly."

"If I had the choice, no. I wouldn't," Kenny bitterly laughed and glared at his upturned palms. "You saw what happened at breakfast today."

Shivers ran down Stan's spine as he recalled the image of the apple on Kenny's plate. Fuzzy, brown, and oozing with juices that could make even gods gag. "I guess, that ever happened before?"

"No."

Stan raised his brows. "I'm sure that's normal?" He tried, wracking his brain for ways to comfort the guy. "Demigod's probably have, like, crazy puberty or some shit?"

Kenny chuckled at that. "Could be, yeah."

Stan was just about to reply when somebody knocked at the door. It happened again. Soon, the knocking became frantic. Kenny raised a brow and shuffled to the edge of the bed to let them in. But at that moment, the door was pretty much kicked down from the outside, crashing into the wall as it blew open with a bang. The whole shed shook.

"You guys!" Cartman rushed inside. Stan hid the stolen chocolate under a pillow. "You guys seriously ain't gonna believe this!"

Kenny stood. "You okay?"

"Best fricken day ever!" Cartman laughed, hands on his hips. He sounded out of breath. Stan had never seen the boy so happy. "Dumb Jew's a moron!"

"What happened?" He raised a brow, making room for him on the bed.

Cartman plopped down beside Stan and clapped his hands. Beneath him the bed squealed and the cabin seemed to shrink. "Well, men, I may have just secured us a win tomorrow."

"Stalking go well?" Kenny chuckled.

"Smooth sailing, boys," Cartman smirked, triumphantly folding his arms. "What kinda idiot just leaves his marked map lying around for anyone to stumble upon, huh?!"

Stan's heart lurched at this. His team having a higher chance at winning meant less pressure on him to not fuck it up. "You seriously find where the flag's gonna be?" He asked, basically begged.

"Duh, just wait," Cartman declared, "we're headed straight to a noble victory."

"Noble?" Kenny raised a brow, grinning. "Nothing more noble than cheating to win."

"It's called tactics."

"It's called sneaky."

"Whatever, dick, don't pretend you ain't winning here too," he pointed out, Kenny couldn't argue against that. "Besides," he smiled and looked to the ceiling, Stan wondered who he was talking to, so did he, "leading winning games four times in a row? Good luck ignoring me now."

Capture the flag charged at Stan like a cheetah hooked up on espresso. He did try to run from it, screaming wildly and throwing himself at all sorts of camp activities. But nothing helped. The game? Inevitable. Stan? Doomed.

He found himself trapped in an anxious whirlwind of marshmallow roasting with Cartman, who just wouldn't shut up about how "rad" the game would be, and canoe paddling with Butters, who was an absolute angel in getting Stan to talk about what he liked to do before his life got turned upside down. This was the first time Stan had ever told a kid his age about his songwriting.

"Gee, I bet you're a real lyricist," Butters had chuckled, dragging his canoe behind him as they stumbled out of the water looking like drowned rats. Stan did not expect the scrawny blond to be so strong. "Like Rebecca Black!"

While that technically was not an offensive term, with her hit song Friday being catchy as hell, Stan and his love for heavy metal did not appreciate the comparison. There was no time to dwell on this, though, as soon the caffeinated cheetah pounced.

The game was starting.

In the forest birds chirped and insects buzzed as the two teams stood on opposite sides of the river. Wildflowers bloomed along the banks, water gurgling and splashing up around rocks and logs. On a bridge connecting the two sides stood Mr. Garrison, clutching a megaphone.

He slammed down a hoof to be heard over the two teams, who clanged weapons against their shields and threw stones across the river to intimidate the other. It certainly intimidated Stan, who stood trembling between Kenny and an older girl with obnoxious braces.

"Heroes!" Mr. Garrison yelled into the megaphone. "You all know the rules—"

Kenny nudged Stan as the centaur spoke, their armour clinked. "Don't worry, man. We'll be sneaking around, hopefully no real combat."

Stan muttered his thanks, appreciating the attempt to calm his nerves, but this was apparently not good enough for the girl. "Shut up, turd," she grunted, blue plume on her helmet bouncing. "Listen to the horse."

Whoops. From her aggressive demeanor and previous team speech discussing honor, truth, and fucking up these bitches, Stan suspected she may have been leader of the blue team. All he knew for certain was that she was scary. He hoped he wouldn't have to see much more of her at all.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Yeah," Kenny nodded. "Sorry Shelley."

Mr. Garrison continued with the rules. "The entire forest is fair game, no killing or maiming, I mean that one... oh, and I will serve as medic and referee," he finished with a sloppy grin, Stan half expected campers to clap. They did not.

Across the river he spotted Craig Tucker, grip tight on his mechanical-spear, eyes narrowed at Stan. His gaze snapped away when Stan held a thumb up.

"Get ready!" Mr. Garrison yelled. "Go!"

Both teams did exactly that, turning and charging into their own halves of the woods. Stan's shield was about the size of a sledge with a big star in the middle. He wondered if Craig made this one being a son of Hephaestus and all. It could have been possible, the markings on his spear made it clear he liked space.

Ahead of him, leading the rush, Shelley screamed loud enough for Stan to wince, "blue team, forward!"

The team cheered and shook their swords as they followed her to the south woods. He didn't remember being this unfit.

"What we doing again?" He panted, all muscles burning, moving alongside Kenny and Butters.

Butters smiled, cheeks blossoming pink. "We're gonna win!"

Stan gave a slow nod. "Awesome, uh, how?"

A few paces ahead of them Cartman dragged his sword along the ground, leaving behind a trail of displaced dirt. He turned and glared at Stan. "Kill everything that moves, ain't that right Kenny?"

"We get the flag, no maiming, no nothing."

"Lame."

Under his breath, Stan groaned. These guys could not answer questions. "That's really cool and all, how are we actually winning?"

"Christ, Marsh. Live a little," Cartman spat, shooting him a look. "We go to where that stupid Jew put his flag."

That sounded like an awful idea. "And then?"

"Fight to the death."

Rocking a blank stare, Stan realised just how much of a joke this guy was. Thankfully, Kenny swooped in to stop him from leaving. "We're not fighting anyone to death, alright? We just get the flag and run as fast as we can back to base," he explained, Cartman opened his mouth as if to say something but Kenny cut him off. "That's it."

"Fine, if you wanna be boring."

Stan frowned. "We sure this is gonna work?" He asked. "I mean– Is it a good idea to be rushing towards the people that wanna hurt us?"

A breathless laugh escaped Kenny. "Yeah, man. You get used to that."

They kept hurrying through the forest until Shelley turned to the smaller group and did what she did best. Boss them around. "We're gonna distract the red team. Don't come back without the flag or I swear to the gods–"

"You'll kill us?" Cartman smirked.

"I'll rearrange your DNA with a rusty spoon," she growled and he recoiled. Coward. But as Shelley turned and marched half of the team away, it was Cartman who got to leading them to this flag, clambering through a gap in the trees. Sunbeams dappled the forest floor with patches of gold and yellow, the damp earthy smell almost calming Stan down.

He couldn't afford to lose, not as a new kid who'd already made an enemy and accidentally buddied up with the kindest but most ostracised demigod here. What if he made people hate him by dragging them down today? There could have been a punishment for losing, maybe they'd have to do extra chores or they'd lose dessert privileges. If that happened, Cartman would probably stab him in his sleep. What if he got mocked for causing them to lose? They would call him Stupid Stan, or sing chants at him. He was already making them up in his own mind, humming them as he trudged along:

Stan the weasel, that's his name,
In the hall of shame, he'll find his fame!
Pathetic dude, can't even take a hit,
But what is he? He's full of–

"You sure about the location of this flag, Eric?" Butters interrupted Stan's humming, readjusting the straps of his helmet.

Cartman paused and narrowed his eyes. "Are you doubting me, Butters?"

"N-no, fellas, I just think–"

"Sounds kinda like you're doubting me."

"Promise I'm not."

"Respect my authority, asshole."

Stan slapped a hand over his face, seconds from throwing down his equipment and marching home to his mom. He didn't care how many hours or days it took. This team sucked ass. He opened his mouth to say something but before he could, the bushes surrounding them started to rustle. They paused.

Butters raised his sword. "Uh, fellas–"

Jagged bushes parted, four campers charged at them.

One lunged at Stan. He gasped. Their swords clashed with a metallic ring and he stumbled back, almost falling into Butters.

"Sorry!" Butters shouted to Stan, narrowly avoiding a swing from his own assailant that would have chopped his pearly hair off.

Stan couldn't reply, each strike came at him faster than the last, aimed not to defeat but to humiliate. Blood boiled, knuckles white as he gripped his sword. He dodged left, then fell right, narrowly avoiding each swing. But just as he thought he was getting somewhere, a sudden kick to the balls sent him crashing to the mossy forest floor.

Shooting stars shot across his vision in bright beams. He'd be shocked if he could still have kids.

"Jesus!" He gasped. The camper scowled down at him. "A little help here?"

Through watery eyes, he spotted Cartman locked in his own battle, grunting with each hit he made at his own assailant.

"I ain't babysitting!" Cartman yelled and swung a calculated strike to the shoulder. The camper stumbled. With a mighty shove, he sent his attacker flying straight into Stan's own. The two crashed to the ground, giving Stan time to stagger up.

"Thanks," he wheezed, trembling beside Cartman, who panted to catch his own breath.

"Not over yet."

Stan turned and narrowly avoided Butters' opponent falling into him. This was terrifying, holy balls. It was like a petrifying, chaotic dance. Kenny fought like a breakdancer, with short, spontaneous movements and lightning fast footwork. He had a feline quality about him, even twirling before dissipating into the dense woods to sprint after his assailant, clashing of weapons resuming from a distance.

Butters was more of a ballerina: precise, controlled, and borderline graceful. His strikes lacked the force of Kenny and Cartman's but he could make more of them. He was light on his feet too, able to dodge almost everything that came his way with barely any effort. Perhaps this ability to avoid hits was a gift from Hermes.

Cartman fought the Paso Doble – commanding, strong, and very dramatic. Stan would know, his mom used to drag him to her dance classes when she couldn't find a babysitter. Was he slower? Yes. Did that make him any less powerful? Fuck no. The kid was a tank. Google it, you'll have a smashing time. Fittingly, Cartman chose that moment to charge past Stan and barge into Butters' opponent, their armour clanking. They struggled for a few moments, grunting with each swing, before Cartman absolutely pelted the guy in the face with the blunt handle of his sword. When they crumpled, he grinned wickedly.

However, this grin quickly dropped when he realised Butters and Kenny were nowhere to be found. "The heck?" Cartman started, red eyes darting around. "Pussies run at the first sign of trouble?"

Stan shrugged. He'd seen Butters sprint after Kenny when Cartman stole his assailant, probably to help out. Stan thought that Kenny seemed different, like he was holding back. In training he'd been pretty brutal against Stan to prepare him properly, what changed? Did he not feel comfortable fighting against people who already demonised him for being too dangerous? Stan hoped not. He'd grown to like Kenny and already found himself missing the pair.

Certainly didn't help that he was a mess. Earlier, falling to the ground had scraped the skin off his palms, leaving them pink, muddied, and raw. The heavy armour made his muscles ache and he just wanted to hide and wait for the game to end. But no. Now he was stuck here with Eric Cartman – the lunatic who probably thought winning four times in a row would grant him a place on Olympus to buddy up with Zeus and the rest of the gods.

Fuck.

He shot Stan a glare that could curdle milk. "I hope you aren't as useless as your fighting makes me believe," he muttered, Stan was unsure whether that was meant to be heard or not.

"Yeah, well, least I'm not as useless as your diet plan."

The heavyset boy groaned, eyes rolled back. "Just c'mon, hippie."

"I'm not a hippie," Stan mumbled, following him deeper into the forest.

"You sound offended," he observed, strutting ahead. "So you think being a hippie is a bad thing?"

For his mental, physical, and spiritual health, Stan did not reply. They trudged on in silence. It was a warm and sticky evening, the woods growing more shady as clocks marched forward. Stan had come to appreciate the silence, watching fireflies flop around the air, until a question tugged at the corner of his mind. He stepped over a branch and cleared his throat.

"Do gods watch the games, then?" Stan asked.

"Duh, I reckon they gamble on which team's gonna win."

Stan raised a brow. He was really struggling with the whole gods being real thing. "You serious?"

"Totally. Wouldn't watch individual campers, though, unless they're freaky good. Don't think they'd be interested in seeing a bunch of sweaty children pretend they know how to fight," he said and kicked a stone as they walked. "No offence to you, of course. Wanna get noticed or something?"

Stan found it ironic that Cartman was the one asking that, clearly all passion he had for the game was with the motive of getting claimed at some point; four years was a long time for someone to wait. He would've been just as desperate. "A little, yeah."

"Ah." Cartman provided a slow nod. "Give up."

"What?"

"Give up."

"Why should I do that?" Stan looked him up and down.

"Look at you," Cartman shrugged. "You ain't getting claimed for a while, Marsh. Gods ain't noticing you unless you're lucky, a pushover, or freakishly talented."

"That's annoying. How would you get talented enough for a god to notice you?"

Cartman laughed. "Well, for a start I'd learn how to actually fight instead of doing whatever you're doing."

Stan blinked, incredulous. This guy had no clue what he was talking about. "I can fight."

"Nah, you just kinda flail around like a wet noodle."

He took a deep breath. Sarcasm had never suited Stan according to his mom, but she wasn't here right now. "That's so kind, thank you."

"Seriously, hippie, do better. It's embarrassing, nobody would wanna claim you like this," he declared, words brutally honest. "Bet you twenty drachmas you ain't getting claimed until you're like eighteen and they'll only have to claim you cause you'll be dead."

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and looked to the floor, patience dwindling. "Can you not, dude?"

"Not my fault."

"You're kinda shitting on the vibe, though, so like stop–" he didn't get to finish. Cartman dug his nails into Stan's arm and pulled him behind a tree, Stan fell against it with a clunk. "The fuck?!"

"Shhh-shh," Cartman whisper shouted. He peered around the tree they were hidden behind and grinned. "Look."

Stan did, but not before shooting Cartman a glare. His arm hurt now. When he peeked around, his stomach lurched. Clear and pristine, a small stream flowed gently over smooth rocks, bubbling softly as it journeyed through the forest. There, crouched beside it, washing one arm with water, was none other than Craig Tucker.

Jackpot.

Only, something wasn't quite right. The mechanical-spear with six freaky legs sat discarded by a rock near his shoe. And as he brought water up in one hand and poured it over his arm, Craig winced. That's when Stan felt slightly ill. The liquid splashed on his tawny arm was clear and soothing, but the liquid that trailed down to his wrist was a furious crimson. He was injured and just trying to clean the wound. Suddenly, Stan felt very bad about what Cartman was planning to do.

"See there? We're gonna get the ugly bastard out," he whispered, grip tightening on his sword.

Stan shut his eyes and sighed. "We are?"

"Unless you're too big of a pussy, yeah. We are."

"Can we just, like, walk around him?"

"Walk around– are you hearing yourself?" Cartman asked, incredulous. "I ain't gonna be humiliated in front of the gods just cause you're a pacifist vegan fuck who can't fight, got that?"

Stan really didn't want to do this. Craig already hated him, justifiably. If he went and messed with him again he'd be getting far more than a slap on the wrist. "Yeah, but that's Craig Tucker."

Cartman raised a brow. "You know him?"

"Yeah. I, uh, I kinda almost killed him a little bit."

Any normal person perhaps would have been shocked or concerned at this confession, at least faking empathy. Cartman was not a normal person. "Neat. Do it again. C'mon."

"Wait–" But before Stan could say anything, Cartman was off. "Asshole."

Stan stayed hidden behind the tree as he slowly snuck up to Craig, unseen. Leaves rustled, the stream gurgled, and Stan was absolutely terrified of the son of Hephaestus spotting and subsequently killing him. But as Cartman crept forward, he only continued to wash his wound.

Now only a metre or two away, Cartman looked back at Stan with a smug smirk. One more step.

Crack.

Underfoot, a leaf snapped. Cartman's eyes widened. Before Craig could turn fully, a kick to the back sent him thudding to the floor.

He stared up at Cartman, face inches from the cocky boy's sword. "That kinda hurt."

His voice dripped with indifference, but Stan quickly realized it was a facade. With sudden energy, Craig sprang forward, spear aimed at Cartman's midsection. Not exactly small, it was an easy area to hit. Metal clashed, birds in trees flapped away. Ravens. Three. In a blur, Cartman was disarmed. Sure, the guy was a tank but tanks are as slow as are strong, giving Craig time to shove him to the ground. He held the length of his spear against his neck with both hands and leant forward, pushing Cartman into the floor. He strained, kicked and thrashed, efforts futile as he slowly lost the ability to breathe.

"No maiming," he croaked, Stan panicked. But the large boy wasn't fully a damsel in distress, he did try to help himself. Even if this meant trying and failing to throw dirt at Craig's eyes.

"We'll see."

"Why so violent? Huh?" He forced a grin, changing tactic to push up against the spear. Futile. "Still pissy about inheriting your dad's fucked up teeth?"

"Least I have a dad, fatso."

"Barely," Cartman laughed. Stan was afraid he'd pass out. "Think Hera would chuck you off Olympus for being ugly like she did your daddy?"

Craig pressed down harder, Cartman made an unnerving noise. They were gonna lose. Stan's breaths came hollow but at least his came; he needed to step in; needed to help; needed to call the emergency services. There was no time to form a plan. Sword in hand, his legs moved on their own.

"Hey!" Stan's voice echoed through the forest. "Take a hike!"

Craig hesitated, his grip loosening slightly on the spear. Cartman gasped for air.

"We're not here to hurt anyone," he cried out, heart hammering. "It's just a game, we– let's just... I dunno, can we all just be pals?"

Craig stared at him. Even Cartman stopped suffocating just to give Stan the side-eye. "You want to be pals."

Stan winced, not really. He'd lied. "I don't wanna fight you, dude."

"Great," Craig rose to full height and kicked Cartman in the ribs before he could get payback, winding him. He fell into another coughing fit. Stan's heart stopped when Craig withdrew his spear arm. "Just don't fight back."

He launched the spear at Stan.

The spike sliced through the air with a menacing hiss, spinning wildly as it closed in on him. In a bright flash of white light, he lurched to the side. It whooshed past, brushed his neck. However, as the spear slammed into the tree behind him, leaving Stan to gaze up at Craig through dark lashes, it wasn't fear that consumed him – it was fury.

With a snarl, Craig drew a gleaming dagger from his belt, eyes like pools of liquid nitrogen as he charged at Stan, who frantically swung his sword. Close combat was ass. Stan wanted a gun, hell, a rock would do, just something to use from a distance, away from the action. Regardless, Stan managed to hold his own, parrying Craig's strikes with clumsy but determined jolts. Beginners luck, perhaps.

However, as Cartman's coughs grew more violent, distracting Stan at a crucial moment, Craig seized the opportunity to strike. With a swift motion, he sliced through Stan's arm, eliciting a cry of pain from the young fighter. Agony seared through Stan's body, his vision swimming with tears as he gritted his teeth against the pain. In that moment of desperation, driven by sheer instinct and adrenaline, he summoned every ounce of strength within him and launched himself at Craig.

With a mighty shove, Stan sent Craig tumbling backward, but in a cruel twist of fate, Craig landed squarely on his own spear, which had sprouted it's six metallic spider legs to return back to Craig. Wood splintered, crack echoing through the clearing as Craig froze. He hadn't been impaled or maimed, but from the look on his face, Stan might as well have just stabbed him through the heart.

Stan panted, flushed cold. He was almost disappointed at Cartman's breathless cackle. "Fuck, dude I'm–"

"You're what?" Craig interrupted, each lifeless syllable abrasive. He didn't continue the fight. Stan almost wished he did.

"No, I'm... fuck, that's awful."

Craig stood to leave, gripping the two halves of his weapon in separate hands. "We're done here."

Stan panted. A choked noise escaped his throat. Perhaps the seeds of an apology slithering up his windpipe. But before he could plant them, Craig's voice sliced through the silence.

"Don't. I don't care. Really, I don't," Craig said, Stan stepped back. "You don't like me, as seen from you throwing a mace at me. Whatever, I don't care. Great job. But this?" Craig held up the now snapped fragments of his spear. Guilt tugged at Stan. The enhancements must've taken weeks, now, they were a crumpled mess. "This is fucked up. You are fucked up."

Craig marched away and Stan was left speechless, even when Cartman shakily stood and shouted after the tall boy, "that's what you get for suffocating me!"

"Was the floor comfy?" Stan's question held a hint of sarcasm, but also genuine concern. It made him feel slightly better about breaking Craig's spear when he remembered how close Cartman really was to blacking out, even if he disguised that with swiftly crafted quips.

"Not important," Cartman shrugged, but lilacs and bluebells blossomed across his neck. "Oh, and hippie?"

"Yeah?" Stan asked, thinking he was about to get a thank you.

"You saw nothing. If anyone asks, I totally kicked Tucker's ass. Got it?"

Stan shook his head, accidentally smiling. Cartman was a dickhead, sure, but at least the guy had personality. Somehow, his abrasive quips and well thought out insults distracted Stan from the fight they'd just technically won. He actually seemed like an interesting dude, even if he was the most annoying thing since Fred trended on YouTube.

They walked side by side, the throbbing pain in Stan's arm getting slightly better with each step, until Cartman strolled up to a tree, bent down, and retrieved a bow that had been discarded. Perhaps somebody dropped it in a rush. Stan raised a brow when Cartman thrusted it toward him, and the heavyset boy caught on when Stan didn't respond.

"Kenny seriously never taught you to use a bow?" He asked. Stan shook his head, there hadn't been an archery range in the training arena but he remembered seeing one with Mr. Mackey outside. Cartman rolled his eyes. "Typical, just take it. If you don't someone else will and they'll just use it against you."

Stan shook his head, he couldn't use one of these. He didn't know how. The vivid image had already settled in his brain of accidentally shooting someone in the eye, like what happened to Harold Godwinson at the Battle of Hastings. "You take it."

"No, I fight up and close, like a man."

Stan blew air into his cheeks, had a moment, and decided to just take the blasted thing. He had nothing to lose, he'd already fucked someone up today, let's just do that again. As they ventured deeper into the forest, the trees closed in around them, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers into the sky.

Soon, Cartman's steps became quick, more frantic. They were nearing the flag. Stan could imagine it, red and flapping in the wind, exactly where the map Cartman had found in the Athena cabin had stated it to be. Victory was in reach, warming the palms of his hands as he reached towards it – safety, comfort, an end to this bastard game.

Gentle breeze rustled through the trees, adding a mystical quality to the atmosphere. They combed the area where the flag should have been, but it was nowhere to be found. Cartman began to grumble about the possibility of somebody else on their team beating them to it, but Stan wasn't convinced. Then, a sharp voice shattered the silence, causing him to startle.

"Called it."

Stan spun to face whoever had spoken. There, feet planted firmly on the ground, was a camper – no, a warrior. A mane of red curls, wild and voluminous, cascaded around his face like fire blowing in the breeze. Glaring at Cartman, he looked like a very pissed off version of the 1982 Annie. Or a fox, with his sharp emerald eyes, a generous nose, and angular cheekbones. Clearly the two had history.

Cartman brandished his sword. "Kahl," he spoke in mock politeness, nostrils flaring. "I believe you have something that belongs to us?"

"Not here I don't."

"Give up, Kahl! Accept defeat!"

"No, fatass, you're a lying cheat," he retaliated, words firing with a twang of something between Italian and Eastern European. Stan frowned. New Jersey? "You been cheating for the past three games, too?"

"No? The fuck makes you think that?" Cartman scoffed. "Bet you're just insecure I'm better than you at–"

"The map in my room was a fake."

Silence.

Stan's heart dropped. Great, really. That was just wonderful, thank you Cartman! Of course this would happen. Trust now to be the time Cartman got found out. Why couldn’t it have happened some time before Stan came, huh? Why did the fates hate him?

Cartman had leant forward, red eyes wide. "You pulling my dick?"

"I faked it," Kyle shrugged. “Waited here especially. Wanted to see if you were actually sneaking into my cabin. Apparently, yes, yes you are."

Cartman’s laugh was sharp and bitter, a forced sound. "You tricked me?!"

"You tricked yourself," Kyle countered, stepping forward and pointing at him with the tip of his sword. "It means those last three wins were all for nothing. The gods see everything, Cartman. Maybe they've known all along that your so-called 'noble' victories were nothing but illusions sparked by your own ego."

Cartman rolled his eyes. "It's called tactics, asshole."

"It's called cheating."

"Don't try to play the noble hero just because your mom's the goddess of justice, Kahl," Cartman retorted with a sneer. "You're as bad as I am, maybe even worse."

Kyle brushed off the insults, eyes steady as he held Cartman’s gaze. "It just shows how insecure you are," he remarked. "You're too afraid to accept defeat like a man–"

Raising his sword, Cartman yelled and lunged forward, charging at Kyle like a bull. The redhead easily sidestepped the messy blow. He was faster than Cartman, who seemed clouded by anger. His tactics suffered. But anger did strange, superhuman things to a person's strength. He swung the blade again. Did it with such force that the son of Athena had no time to retreat or duck, or even raise a protective arm.

Impact, metal slid through skin. Blood dribbled down Kyle's shoulder. Stan didn't appreciate the childish urge to hold up his own injury and shout about how they were now matching. But Kyle wouldn't have noticed him anyway. Mossy eyes, sharp and calculating, latched onto Cartman with astonishment. It lasted a moment or two, this disbelief, before it was replaced by something hateful.

Basically, if this was a bullfight, Cartman would be the bull. However, a key part of every bullfight is that the human always wins. Kyle rushed forward, sword raised at a rehearsed angle. They clashed, struck one other with sharp blows. Clapping steel rung out like thunder, low and rattling with every assault. Blood running down his arm, Kyle landed a firm hit just above Cartman’s hip. The boy staggered back but returned with another flurry of blows. Today had confirmed Stan’s hatred for violence, fighting fucking sucked. He did not enjoy it, thought it too chaotic, messy, painful.

Cartman's pants came in ragged bursts, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. Kyle’s face only formed a determined scowl, barely struggling against the bigger boy’s fury. It was clear even to Stan, an outsider, that Kyle had trained far more than Cartman for this. He was a terrifying blur of orange, each hit landing with alarming precision and skill, muscles tensing. With a clack, he finally disarmed Cartman, who had by this point fell victim to his own lack of endurance. The sword thudded to the ground. Stan watched Cartman’s eyes narrow as Kyle raised his sword to deliver the final blow.

Cartman had just enough time to punch Kyle above the belly button, a hit so hard it would no doubt have Kyle pissing blood for days. Folding, the son of Athena was shoved into a tree, pinned there by the heavyset boy.

“Give up, Kahl!”

He thrashed under Cartman’s overpowering grip. “Fuck off, Narcissus.”

Cartman cracked a grin at the insult. Stan could only stumble, heart pounding like a drum. His senses sharpened, every sound, every movement, amplified in the charged atmosphere.

He needed to stop this. Kyle regained his wit and started kicking at his shins. He thrashed. Cartman punched. It was all a blur to Stan. Neither Kyle nor Cartman were fighting for the flag now, only to hurt. Stan couldn't just sit and watch. With trembling hands, he reached for the bow pressed firmly against his spine, leather strap rough against his fingertips. Panting, blue eyes wide, he drew back the bowstring.

What was he doing?

He’d never shot a bow before. The tension in the string shocked him as he struggled to align with his target – the small space between Cartman’s forehead and Kyle’s sneer. They argued. Cartman mocked. Kyle pulled at hair. Stan could barely have placed a tennis ball between them without it touching both their faces.

If he missed this shot, his first ever shot, they'd die. He'd be a murderer.

If he pulled this off, the fighting would stop and he'd be allowed to just be a normal fucking kid.

And so, with a hearty twang, Stan Marsh gave it his best shot.

Chapter Text

Okay, so maybe that plan had been slightly flawed.

The arrow spun as it sliced through the air. Stan tightly shut his eyes just before he heard the thud. Anxiety trembled through him. He longed to escape, to return home, to reclaim his mundane existence. Only, he couldn’t, because he may or may not have just committed murder.

Bursting open his eyes to check, he almost cried – there was no blood, no manslaughter, and somehow the arrow had landed exactly where he'd wanted it to. Centimetres from their faces, it had brushed right between Cartman and Kyle. Miraculously, the fighting had stopped.

But, for some strange reason, not everybody can be chill after almost being shot in the head. Cartman spun to face him, eyes wide and pupils dilated. "The fuck was that?!"

Stan staggered backward, his bow clattering to the ground. “I… I’m not sure…”

"You dunno?!"

He tried to stay calm. Tried to focus on something, anything, outside of what he'd just managed to pull off. Cartman was a big guy, his heavy breathing set Stan on edge.

"How'd you do that?" Kyle asked, far more calmly.

Stan wished he knew how, but even if he did, which he didn't, he couldn't have said it. Not with their faces now blurring together, not with a phantom hole in his lungs squealing and letting out all the air.

"I don’t give a damn how you did it, Hawkeye!" Cartman continued to growl. "You could've killed us!"

Kyle shoved Cartman to the side, protectively standing between him and Stan. "Give the guy some room," he demanded. "You're stressing him out."

Stan was grateful for this intervention until his throat tightened. The fighting was gonna start again. No. Fuck, no.

Cartman clenched his fists. "He should stress! He ain't the victim here!"

"Maybe if you let him actually speak–"

"Ain't you quick to defend him?" Cartman laughed, Kyle’s lips drew into a tight line. "Always trying to play the perfect little hero with your morality bullshit!"

"Least I have morals! Unlike you who'd sell your own ma for a candy bar!"

Stan's breathing became laboured, blue eyes darting around. They were shouting now. He'd faded into the background, hands pressed into the sides of his skull, covering his ears.

"Stop," he whispered. "Please... loud."

"You're jealous!" Kyle laughed and adopted an artificial look of surprise. "You're jealous that people respect me!"

“Aren’t you just a perfect princess,” Cartman only continued to sneer. "Newsflash asshole, nobody likes a know-it-all!"

The argument reached its crescendo. His knees buckled under the weight of natures symphony surrounding him: a piercing call of a hawk overhead, the roar of the stream gently flowing over ricks and stones, the clashing of metal weapons that Stan couldn't see. It drowned out even his shallow gasps for air..

"Stop..."

Kyle and Cartman blurred into an indistinct hum. Each syllable struck like a hammer pounding against his skull. But beneath the chaos, beneath the pain, a strange sensation rippled through his skin.

He tore his hands away from his ears, gasping for air. His palms tingled with an intense heat, thousands of little glass shards burrowed into his palms. When he looked down his jaw dropped.

Stan couldn’t pinpoint when, but his hands had started to glow.

With a sense of disbelief, he watched as the light crept up his arms, enveloping him in its radiant embrace. He could only compare the sensation to using those hand dryers in public bathrooms that did fuck all to actually dry your hands but at least shot warm air at you. Injuries faded away, bruises vanishing, cuts healing before his eyes. This was not normal. Not bad. No more medical bills for Stan. But definitely not normal.

Cartman and Kyle loomed over him, squinting and saying words that Stan couldn't understand. They sounded less angry now. More panicked. Or confused. They both took steps back when the light grew, healing abilities now working its magic on them too. Black and blue splotches vanished from Cartman's neck, the bloodied slice across Kyle's shoulder healed, leaving only freckled skin behind.

Stan's light swelled, casting him into a magnificent beacon, radiant beams firing like he was a human torch. His throat rattled almost as if he was screaming. Oh, he was. In the midst of it, he couldn't comprehend the significance of this glow, unable to witness the confusion spreading across the camp as demigods looked skyward. But in the future, he’d remember this as the start of his unravelling.

Above his head, a hologram of a the sun with rays made of arrows flickered to life, exhaustion setting in as reality thwacked him over the head. With a strangled noise, he collapsed backwards, the forest floor rushing up to meet him.

The world became a white fuzz.

Brief little bursts of blinding light popped before his eyes now, like silver stars exploding. Bizarre geometric forms, worms, egg-shaped things, moving up and down, sideways, melting into one another, breaking apart, morphing into something else, then fading, giving way to blackness.

Shouting muffled and distant.

Behind his eyelids, faces flared and frazzled. His mom, alert and burdened, brown hair a mess. Kenny shaking somebody's hand. The man from his dream, black moustache curved around a smile, strumming a guitar before dropping it and being struck by lightning.

But soon the darkness began to lift, he had a sensation of rising up, of being hoisted up. The white light came back, expanded, and then, finally, the fireworks in his skull fizzled out. 

The first thing Stan noticed upon waking was the husky smell of something green.

The smell was strong and earthy, followed by loud music, a cacophony of energetic beats and pulsating bass lines that rattled through the air and sounded awfully similar to Meryl Streep singing Super Trouper. Stan held his breath. Oh, nice. That actually was Meryl Streep singing Super Trouper. Clearly, heaven wasn't how his local priest had imagined it.

He felt weird and light and fluffy. This was another dream. It had to be. Around him, a kaleidoscope of vibrant colours and patterns danced to the music, painting the white walls in obnoxiously lively hues. He looked to be in an old, Greek-style temple, only not with that pristine polish that you'd typically associate with a place like it. Red plastic cups littered the floor, people danced, there was a vague hint of weed buzzing in the air around him. Behind him, somebody retched. Somebody else laughed and he heard a window break.

This was a party.

He rubbed his eyes and fell forward, into a girl wearing a flowing chiton, light fabric billowing around her legs as she danced. Must have been fancy dress, everybody was dressed like this. Only, Stan passed straight through her. The floor was cold and hard when he met it with his face, having fallen through her like she was a hologram made of dust.

Alright, so he wasn't actually here. He'd gone full Casper the friendly ghost mode. Cool, he could deal with that. Nothing made sense anymore anyway, we ball.

He pushed himself up and managed to stroll straight through every person as he searched the temple. Walking through them felt weird, wrong, but Stan had bigger issues to deal with. The floor shook.

Meryl Streep sung louder now, about Super Trouper beams blinding her and shining like the sun. If he hadn't just experienced exactly that, albeit with more trauma, Stan may have even danced along. Only he didn't. Because turning into the sun is pretty goddamn unnerving. Sorry Meryl.

But he soon found who he'd instinctually been looking for.

Apollo swayed to the music while sat upon his golden throne. At its peak rested a radiant sunburst emblem, a symbol of the immense power wielded by the god. Bitterly, Stan smiled. All that divine authority, and yet the dude couldn't even check in with his kids every now and then.

Stan noticed the Bud Light clutched tightly in Apollo's hand, the god's slovenly laughter only drawing attention to the froth around his moustache. Stan thought it ironic that a god of health could seem so into weed and booze, unless of course the weed was medicinal. Which Stan doubted. Typically that wasn't the case at parties. Yet, amidst these thoughts, Stan's focus remained fixed on fulfilling a childhood fantasy.

With a weak grin, inches from Apollo's face, Stan flipped him the bird.

As a fourteen year old boy meeting his deadbeat dad for the first time, what else was he gonna do? He wasn’t about to bow down or sacrifice a hundred oxen or whatever else mortals did for gods. Fuck no, let’s be realistic here. The guy deserved fourteen years of emotional compensation. His heart raced, eager to push the boundaries of his newfound audacity.

"If ignorance is bliss," he started to mumble, looking his dad up and down, "then you must be the happiest god on Olympus."

However, Apollo opened his mouth to respond. "I'm utterly screwed," he muttered, taking a swig of beer. "Ain't that right, Dionysus?"

Stan frowned and took a step back, following Apollo's line of vision until his gaze landed on a second throne made of black vines. No god sat on this second throne, only a purple towel draped over cushions, shimmering with an otherworldly aura. Yet somehow, this purple towel could reply.

"He'll forgive you, Randy," the towel – Dionysus – rasped. Stan didn’t even bother worrying about the logistics. Talking towels? Yeah, nah. This just kept getting weirder. A few days ago he’d entertained the theory that he’d just been drugged in the toy store alongside Mr. Mackey. He was once more considering that as truth.

"But Zeus has never been forgiving," Apollo whined, an act so pathetic that Stan struggled to imagine the guy as a god. He looked nothing like the statues of him littering museums, a real catfish. Lacking the blond hair, the six-pack abs, or the super divine aura. "I'll get stripped of my titles, Towelie. This is getting too close to that prophecy– to the kid that's apparently mine!"

Stan's heart lurched at the mention of an Apollo kid. He was one of those now, cool. Well, not cool. Kinda shit. Dionysus just rolled his little towel eyes. "Maybe Zeus has changed? He forgave you last time you almost ended the world."

"COVID-19 was different, Towelie, I was allowed to start that cause plagues are in my domain, just– I'm gonna get banished if I don't find it."

"Then I'll help."

"Hermes has been on my ass about this," he sighed, finishing his beer and throwing the empty can to the side with a clank. Stan instinctively ducked, though the can could have passed through him. "He gave me the damn thing, if I don't do this in five days he's gonna go apeshit and all the gods are gonna hate me–"

"Five days?"

Apollo shot him a stern look. "That's how long our bender was when we lost it, Towelie–"

"Don't blame me!" Dionysus exclaimed. "I legit just said I'd help?"

"No, no gods are helping with this," he said. "That's humiliating. And– listen, if I play my cards right, I might just be able to work with the prophecy, we knew something like this would happen anyway. I'll just do Zeus a favour, he'll have no choice but to forgive me. One bird two stoners or whatever."

Disregarding the clumsy wording, Dionysus raised a brow. "What? You gonna use a kid?" He asked, voice tinged with something between concern and encouragement.

“What else would I use them for?”

The temple around Stan began to shift and move, colours blurring and smells fading away. Meryl Streep zapped off into the distance, perhaps the Super Troupers had finally found her. He was headed towards a something light, something magnetic. Life.

There was a strum of a guitar. And then, Stan woke up.

Chapter Text

Summer rain popped against the windows as Stan blinked awake.

He felt rough. Rougher than rough. Spiritually hungover. His skin tingled, his bones were heavy, and he had a mouth dryer than a camels ass. That's how he knew this time it was real and not just another dream or "That's So Raven" stunt. He was, realistically, pretty goddamn thirsty. Shielding his eyes, he focused on a blurry graph hung on the wall. He may or may not have been transported to a crappy Gray's Anatomy knock off where instead of hot doctors he just had sunstroke.

"Finally, I can leave."

He groaned and let his head flop to the side. That voice didn't belong to him; it came from a black rectangle in front of a white box he recognised to be a window. As the black rectangle grew larger, expanding from the size of a postage stamp to a door, it shifted into a shadowy figure and bent down closer until something sharp and vicious bit down on his arm. Snake. Yup, that was a snake. He squirmed, tried to pull back. Too late, blood, warm and red, dribbled down onto the bedsheets before this blur slapped a sticker over where the snake had chomped.

The rectangle shrunk again. A sound similar to a cry burst up his windpipe. The figure came back and something cold was thrust into his hands; a chilled glass of what looked to be apple juice.

"Drink, turd."

Shakily, he did. Though almost dropped the glass. This wasn't apple juice. It was chocolate. Hot chocolate. The kind his mom would make in December leading up to Christmas, sugary and hot, with marshmallows melting over the top. Drinking it, his whole body felt warm and safe. The drink had been hot but the ice cubes had barely melted.

"You finished?"

Refreshed, Stan could now see the speaker. She was older than him, taller than him too, with spidery mascara and hair so damaged that it probably felt like hay. Stan stared at her blankly for a moment, then created a sequence of sounds that vaguely resembled a sentence.

"You, I, excu– uh, Shelley, hi?"

Shakespeare had nothing on this guy.

Really, Stan was too frightened to speak. Shelley was terrifying; an absolute unit of a girl. When she raised a brow, Stan tried to speak again.

"So... how's it going?"

She scowled. "Shut it."

"Any time."

She stomped around his bed and paused by a cabinet, now holding a vial of something crimson up to her eye. Stan frowned at the bandaid slapped over his arm. That bite hadn't been a snake bite at all. That was a needle. She'd drawn blood. Soon, Shelley returned to the bedside with a pink clipboard.

"You seem fine so I've got questions to ask before I'm allowed to leave," she dully said, looking exhausted as Stan felt. "What day is it?"

Could he phone a friend? Fuck, this was pathetic. C'mon, think. If he passed out after being claimed during capture the flag and capture the flag was on a Wednesday...

"Wednesday."

She cringed and wrote something down. "Moron, it's Thursday."

He jolted forward, staring up at her with wide eyes. "What?!"

"Yeah, you were out for ages, asswipe."

The bed squeaked when Stan flopped back down against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling as though the cracks in the white paint would tell him what the hell was going on. The sky outside was gray. He must have slept until at least the afternoon. "I've been passed out for a whole entire day."

"Yup."

He combed a shaky hand through hair, memory smeared by white light. "And I'm–"

"A nuisance, yeah."

He dryly swallowed. "Son of Apollo."

She hummed. "Welcome to the family."

"You're my sister?"

She cringed and, with a loud crack, swatted him over the head with her clipboard. "Don't call me your sister. I'm not your sister," she snapped. "We share a crappy dad. That's it."

Great point. Stan just hoped the label didn't extend past being an absent father and into anything more malicious. "Right, sorry." His head stung from Shelley whacking him. "That the only question?"

"Had any weird dreams or, like, visions or whatever?"

"Actually–"

"No," she interrupted, scratching a second answer onto the paper. Jesus, she was impatient. "Last question before I can finally leave, you ready?"

"Sure."

Fixing his posture and flicking her hair over her shoulder, like she was about to give a TED-talk, Shelley prepared to ask the final question, lips drawn up into a plastic smile that flashed Stan the glint of her braces. "How'd you rate your infirmary experience today? Ten stars?"

"It was alright."

Her eyes narrowed. Rain popped against the windows harder. "Alright?" She mimicked. "You thought it was alright?"

"Well, yeah...?" Stan scratched his head. "It was good."

"Well fuck you, Steve."

"Stan."

"Whatever," she crossed her arms. "Seriously? After I wait an entire day for you to wake up, wasting so much of my time and energy even after you make the blue team lose the flag with your stupid glow. All you can muster up is 'good'?"

"Okay, okay, calm down." Stan held up his hands in surrender. "It was stellar. Magnificent. Outstanding."

She thwacked him with the clipboard again and this time he felt brave enough to yelp. "Don't be a turd."

"I'm not, I'm not, seriously. It was great, thanks." He massaged the area of impact. For a nurse or whatever she did a whole lot of hurting him. Speaking of. "Why are you actually here?"

"Are you a moron?" She asked. "Did the magical coma give you brain damage or something?"

Stan bit his tongue; maybe if she stopped whacking him over the head he'd be alright. "Why do you have to be here? You're what? Sixteen? Seventeen? Isn't there an adult around?"

"Apollo's the god of medicine," she quickly turned smug. "I'm his eldest daughter and head of his cabin, he expects me personally to run the infirmary. Won't have a clue who you are. Knows me. By name. Maybe he'll say hi after you start your mandatory medic work."

A lump blocked Stan's throat as Shelley tugged on her coat to leave. Why would he even want Apollo to know him? The thought grossed him out. Stan didn't want a dad. He definitely didn't wanna be working in an infirmary for the bastard, either. Since childhood, he'd been cursed with a freakishly weak stomach. Back in elementary school watching a kid squish a butterfly had once sent him scuttling away to vomit behind a bush. Just last week, at the toy store, he'd actually gagged upon seeing the transformation of the old lady into that velociraptor chicken monster thing. Gruesome sights just weren't his vibe. It was the only reason he'd changed his mind about wanting to be a vet as a kid. He wouldn't cope having to see injury so often, this wasn't fair. None of this was fair.

Shelley grabbed a wooden picnic basket from the counter just before leaving and tossed it in Stan's direction. He caught it, miraculously, but his blank stare made it clear he wanted explanation.

"Gift from one of your gay friends," she shrugged. "Expect them to come soon, they'll notice I'm finally free and learn you're awake."

"Oh, thanks."

"And turd?"

He looked up. "Yeah?"

"Take your time moving into cabin seven," she advised. Stan wasn't sure if that was supposed to be supportive or threatening but didn't get time to dwell on it as she soon disappeared.

Wait.

He had to move cabin now.

What if he had more nightmares? At least in the Hermes cabin he'd grown accustomed to the slow rhythm of Butters' breathing or Cartman's even slower snoring to get him back to sleep. Who would he have in the Apollo cabin? Shelley? He was utterly utterly fucked. And what if his new cabin hated him for making them lose capture the flag? Would they bully him? Hate him? Loathe him? Like him? What if they thought he was a freak for passing out like he did? With nothing better to do than worry, he chose to inspect the basket more closely.

It was heavier than expected. Full of strawberries. He cocked a brow. How weird. Reluctantly, he plucked one from the bunch, smelt it, and popped it into his mouth. Flavours burst over his tongue like firecrackers. He took another. And another. These were seriously awesome. He wondered who cared about him enough to bring him a gift until he made a significant enough dent in the pile to reveal a sharp white edge. Frowning mid-chew, he plucked it out; an envelope.

Juice had blotched the corners pink but he tore it open regardless. Inside was an even smaller note, scribbled in the most doctor-ish handwriting imaginable.

𝙃𝙚𝙮 𝙙𝙪𝙙𝙚

𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙤𝙤𝙣 𝙜𝙞𝙛𝙩 𝙮𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙙𝙖𝙮 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙩 𝙤𝙛𝙛, 𝙨𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙮.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙪𝙩?? 𝙄𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙞𝙨 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙡𝙤𝙡, 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙖𝙡𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩.

𝘼𝙡𝙨𝙤 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙤𝙠. 𝙎𝙚𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 :-)

– 𝙆𝘽

Stan finished reading with a frown and took a suspicious bite of another strawberry.

Who was this?

The only K Stan knew was Kenny and, as far as he'd been made aware, Kenny's surname was McCormick. Unless it meant a nickname like 'Kenny-boy' or something. Regardless, Stan didn't think of Kenny as the type to leave a note. Or gift. No offence to him, of course. If Kenny really had left the note, Butters also would've left a note, he was too kind not to. But there was no note from Butters here, only this one from KB. Then, realisation slapping him across the face, Stan chuckled.

KB - duh! It obviously stood for Kenny and Butters combined.

Yeah, that totally made sense. It was the only valid explanation. He felt like Sherlock Holmes, all he needed now was a Dr. Watson. But what had they meant by that last part? Enjoy the book? There was no freaking book.

He pocketed the note and curiosity tugged him to his feet, ready to investigate whatever they'd meant. Standing after lying down for a day made his head throb at first, vision stormed by black spots, but it wasn't long before he found it. On the counter, near where Shelley had abandoned his blood sample, sat a book which, in a movie, could convincingly play the role of a brick. The fucker was thick, basically. The cover image was of the most stereotypical Greek statue imaginable and he was actually somewhat interested. Until he read the title.

Apollo.

KB had brought him a book about Apollo.

Cringing for a moment, he opened it up and flipped through the pages, skimming over the pictures without bothering to read the words. Each photograph seemed to mock him with its depiction of the sun god, looking absolutely nothing like he had in the dream. No pot belly. No moustache. Clearly, no integrity. Had something changed Apollo since the Ancient Greeks worshipped him or was he just the most tragic catfish around? Stan was about to slam the book shut when a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He didn't have time to turn before it squealed open and a teal blur charged towards him.

"He's alive!" Butters cheered, tackling Stan in a hug. He grunted upon impact and stumbled back with a grin.

"Hey, dude."

Being released from this hold, Stan noticed Kenny hovering by the doorway, hidden in an orange parka that both matched his Camp Half-Blood shirt and dripped water onto the floor until he shrugged it off. When Stan took a closer look at Butters, at the pearly hair that shone closer to gray, he realised that both boys were soaked wet-through.

"What happened to you guys?"

"Zeus happened, probably," Kenny laughed, shaking his head so vigorously that water sprayed in all directions. "Feel any less dead?"

Stan blew air into his cheeks, perching again on the bed. "Yeah, I'm doing alright."

"Good. It was scary how bright you went," Butters added. "Never seen that happen before. Glad you're safe."

He frowned. "Wait, what?"

"Yeah, dude. When you got claimed, you were like, bam. Super bright, even for an Apollo kid," Kenny shrugged as he plopped down onto a plastic chair. Butters did the same. "Then you just zonked out. You don't remember any of this?"

"Bits. I remember bits," Stan groaned. "Can we just, like, pretend that was normal?"

"Uh– well, not exactly," Butters nervously chuckled, cupping the back of his neck. "We reckon it's 'cause you were shining so dang bright, must've zapped your energy. Shining's normal for Apollo kids getting claimed, just not that much. Even Garrison, bless his old bones, said he'd never seen that happen before, and that guy's been around since the dinosaurs roamed."

Stan didn't have the energy to debate that last part being true. "Why did I shine so bright?"

Kenny and Butters shared a glance. Then, Kenny shrugged. "We dunno, man. Luck?"

Right. Luck. Stan was so freaking lucky.

Ignoring the urge to repeatedly slam his head into the wall, Stan offered the strawberry basket to the pair. Both happily plucked fruit from the bunch and Stan asked a question which had been gnawing at him since Shelley blamed him for their team losing capture the flag. "What happened?" He mumbled. "Like, after I passed out? How did the rest of the game go?"

Kenny leaned back, exaggerating a wince. "Well, uh. We didn't win, exactly."

"Hooray."

"Basically, when you and Cartman ran off, me and Butters kinda went in the complete opposite direction to you guys," he explained. "I take it you were duped, we ended up heading straight toward the flag."

"Really?"

"Hell yeah, basically held the thing," Kenny chuckled, arms crossed. "So, we're gearing up to grab it, ready to bolt, then someone pours bleach over the sky. Seriously, it turned white as bone. Thought the aliens were finally coming or something. I heard a couple Dionysus kids chatting after, they apparently got sunburnt."

Perplexed, Butters turned to face Kenny. "You mean the goth kids?"

"Yeah, the Dionysus kids and Henrietta too," Kenny nodded. Stan wondered who these people were, just not enough to ask. "I mean, they're probably gonna burn easy anyway, so don't sweat it. They avoid sun like the plague. Sorry, Apollo pun."

Stan cringed at the thought of giving people sunburn. Also the pun. Mostly the pun. "Then what?"

"We kept fighting for a while. Then, well, we kinda noticed the light getting brighter and wondered whether we should've been running for safety or something. Got distracted, lost the flag, heard the horn blow, and boom, we knew we blew it."

Stan's suspicions were confirmed. "It's my fault we lost."

Kenny firmly shook his head. "Nah, wouldn't say that. You, uh, kinda helped with the losing thing, yeah. But only a little. Also that ain't your fault, that's on Apollo."

Stan just drew his lips into a tight line.

"Oh hamburgers, Stan, don't worry about it," Butters smiled. "Nobody really cares."

He raised a brow, now fiddling with a piece of loose string dangling from the bedding seam. "Dude, Shelley cares."

"She has to care," Kenny countered, arms crossed. "She cares too much, thats why she's leader of the blue team. And head medic."

"Cartman cares. He mad at me?"

The observation had been nagging him since the pair showed up. Cartman was nowhere to be found. Did he even care that Stan may or may not have seriously been hurt after turning into... that? During the game, Stan felt like they'd reached some sort of truce. Sure, before that, he despised Cartman with every fiber of his being. But now? Well, he begrudgingly admitted they were at least on nodding terms. Did Cartman not feel the same? Stan knew he was probably just being overly sensitive. After all, why should he care what Cartman thought? It made no sense, yet here he was, overthinking it.

Kenny and Butters shared an indecipherable look.

"Well, Stan, Eric's all tangled up with his chores," Butters said, his words carrying a casual air. "He promised he'd swing by later. Isn't that right, Kenny?"

Kenny merely grunted, avoiding eye contact and deflecting the inquiry. Whether it was Kenny's stoicism, the sheer improbability of Cartman ever lifting a finger for chores ever, or the lingering influence of Butters' father, Hermes, god of trickery, Stan couldn't shake the suspicion that they weren't divulging the whole story.

"Seriously, be honest." He massaged his temples, letting out a sigh. "Is Cartman actually pissed that I messed up this game?"

"Nah," Kenny quickly shook his head, then paused, reconsidering. Butters shot the guy a warning look. "Well, not exactly."

"Knew it!"

"Hear me out," Kenny held up a hand. "You know he's unclaimed, right?"

"Wow. I don't think he's ever mentioned that before, like, ever."

Kenny grinned and nudged him in the shin. "Asshole. But seriously, think about it. How many times has he seen other demigods get claimed over the years?"

"I guess."

"And he gets all distant and assholey like this every time. It ain't personal," Kenny assured. "Don't get why it bothers him so much but hey, not our business. Just let him sulk in his own Cartmanesque misery. He'll get over it."

Stan couldn't exactly argue with this so took a bite of another strawberry, mind still coming to terms with the whole being-claimed thing while staring outside the window at the glistening gray sky, raindrops shooting to the ground like bullets. Despite the dreary weather, there was something beautiful about the rain. Stan had never liked it before all this. He was unsure if the change was some petty act of rebellion, his father being the sun god, or more to do with rain being one of the few things recognisable in his life currently, but he loved it.

Soon, Kenny spoke again, words shaped by the impish grin spread from ear to ear. "Heard you got Craig back for being a dick."

"Don't."

"It's a miracle somebody finally broke that stupid spear," Kenny crossed his arms, chin up like a proud mentor. "Good for you, man. Wish I could've seen it."

Stan shifted on the bed so he could sit hugging his legs, knees digging into his chest. "I dunno. I feel... bad."

"I wouldn't, he'll come up with another creepy invention soon."

"That's not the point, I just– I just want to go home."

Kenny sighed. "Stan, you can't."

Without Stan's permission, Stan opened his mouth. "Yeah, that's the issue." But seeing Kenny's jaw tense, a slug of an apology squelched up his throat. "Sorry."

"Look, bro. You're safer here than out there."

"I know, I know... it's fine."

Butters suddenly seemed very interested in the floor. "But it is alright to take things slow, Stan," he mumbled, voice a soothing balm in the tense atmosphere. "Being a demigod... it's chaos, no use denying it. Just take it one step at a time, even if that means clinging to denial for a bit. If that's the price you need to pay... then pay it. You got this."

Stan managed a feeble smile, touched by Butters' words, though it felt like trying to mold clay that had already hardened. "Thanks."

They sat in silence for a while, Stan replaying that moment over and over. Each time the words echoed in his mind the volume grew. Butters was right. This was his life, he would choose how to live it. It felt good, this proposed autonomy, this denial, this control over his own fate. If he wanted to be in denial forever then he– yeah. Stan would be in denial forever. He sighed.

Was that really the goal?

Sprinting away from any epiphany he may or may not have just had, Stan held out the basket of strawberries again. "You want another?"

This time, however, they both shook their heads. Kenny checked his watch. "Sorry, man, we're heading to dinner soon," he said. "Kicks off in ten minutes. You wanna join?"

Stan wavered, caught between quelling his hunger with a proper meal – a rarity since he'd fainted – and the urge to vanish from sight forever. Now people would recognise him as being the weirdo Apollo kid who malfunctioned into giving half the camp sunburn. "I think I'll sit this one out, sorry."

Kenny brushed it off with a wave. "We get it. Too close to being claimed?"

Stan nodded.

"Maybe you could join us at the campfire later?" Butters chimed in. "It'll be dark, so no one'll notice you."

At first, Stan recoiled at the thought. But the warmth in their eyes pulled him in. And he was hungry. Very hungry. He agreed to meet them. They had a point; in the dark nobody would even notice him, he could just blend into the background.

"Awesome!" Butters smiled before gesturing to the strawberries with a curious glance. "Gee, who was nice enough to get you those?"

Stan blinked, stared at the basket, then back at Butters with a raised brow.

"You did."

Kenny and Butters exchanged puzzled glances, Stan reached into his pocket to retrieve the note they'd written him and when he handed it to them their confusion only deepened.

"Hey, that ain't from us," Kenny said, shaking his head.

"But... but KB?"

Butters shrugged. "Know any K names?"

Stan released a gravelly sigh. "I barely know anyone here, dude. There's you guys, Cartman, Craig, Shelley... oh."

The realization hit him like a sack of shit.

"Kyle," Stan muttered under his breath, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "Cartman mention that son of Athena guy to you?"

Butters chuckled. "Kyle Broflovski? Yeah, Eric's mentioned him a little."

Kenny rolled his eyes. "A lot, Butters, a lot. He was with you when you got claimed, yeah?"

Stan nodded, his cheeks still flushed pink. Broflovski. Kyle Broflovski. KB. Christ, how could he have been so stupid? He fully forgot about Kyle, he'd almost shot him in the head! How could he forget that? Suddenly, though, the gesture felt even kinder than it had before. Kyle was a stranger – this was unexpectedly nice. Strawberries and a book? Hell yeah, that's sweet.

"I'm an idiot," he laughed, running a hand through his hair.

"Right, when we're gone, your homework is to read," Kenny joked, flicking Stan's forehead as they stood to leave. "Brain training, bro."

Just the word "training" from Kenny's mouth made Stan shiver. He was never training with Kenny again, not since last time he'd earned a broken ego, bruised rib, and new enemy. Butters and Kenny shrugged on their soggy coats and Stan followed them to the door.

"Meet by the campfire at nine, yeah?" Kenny checked, zipping up his parka with a hiss. He shot them a thumbs up and returned to the bed when the door clicked shut.

This week had been the worst event Stan had lived through beside that global pandemic and club penguin shutting down. But, for now, he allowed himself to simply enjoy the sweetness of the strawberries, reluctantly opening up the Apollo book.

Sure, he could admit the information was kinda interesting. But, dear lord, it was a lot. Very quickly, he realised Apollo was absolutely insane, so insane that he'd already been stripped of his godly titles twice by Zeus, the supreme ruler of Olympus. If it weren't for the fact Stan despised this guy, he might have found his audacity impressive. If not stupid. He didn't realise how long he'd been sat reading until a very uncomfortable sensation gnawed at him just bellow his belly button.

Stan needed to piss.

One issue: where was the bathroom?

He hopped off the bed and searched for a safe place to go but the infirmary was confusing and Stan was an idiot. Clearly, luck was allergic to Stan Marsh. He couldn't find anything. He reached the final, undoubtedly empty, room of the corridor and kicked open the door with a bang, rushing inside only to be met by a slightly embarrassing sight.

Two boys, cross legged on the bed, gaping up at him.

Whoops.

The first boy was tiny, could've only been eight or nine with wide black eyes, tawny skin, and a mouth slightly agape to reveal gaps where baby teeth once sat. A pink scar stretched from his left jaw to his right cheek, chopping his face into two neat halves. Stan instantly recognised the second – he was taller, narrow-faced, with fiery red curls providing a much needed burst of colour in the white room.

Stan thought Kyle's hair made the place look a little like the flag of Japan.

"Hi."

The kid simply stared up at him. Kyle raised a brow, emerald eyes biting Stan's soul. "Are you okay?"

"Yup, totally," his voice cracked. "Just, uh, needed a piss."

Kyle coughed into his arm, Stan realised his mistake. Oh, fuck, right, child. There was a child. Swearing: bad.

"Sorry– pee, needed to pee," he corrected, but the kid's blank stare persisted. "Wait. No, dude. I'm not gonna pee in here–"

Like a saint, Kyle held up a hand that indirectly told Stan to just shut up. "You can't find a bathroom?"

"Maybe."

"Want a guide?"

"Please."

Kyle seemed warmer now than he did when Stan kicked the door in, rising from the bed with zero complaint and strolling towards where he'd hung his coat up on the wall. As he did, Stan absentmindedly watched the kid still on the bed, who had been stealthily moving Kyle's chess pieces when he wasn't looking. Stan was very intrigued by his scar. Blotchy. Not quite healed. When the kid looked up to check if he'd gotten away with the crime, Stan looked away. He was no snitch.

"You got a coat?" Kyle asked, shuffling into his own.

Embarrassingly, no. Stan shook his head.

"That's alright. Luckily for you, the infirmary has a store cupboard. We can root around in there for something. Oh, and meet Ike."

Kyle gestured to the kid on the bed just as Ike was in the middle of moving one of Kyle's ponies. Stan didn't know the proper terminology for chess, they were probably called whippersnappers or something. But upon catching Ike in the act, Kyle cast him a stern look, deftly corrected every single moved piece, and left to guide Stan down the corridor.

Stan struggled to find any words as he trailed slightly behind Kyle, innate shyness chaining his tongue. "Smart kid."

Kyle huffed out a quiet laugh. "Alarmingly, yeah. How are you feeling?"

"Eh, it's alright."

"So... Apollo."

Stan tried not to groan. "I guess. I mean, it's fine. Not bad. But yeah."

"I get it," Kyle said, his quick steps echoing down the corridor. "It's kinda tough at first to get used to, I hope the gifts helped."

"The strawberries were awesome."

"And the book?"

Stan forced an academic-looking nod, thinking back to all the photographs of statues lining the pages, and cringed inwardly. In truth, he'd seen an awkward amount of his dad's cock.

"Interesting stuff."

"Good, I remember being lost when I got claimed, didn't want anyone else to go through that," he said, quieter now. "The strawberries were kind of an apology, though."

"Apology? Why?"

They stopped in front of a wooden door: the storage cupboard. Kyle rested a hand on the handle and shrugged.

"Losing it with Fat Boy, stressing you out, probably getting you claimed earlier than you were expecting," he said. "Sorry, dude, that wasn't fair."

"Nah, it's cool," Stan waved a hand. "I'm way over the whole 'getting claimed' thing."

Sensing the lie, Kyle cast him a contemplative glance, the first of many the pair would eventually share. It was weird, Stan thought, Kyle could see straight through him. Many couldn't.

Kyle pushed open the door, the hinges rattled out a squeaky groan. The storeroom was small, no larger than the Hades cabin, or shed, no offence to Kenny, with items strewn across cluttered shelves and a strong smell of damp coming from a leak somewhere. Amidst the chaos, Stan's gaze caught sight of a great spider web on the wall furthest from the door, its delicate strands adorned with clinging dust. Stan stepped inside, humidity enveloping him, but Kyle hesitated outside.

Stan cocked his head. "You good?"

"Yeah, it's fine," Kyle furiously nodded, hair bouncing around his face. "Just, uh, spiders."

"Oh." Stan glanced up at the spider web, unfazed. Spiders didn't bug him much; they were harmless little creatures when you looked past the fuzzy legs and fat body and scuttling form... actually, they were kinda creepy. He nodded towards the corner of the storeroom adorned with more webs. "I'll tackle that side. You can sit this one out if you want. Just pointing me to the bathrooms is plenty of help."

"No, it's fine. I'll help."

With that, they delved into their search, each tackling their own respective area. Stan couldn't help but notice the cobwebs brushing against his arms as he reached for items on the shelves. He felt bad. This was the spiders' home and they were just going in and messing stuff up. What if they triggered some sort of Great Spider Depression where all the spiders became homeless and hated them? After a while, Kyle broke the silence.

"Did the Apollo girl confirm why you fainted?"

Stan shrugged. "Exhaustion, I guess. Apparently, I was shining too bright."

"That makes sense, you did shine scarily bright."

"Oh." Stan had listened to the entire sentence but only really heard the word scary. "Sorry– if it was freaky, I mean."

"No, no, not in a bad way. It was impressive."

Stan's weak laugh was a growl of self-loathing. "It's fine, you don't need to try make me feel better."

Kyle raised a brow. "Why would I need to? The healing stunt was incredible."

"You serious?"

"Absolutely," Kyle grunted, shoving the box back onto the shelf. Slightly out of breath, he next tried a crate that was lower down. "Not even kidding, if you didn't heal me, I'm ninety percent sure I'd have been in an infirmary bed beside you."

"You think?"

Kyle hummed, movements sharper now. "This stays between us, but that last strike from Cartman was kinda... intense. Something in there cracked."

Stan could only imagine. He mentally replayed the ferocity in Cartman's eyes as he'd made the punch to Kyle's abdomen. Before the hit, Kyle had been a terrifying blur of motion, all hits trained and executed like a deadly machine. After the hit, he'd turned sloppy and, honestly, quite petty. What had he called Cartman, Narcissus? But Kyle had a point, that punch absolutely would've blossomed into a blue and black stain if it weren't for Stan's medical intervention. It only hit him then just how much healing he'd managed, that certainly wouldn't have helped with with the exhaustion thing. The more he thought about this, the more he realised how useful being able to heal people might prove to be. Creepy but cool.

Stan smiled, trying not to visibly react – at risk of Kyle bolting – to a small spider dangling inches from his face. Slowly, he backed away, but as he did, he noticed something very promising. Jackpot! The umbrella he pulled off the shelf was blue, at least it looked like it had once been blue; now it was an uncomfortable greenish-yellow, caked in dust.

Kyle turned when Stan silently celebrated, relieved smile lighting up his face before he propelled himself out of the door. Stan followed him out of the little room, bidding goodbye to the spiders, and down the corridor. Outside, the air had a pungent smell of wet grass, warm and humid, more of a hug. It reminded him that they were still in summer, despite the rain obscuring his view and wind bringing trees into a verdant dance.

"We ready?" Kyle asked, pulling his coat tighter around his form.

Stan didn't respond with words and instead popped open the umbrella. Dust mushroomed around them for a moment, Kyle looking absolutely disgusted, before Stan shook the umbrella furiously, cleaning it of any debris from the store room. He lifted it over his head and waited for Kyle to sidestep under it before setting off. Wind whipped it as they walked, tugging it upwards as if trying to snatch it from Stan's grip. Not gonna happen.

"Look, dude," Stan punctured the rhythmic patter of rain. "Real sorry about Cartman tricking you."

Wind lifted Kyle's hair into a red frenzy. "What? It's fine, he got caught out."

"Yeah, but–"

"Don't beat yourself up over his mistakes. That gets you nowhere, his actions are on him. Not you."

"Right, got it," Stan nodded. He didn't quite know what to make of their clear hatred for one another. Not like he couldn't understand disliking Cartman, most people probably would, he was more trying to find out why Cartman hated Kyle. "What's the deal with him, anyway?"

Kyle spoke his next words with an almost witty nonchalance. "Other than him being a lying, cheating, twisted bastard?"

"Yeah, other than that."

Kyle shrugged. "Since he got here he's picked fights," he said. "You probably know what I mean, he's confrontational."

Funnily enough, Stan did know what Kyle meant. Sure, he'd kind of grown to find the abrasive edge charming, in a weird, guilty-pleasure sort of way. Like not being able to look away from a car crash, that type of thing. But he could admit that, for the most part, it was seriously uncomfortable. He hummed, prompting Kyle to continue.

"Just he's always been a dick to me especially. Couldn't tell you why, only that it ramped up last year when I was made head of my cabin. Maybe it's jealousy or something, I dunno."

Stan nodded, jealousy certainly seemed in character for the boy who wanted nothing more than an identity. Then, sapphire eyes widened as Kyle's words truly sank in. "Wait, head of cabin?"

"Yup."

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

He'd seen a lot of demigods here over the past week from a wide range of ages. He'd seen a couple that looked around eighteen. To say Kyle had more authority than them at fourteen was crazy. "Is that young to be made head of cabin?"

"Kinda," he shrugged. "Depends on the cabin and how many people are in it, for the Athena cabin I'd say it's pretty normal. The oldest of us are seventeen, fourteen isn't that young."

"Still, that's awesome," Stan smiled. He wondered how you'd even become head of cabin. "How young are the youngest?"

"Well the current youngest child of Athena is eight," he mumbled. Cramped under the umbrella, their shoulders bumped. "That's the kid you met in the infirmary, Ike."

"He's your brother?"

"Absolutely, I've only known him for two months but he's a good kid. You can just tell."

Throughout his life, Stan had prided himself on not being a nosy fucker. Nobody liked a nosy fucker. But, since the conversation had naturally steered to where it was now, he had no moral objections to investigating further. "What, uh... what happened to him?" He asked, using his hand to gesture a slice across his face which he instantly regretted when Kyle looked away. "Sorry, insensitive. But, like, who did that?"

Mud squelched around their feet, Kyle took a breath. "You know what stymphalian birds are?"

"Not exactly."

"Heracles defeated them as one of his labours using Athena's help," Kyle sighed. "Obviously, the birds wouldn't exactly be fond of Athena's children after that. Ike travelled here all the way from Canada, went the entire way uninterrupted. He and Mackey were just outside the border to camp when one swooped down."

Stan's eyes widened, body stiffening as he imagined the scene. "You serious?"

Kyle hummed. "Knocked out the goat. Obviously, a flying monster the size of an elephant versus a trembling eight-year-old isn't a fair fight. Not like Ike didn't try help himself, he isn't stupid. He ran, threw stones and sticks, but that did nothing. The bird threw him towards the floor."

Stan's mind raced, the severity of the situation sinking in. These weren't just mythical creatures from stories anymore; they were real, and they were seriously dangerous. He clenched his fists tighter, a surge of protectiveness washing over him as he imagined the terror Ike must have felt in that moment. He was eight, for fucks sake. Eight. It was a miracle Stan went as long as he did before being attacked by something.

Kyle continued. "At this point campers noticed something was up and sprinted to help, myself included, but I... we were too late. Stymphalian birds are made of metal, even their feathers, these razor sharp things that they can shoot to injure people before eating them. Well, by the time we made it up the hill the fucker had done just that. Shot at him, I mean. The slice across his face is from the feather, it's crazy how close it got to his eyes, if his head had been an inch further down, Ike would be blind."

"That's... awful," Stan managed to choke out, trying to suppress his imagination from envisioning how terrified Ike must have been. Had that been why he didn't speak a word to Stan back there? Fear? Anxiety?

Kyle nodded, expression somber before his eyes widened in alarm. "Sorry– that was bad of me, I didn't mean to dump all that on you."

"No, no, dude. I asked."

"Right, yeah," Kyle dryly swallowed. Stan inspected his pale face as he stared ahead, squinting as wind forced a blanket of rain at them sideways. Kyle's cheeks shone a little, light bouncing off the water, Stan was unsure if he wanted to continue discussing his brothers trauma so kept his mouth shut.

They continued to trudge through the soaked grounds of Camp Half-Blood, storm clouds casting a gray veil over camp, obscuring the vibrant colours of cabins. At some point they strolled past the dining pavilion, Stan made sure not to look at the place, afraid his group would spot him out of the infirmary and be offended that he was hanging around the enemy. At least, Cartman's enemy. Stan was unsure what Kenny and Butters thought of Kyle, they knew of him, apparently Cartman liked to bitch about him. He wondered if they'd have an issue if he chose to get closer to Kyle, he seemed kind. Stan wasn't exactly overflowing with friends.

Amidst the gloom, a beacon of hope emerged in the distance: a little wooden building, blackened walls blending into the dreary surroundings. The toilets. They entered the building and the sound of water dripping from the eaves to the roof grew louder in their ears. Finally, shelter.

Stan did his business quickly and, as he was washing his hands, Kyle cleared his throat from the doorway, where he leant with the umbrella collapsed, pointed at the floor.

"Look, Stan," Kyle started gently, emerald eyes inquisitive. "I was wondering if you might be able to do me a favour."

He perked a brow. "What's this?"

"Right, okay. Feel free to say no, we only met properly like half-an-hour ago and I totally get if you're not up to it with you only just waking up from your magic Apollo sleep thing," he spoke quickly, using his hands. "It's just... Ike is really struggling to branch out."

Nodding, Stan tried to dry his hands on his jeans, only to fail spectacularly as his jeans were soaked from rain. Great. Seeing this, Kyle wordlessly reached up towards the paper towel dispenser, tore off a square, and passed it to Stan, whose cheeks burned with embarrassment.

"Right, so, basically, Ike is kinda struggling to make friends, he doesn't really speak," Kyle admitted. "He's never actually slept in the Athena cabin so doesn't know anyone socially. Like, he has me, okay, yeah. But I won't always be here. My dad expects me back as soon as summer ends for school. Maybe... I dunno, maybe if he met someone newer than him he'd feel braver?"

Still drying his hands, Stan nodded. "That makes sense."

Kyle's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"What am I agreeing to here?"

"Would you maybe like to have dinner with us? It'll be just us in the infirmary and Ike usually sleeps early so you won't need to hang around for ages," he said, cupping the back of his neck. "I think he'd like you. You seem a nice dude."

Stan hesitated. The idea of helping Ike, who had already been through so much, tugged at his heartstrings. He couldn't just say no. And as long as he made it to the campfire in time, he'd still be on good terms with Kenny, Butters, and possibly even Cartman.

He smiled, Kyle released a breath.

"Totally dude, I wanna meet him."

Chapter Text

Waiting outside for Kyle to collect their food, Stan's hair was lifted into a dance, the wind causing trees around him to groan and sway.

Anxiously, he stared down the dining pavilion doors. Any minute now, the son of Athena would reemerge. Then, he'd take Stan to Ike and grow gradually more and more frustrated as Stan made a tit of himself. He'd say something insensitive, mention scars or stymphalian birds, and then Ike would be scared of him and Kyle would hate him just as much as he despised Eric Cartman. Stan gulped.

Kyle chose that moment to emerge from the dining pavilion, balancing a tray and nodding thanks to a couple of campers who held the door open for him. Tangerine curls stuck to his cheekbones from rain, savoury scent enveloping them as he slipped under the umbrella.

"Hope you like chicken nuggets," Kyle laughed. "Not exactly demigod food, but whatever. I forgot to ask what you wanted before heading inside. My bad."

"Demigod food?" Stan echoed, rolling his eyes. "Screw that, dude. Let's just be kids."

Kyle grinned at that, and they started their walk back. Their shoes squished in the mud and leaves rustled above, but Stan's mind was on Kyle. He looked deep in thought, his brows furrowed. Stan wondered what was up.

"So... what'd you get?" Stan asked, breaking the silence.

Kyle looked confused for a second before snapping out of it. "Oh, right. I'll tell you, but you have to promise not to think I'm weird."

"Dude, like I would," Stan said, shaking his head. "Yesterday, I turned into the sun. What’s weirder than that?"

"Fair point. Just... promise, okay?"

"Promise."

"Cereal."

"Cereal?" Stan raised an eyebrow. From the way Kyle had been talking, he expected something intense like cocaine “What's so bad about cereal?"

"Some people think it's weird to have cereal for dinner," Kyle shrugged. "Or any meal other than breakfast."

"Major letdown, dude," Stan joked, realizing he was grinning. "Our stomachs don't have clocks. It's fine."

"Exactly!"

The infirmary loomed larger as they approached, like a palace in the dark. They slipped off their wet shoes at the entrance, taking turns holding the tray as they walked down the corridor.

When they got to Ike's room, Kyle stopped.

"Okay," he said urgently. "I go in first, warn Ike that you're coming, then you come in and give him food. Sound good?"

Stan hadn't realized they needed a plan for this. "Yeah, sounds good."

"He should be cool. Don't be offended if he doesn't speak at first."

Stan nodded, so Kyle pushed open the door with a squeal. He disappeared and, when it clicked shut, Stan pressed one ear against the door like a crappy super spy, or Anna in the "Do You Want to Build a Snowman" music video.

"I need to tell you something real important," Kyle said, voice muffled by the closed door.

The second voice, gentle, higher pitched, clearly belonged to Ike. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing’s wrong. Just– remember the new guy?"

"Karate kid?"

Stan's cheeks burned red.

"That one," Kyle chuckled. "He's coming back with food, went and got it for us ‘cause he wants to make new friends. He says he wants to meet you, so he's eating with us."

"Wait, but–"

"You'll be fine."

Stan held his breath.

"What if something goes wrong?" Ike asked.

There was a sound like waves retreating from the sandy coastline; a sigh from Kyle. “It won't. He's actually kind of cool.”

"What if he's not... he might..."

"No monsters get through the border, Ike," Kyle sounded firmer now. "He's harmless. Anyway, if he did try anything, I have a dagger on me at all times. You're good."

There was more silence, then, footsteps. The door swung open, revealing Kyle. "He's ready."

Stan took a deep breath and followed him into Ike’s room. Very quickly, heat washed over him, fireplace crackling warm in the corner. Stan couldn't imagine it being used very often. Not in a summer camp.

Ike's room was tidy. Arguably too tidy for an eight-year-old. On the bedside table, books were stacked like towers, and green mint plants lined the windowsill. Stan and his mom lived in an apartment opposite this one old lady who used to swear that mint repelled spiders. Thinking back to how Kyle had acted in the storage closet, Stan found the detail endearing.

Stan forced a smile. But Ike only looked up at Stan with wide, hollow eyes; the same way an owlet would glimpse a raven during a nest raid.

Stan cleared his throat, lifting the tray up a little higher. "I brought some food. Thought we could eat together."

“You think that was nice?” Kyle promoted his brother to speak, moving to sit beside him on the bed.

"Yeah,” Ike mumbled. “Thank you."

He speaks!

Stan smiled. They were getting somewhere. Very slowly, the egg was cracking. When Kyle gestured for Stan to take a seat on the bed, he did.

“So...” Stan started, desperately looking around for something – anything – to chat about, “do much?”

"I like reading. Chess, too.”

"Chess?" Stan echoed. "I'm too dumb for chess."

Ike nodded, then realised this was one of those things you weren't meant to agree with, backtracking to shake his head so vigorously it looked like he was auditioning for a head-banging competition.

Kyle, on the other hand, scoffed. "Chess isn't even really about smarts. I know tons of idiots who can play. When you learn what the pieces do, it's simple."

Stan raised a brow. "Seriously?"

"Absolutely. Not like you're an idiot or anything, just don't let the presumption put you off."

“I’m good at other board games, just chess is… yeah. I never learnt.”

“We can teach you?” Kyle offered.

Stan grinned. "Seriously?”

Ike quickly looked at his brother, eyes wide again. But Kyle smiled and ruffled Ike's hair. "How about this: I'll teach Stan, but you can help me out. We can be on the same team."

Ike seemed to mull this over, toying with the edge of the blanket. "Okay."

Within seconds, Kyle had stood, shuffled across the room, and dumped a chess board on the bed. As the brothers split the pieces into two piles, Stan noticed how each little figure had a Greek feel, painted with black, white, and orange tones.

"Is this gonna make me look as dumb as I feel?" Stan joked.

Kyle shrugged. "Depends how dumb you feel."

"Very."

Charitably, Kyle laughed. "Let's just start." He shuffled to sit closer to his brother, directly opposite Stan, who now had a clear view of his face. "Ike, you remember how we set up the pieces?"

Ike nodded, placing the pieces on the board. Kyle guided Stan through the basics, explaining each piece and its movements.

Stan nodded along as he explained, though squinted at the board. "Okay, and the horsey—"

"Knight," Kyle corrected.

"Right, the knight. It moves in an 'L' shape?"

Kyle nodded again. "Yep. Two squares in one direction, one square perpendicular."

"Is it drunk?"

This earned him a grin. "Not to my knowledge."

Stan blew air into his cheeks. Leave it to the Athena kids to make him feel like a dumbass. "This is already more complicated than I thought."

Ike, who was now visibly more relaxed, offered a shy smile. "The rook moves in straight lines, like this." He demonstrated with a piece.

Stan watched carefully, massaging the back of his neck. "That one seems easy enough. And the bishop goes diagonally?"

"Exactly," Kyle beamed. "And then the queen can move any number of squares in any direction."

Stan nodded. "Of course. She's the queen, right? And the king?"

"One square in any direction," Kyle said. "The most important piece, but also the weakest in terms of movement."

"Typical. I think I’m ready.”

Ike's eyes lit up. "You can be white. You go first."

Stan hesitated, then moved a pawn two squares forward. "Like this?"

Kyle nodded approvingly. "Good start. Ike, you're up."

Ike made his move quickly, but the game progressed slowly. You can blame Stan for that. He was out of his element here, even with Kyle offering corrections whenever he fucked it up.

After a few moves, he found himself in a tricky situation. "Okay, so if I move my knight here..." He reached for the piece, only to knock over his own pawn. "Oh fuck–"

Ike giggled, a sound that seemed to surprise even himself. "It's okay, just set it back up."

Stan did so, then moved the knight to a new square, only to see Ike's eyes light up. "Check."

Stan stared at the board, totally lost. Kyle, however, looked at it like a surgeon would a patient.

"Block," he advised.

It took Stan longer to process the suggestion than it did to actually move his king, decision fatigue like a thick fog that only Kyle's demands shone through.

Eventually, Ike made the final move. With an impish grin, he looked up at Stan through dark lashes. "Checkmate."

Stan groaned, though internally cheered at the lack of ice from the eight-year-old. "You’re kidding.”

Kyle laughed. "You did better than most first-timers. Ike's just weirdly good."

Stan chose to believe that, though silently vowed to go perfect his chess abilities just to come back with a win.

With that finished, the boys finally started their food. Kyle had been right – these chicken nuggets were freaking awesome. Just the right balance of salt and pepper, crunching under his teeth.

Conversation was light as they ate, topics ranging from Kyle asking what Sharon did for work (likely out of a desire to see what normal, not scary-god mothers did) to Stan investigating Kyle's busy schedule as head of his cabin.

He’d tutor his siblings in Ancient History; run combat training; lead his team during capture the flag; organise the monthly chariot races; be a key collaborator with the Hephaestus cabin for engineering projects around camp. It all seemed too much.

"Why do you do it all?" Stan wondered, scrunching his nose.

"I'm alive," Kyle explained. "I'm alive and breathing and Athena has kept me here against all odds. It's a privilege. If she's aware I exist... I dunno, wouldn't want her to forget that it's in her control for me not to just keel over.”

“I think I get it.”

Stan had never considered that before, and there was no greater reminder of their fragility than Ike’s scarred face peering up at his brother with wide eyes upon hearing the statement.

"All done?" Kyle moved away from the topic, carefully placing his empty cereal bowl atop the bedside counter.

Ike nodded, so Kyle stood, gesturing for Ike to follow him. It was clear how much the kid respected Kyle from the speed at which he chased his brother towards the small fire, leftover nuggets sliding around his plate. Then, to Stan's utter bewilderment, Ike threw these nuggets into the flames. Kyle didn't even bat an eye.

"Uh, did I miss something?" Stan blinked. "Why are we cremating them?"

Kyle kept his gaze on the flames. "It's an offering to Athena, to show respect."

"But... why chicken nuggets? I thought she'd be into like olives or whatever."

"Du et des," Kyle shrugged. "Latin. I give so you must give. Fair deal."

"Got it." Stan nodded slowly. It was a dumb system, but he understood. "Why not offer her your cereal?"

"Dude, just imagine the smell of burning milk," Kyle scrunched up his nose, turning a little green. "Athena would strike me dead. With the smell, I'd thank her for that. Want to give your last chicken nugget as an offering to Apollo? You know... since he's your dad."

Not exactly. Stan just stared at Ike’s burning nuggets, realising properly that most kids here would genuinely respect their godly parents. Culture shock. Kenny and Butters had both done this burning thing, sure, but neither had explained or prompted Stan to do the same. Unsurprisingly, Cartman didn’t. But Stan hadn't realised it was even related to the Olympians. He thought it was just a strange way to dispose of leftovers. He wasn’t super into the idea, but with Kyle and Ike watching, he couldn't mess this up.

He moved towards the fire, took a breath, and threw half of his last nugget into the flames. Fuck Apollo, he wasn’t getting a full nugget: half was more than enough.

Kyle tilted his head. "Any words?"

Flames hissed and crackled, heat searing their faces as the food blackened and twisted, smoke curling up in bitter spirals.

"Thanks for, uh... being a god, I guess," Stan mumbled, running a hand up and down his forearm.

Kyle's formal facade softened into a smile. "That was nice. I'm sure Apollo appreciated it."

"Yeah, totally," Ike chimed in.

Relief rushed over Stan. Thank fuck, he hadn't offended anyone. Anyone mortal, anyway. He didn't really care about Apollo. Screw that guy. In all honesty, he kinda wanted to piss on the fire just to put it out and cancel the transaction. But he didn't, because he was civilised. And not alone.

It was mostly because he wasn't alone.

But also because the custom clearly meant a lot to Kyle, who, from the look on his face, probably hadn't missed a day of the ritual since arriving here years ago.

After making the chicken nugget sacrifice, they settled back onto Ike's bed and resumed the chess competition – Kyle against Ike, Stan opting to zone out as he watched pieces move. Realising that he'd likely just made new friends, something akin to cheer struck the sides of his face. He'd made friends. He smiled.

Yeah, Stan had made friends. Kyle. Ike. Kenny. Butters. Cartman was an interesting case, but still. Stan Socially Awkward Marsh had actually made friends within one week.

Fuck yes.

His mom hadn't lied after all.

Camp was good. It was safe. There was no need to even bother about embracing his heritage, he didn't need to, he wasn't going anywhere until he was fully trained up anyway. No monsters could get him here.

Ironically, Stan could forget he was a half-blood at Camp Half-blood.

Sick.

As the game of chess drew to a close with Kyle both proud and guilt-ridden, having won, panic latched onto Stan's tongue. How long had he been in the infirmary tonight? The clock in the wall was small, he had to squint to read it.

Fuck.

Eyes widened.

He'd agreed to meet Kenny and Butters at 9:00 pm.

It was 9:07 pm.

He shot to his feet far too quickly, stars splattering across his vision. "Guys, I hate to cut this short, but I gotta run."

"Everything okay?" Kyle asked.

"Yeah, yeah, I just completely forgot I had someone to meet," Stan rushed. "Thanks for teaching me chess. It was really cool hanging out with you guys."

Ike's voice made him freeze just before shooting out the door, giving the kid his full attention. "Thanks."

Stan quite honestly beamed at that, as did Kyle. "Look, uh, I'm free tomorrow," Stan said, looking between them. "You guys gonna be free for an hour or two?"

Kyle thought for a moment. From all the responsibilities he'd listed off to Stan, he could assume the guy had a pretty busy schedule. "Maybe around midday? I promised to teach one of our siblings about Odysseus in the morning, so..."

Stan's lips curled into a hopeful smile. "Well, would you like to hang out again? Maybe grab lunch or something?"

They shared a brief moment of silent understanding.

"Yeah, dude, I'd love that."

Then, with a quick nod, Stan grabbed the umbrella and rushed out the door, leaving the warmth of the infirmary behind.

In the darkness and rain, Stan hurried through the campgrounds, footsteps splashing against the wet ground as he tried to make up for his lateness. Anxiety gnawed at him: he realised too late that he had no clue where he was going. But after a few minutes of aimless jogging, he smelt smoke. Stars in the sky illuminated grey wisps of the stuff stretching up to the clouds. Smoke generally meant fire, right?

Pride licked his gut when he saw a splotchy red light from the top of the hill.

Right.

The campfire blazed at the heart of the clearing, its flames undulating like serpents in hues of red, orange, and gold. Each crackle and pop sent sparks shooting upward, some finding their mark on the stone canopy above, shielding the fire from the relentless rain and ensuring its persistence even in such dismal weather.

Around this display, a large group of campers perched on all sorts of makeshift seats just to be close to the fire: logs, rocks, crumpled-up coats. When Stan approached, however, he opted instead to just stand on the edge of the shelter, eyes darting over every face half-concealed by darkness.

Where were Kenny and Butters?

He felt eyes on him, mocking and judging. Fuck. He just needed to find Kenny and Butters, head to them, and then everything would be fine.

But when Stan finally spotted the son of Hades, apprehension gripped him.

Kenny was not alone. He stood talking to a girl who quite honestly looked like a bat. Clad in layers of black that hugged her curvaceous figure, her eyes were framed by thick eyeliner, lips painted with a deep shade of obsidian that met a cigarette every other word.

Stan was taken aback. Was smoking allowed here? It didn't feel very... godly. Then again, neither did the idea of a chicken nugget sacrifice, so he couldn't really talk. Most of the campers gathered around seemed to be in their older teenage years, each choosing to vape, smoke, or drink from something slightly stronger than soda in the absence of adult supervision.

Stan's thoughts were interrupted by a boisterous bark.

"Princess Celestia!"

Startled, he spun to face Cartman's grin, the flickering firelight casting ominous shadows beneath his eyes that gave him a devilish edge. Beside him, Butters beamed.

Stan could only stare. "Sorry, did you just make a My Little Pony reference?"

"Fuck off, Sunshine," Cartman snapped, ears pink. Stan wondered whether this sudden flood of harshness was more due to Stan almost shooting him in the face or Stan getting claimed before he did; really, it could've been either. "There's plenty more where that came from."

"Yay."

Butters stepped in, clearing his throat. "Gee, I'm glad you could join us," he chuckled. "You must be stiff after sleeping so long, hope getting out of that infirmary makes you feel better."

"Yeah," Cartman nodded, lips twitching upwards. "Bright idea."

Stan arched a brow. "That an Apollo pun?"

"Totally not, sunspot."

Stan sighed. "Come on, man, give it a rest."

He scoffed. "Aren't you just a ray of sunshine tonight."

"Dude."

"Forgive a guy for trying to lighten the mood."

Stan put his face in his hands and groaned, wishing there was a way to turn back time, to undo the healing of bruises previously littering Cartman's neck, the slice across the larger boy’s hip, any other injuries that contributed to Stan being so exhausted that he'd been in a magically induced coma for a day. He shot a glare at Cartman, though the guy seemed to relish his discomfort.

Stan was feeling the love.

Cartman synthetically softened his expression.

"I get it, my bad, it's too soon for jokes," he sighed. "Got you a little something, though, y'know... to take the edge off."

Before Stan could respond, Cartman reached into his pocket, rooted around for a moment, and produced a bottle of sunscreen.

This guy.

As the fire crackled louder, almost tauntingly, Stan accepted the sunscreen, stowing it away. At least Cartman was still being his usual self, but Stan couldn't shake the feeling Kenny's words about "Cartmanesque misery" were on the mark. He braced himself for the next venomous remark.

"Actually," Cartman said, raising a brow, "maybe we should keep that. With your UV rays, you'll be giving us the skin cancer, not the other way around, so–"

"You're such a dick."

"I'll live."

Before Stan could retort, Kenny appeared, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Hey guys," he greeted, throwing an arm around Stan's shoulder. "What'd I miss?"

"Not much," Cartman drawled. "How's Wednesday Addams?"

"Dude, cut it out," Kenny grunted, stepping away from Stan with crossed arms. "You know she's been going through a rough patch."

Cartman was about to reply, but Stan beat him to it.

"Who is she?"

Kenny's expression turned serious. "Henrietta," he said. "She's the oracle of Delphi."

Cartman huffed. "She's a freak."

This earned him a slap over the back of the head from Kenny. "Don't call her that, the stigma's unfair, she's nice."

"Creepy."

"In a good way, maybe. Seriously, who cares, man?" Kenny shrugged, then turned to Stan with an impish grin. "Wanna roast marshmallows?"

"Oh fuck yes."

The four shuffled closer to the fire, with Cartman silent once more, yay, to miraculously find a cluster of spare seats. Settling onto the rocks and logs, they got to roasting marshmallows retrieved generously by Butters as he could manoeuvre around the crowd and somehow not bump into anybody.

Stan held his marshmallow carefully over the flames, watching its white surface turn golden brown from the heat. Beside him, Cartman couldn't resist the opportunity to tease.

"Hey, Stan, reckon your last name is Marsh to make up for the fact you're mellow and shit at the marshmallow thing," he snickered, gesturing to Stan's own, which had now turned slightly droopy. "Look, it's soggy. Like you."

Stan rolled his eyes. "Yeah, real original."

Cartman's laugh was an awful sound, like the scratch of a broken record, but it didn't last long as he prodded his stick into the fire a little too aggressively, causing it to erupt into flames.

"Look, it matches your personality," Stan shot him a smug smirk, taking a bite of his own. "Bitter."

"Oh?" Cartman retorted, blowing on his charred marshmallow like that was going to do anything at all. "Least I'm not an angler fish looking freak like you, glowy asshole."

There was no greater betrayal than Stan noticing Kenny snicker at this insult, but he chose to ignore the jibe regardless. Was it creative? Yes. Did that make it any less rude? Fuck no, screw this guy and screw Apollo for putting him in this situation at all. He took another bite of his marshmallow, only this time it tasted as crap as Cartman's looked. He seriously didn't get why the kid was jealous of him for this. He was claimed, cursed, even, big deal.

To distract himself, he just focused on the flames. They were like thousands of red dancers twirling around, a fleeting expression of wild, untamed energy. It roared, embers glowing like the heart of a newborn star. However, the more Stan let these flames hypnotise him, the more he noticed something strange.

Why were the edges slowly turning green?

Thinking his eyes were messing with him, Stan blinked, but that did nothing at all. The green became more and more pronounced, crawling from the base of the flames upwards. Transforming the fire into a mesmerising, almost alien sight, the emerald deepened. Stan cleared his throat.

"Uh, guys?"

Cartman, mid-blow on his marshmallow, glanced up and froze. "The fuck?"

Casting distorted shadows around them, the flames flickered higher. Other campers recoiled, chattering amongst them growing louder and louder as confusion spread. Only, not everybody seemed confused. A couple kids, those with the most visible scars, funnily, looked terrified. They knew what was happening.

One of these kids: Butters.

Stan felt the boy trembling beside him, hands clutched so tightly together he was probably drawing blood, nails cutting through skin like it was mere tissue paper.

"Not again..."

Stan didn't understand the remark so he looked to Kenny for guidance. Only, Kenny hadn't paid attention to Butters. Neither had Cartman, though that wasn't new. No, both boys were busy gawping at someone else.

Henrietta.

The girl had slumped forward, her body almost lifeless. Only the tall boy with a gothic aura, with a hooked nose and black curls framing a skeletal face, prevented her from collapsing entirely. When the cigarette she'd been habitually kissing slipped from limp fingers, it was this boy – Micheal – who stomped it out.

Henrietta's eyes rolled back in her head, then snapped forward again, now a piercing shade of green.

Initially, Stan thought this to be one big joke. Seeing Kenny, leaned forward with the desperation of a guard dog straining against its chain, he changed his mind. Kenny spun to face Butters.

"Leo, go," he snapped, eyes wide. "Get help – fast!"

Butters remained frozen in place, clearly shaken. Kenny's voice rose to a shout that had even Cartman flinching.

"Go!"

The sharp command propelled Butters to his feet, and he sprinted away just as mist rose, swirling, expanding, enveloping them like an ocean. Stan felt trapped in a dream.

Campers gasped when Henrietta jolted to sit up straight. Then, as though attached to puppet strings, she slowly rose to a stand, then, to a hover. This bitch was flying. Good lord. The urge to sing "Defying Gravity" from Wicked did not aid the moment.

Stan flinched when she spoke, it was more of a growl. A guttural grumble, she sounded less like a fifteen-year-old girl and more like a tectonic plate shifting beneath their feet.

"Born from sun's shadow, a soldier arises,

Yet beneath tempest's glory, silent fury mesmerises,

Four days to reclaim, else the black rose flowers,

If their warrior fails, horns prevail; darkness devours."

Everybody was silent.

Was that a prophecy?

As the words hung heavy in the air, their significance weighed on everyone present. Stan felt a chill run down his spine as the implications sank in. Prophecy. Prophecy... that meant a quest, right? Who was being sent to die this time?

Kenny looked gaunt. Darkness – why had she mentioned darkness?

Stan didn't have much time to ponder this before Henrietta hit the floor with a heavy thud, the goth – Dionysus – kids quick to catch her, softening the blow.

What the actual fuck?

Amidst the chaos, hooves slamming into soggy grass grew louder and louder until Mr. Garrison returned with Butters, red-faced and panting heavily. Unlike the children, who looked petrified, a flicker of opportunity crossed the centaur’s face as he addressed the group.

"Okay, kids," he started to shout, trembling a little. "The important thing is not to panic!"

However, when a familiar melodic plucking sound descended upon them, Stan did exactly that.

Opening up like a gate the flames parted, a shadowy figure emerging from the swirling green light as though from a nightmare. These emerald smears seemed to twist and contort around the figure, as though they could bend the light to their will, and when it fully clicked who this guy in the flames was, Stan considered that a possibility.

Flames shortened, revealing his face, and when he took a long sip from a Capri Sun, Stan's breath scratched up his lungs.

Apollo.

Chapter Text

Among the flames, there was something magnificent about Apollo that you couldn't catch by staring alone; he breathed like a human, scanned the children around him like a human, laughed awkwardly at the tension like a human.

In all but aura, Apollo was human.

But no.

This guy – this fucking guy – was somebody who could twist their lives without a second thought. They were all waiting for it. Some campers bounced their knees, others gripped their friends and held on tight, but one thing was clear; this guy, this prophecy, was not good news. The air was thick with anticipation, a silent, shared dread that hung over them like a storm cloud.

"Born from sun's shadow." Henrietta had warned. They all knew what was coming next.

"Kids of, uh, me... yeah, me, rise to your feet," he demanded with a slight stagger, as though he'd been drinking something stronger than Capri Sun. "Now!"

Like sunflowers, a collection of children sprouted from the crowd. Some petrified. Others angry. If it weren't for Cartman's knee ramming into Stan's own, he wouldn't have shakily risen to his feet at all.

When he did, two eyes from across the fire met his own. Honey-brown, reflecting green, Shelley looked... excited?

"Right, okay... okay," Apollo mumbled, heavy black brows drawn into a frown. "I'm gonna ask some questions, based on what I know, and we're gonna get to the bottom of this. Let’s go, wildcats.”

Stan didn't mean to grimace, but if the literal god of prophecy couldn't figure this one out they were so incredibly fucked.

"When I ask a question, you... you sit, yeah, you sit unless the answer applies to you? Let's do it." Apollo started to hype himself up, jumping up and down and shaking his hands to get the blood pumping. He stopped, took a breath, and began. "If you... if you have no mom, sit down."

Stan's brows shot up.

That was a bit harsh.

If not the only time anybody could be pleased about having a dead or absent mother. A murmur of unease rippled through the group and a few kids sank. Stan wouldn't have changed the fact he remained standing for the world.

"If you don't have asthma, sit down."

Okay, uh, that was a little more personal. Stan twirled a loose string from his shirt. No worries, still very vague.

"If you have ordinary hearing, sit down."

More kids descended. Stan's heart thumped in his ears. Loudly. Almost, ironically.

Just him and Shelley left now.

Apollo clapped, looking between them. "Right, then. If you were visited by me in a dream this week, stay stood."

Fear flashed across Shelley's face.

Thank god!

Clearly Shelley had been visited too.

Stan let himself smile, tightness in his chest releasing.

But when Shelley looked to Stan, shook her head in defeat, and sat down, everything changed.

"Stan Marsh."

His vision blurred.

Sweet Jesus.

"Stan Marsh," Apollo repeated slower, as if pondering the name. "You must go West, retrieve my lyre, and you shall be rewarded greatly for your journey."

Fuck off?

The fire crackled more intensely. Wind licked up leaves and ash in a swirl that made Stan feel smaller than a speck of dust as his hair was thrown into a dance. Deep breaths, deep breaths, deep breaths.

"No."

No?

Was Stan allowed to just refuse?

Apollo raised a brow.

"Hm?" He asked. "What? What was that?"

Stan tried to mask the urge to scream with a cough. "I'm just not really feeling up to it."

"Listen here, kid–"

"Not prepared." Stan shook his head, heart slapping the inside of his lungs as though it were trying to escape. "Only got claimed yesterday, so like..."

Apollo's cheeks were quickly turning red. "You're going on this quest!"

Furiously, Stan's eyes darted over campers staring up at him, campers that had been training for literal years longer than him. Thanks for the support, guys.

"Is there seriously not anybody else?" He pleaded, but campers did nothing but avoid eye contact. Great. Finally, a bark broke the silence.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

Stan snapped around to face the voice, only to see Shelley, determination burning in her eyes as she stood, fists clenched by her hips.

"See!" He grinned. "She wants to go!"

"No, she... she can't. It must be you, Stan. Specifically. Gotta be you. Fate and stuff."

"I'll go, dad. Please," Shelley practically begged, demigods around them watching the verbal back and forth like it was a game of tennis. "I've been training. Remember? Remember how I—"

It only took Apollo swiping a hand for an unseen force to silence Shelley, to push her back down with a thud. Ow. Did that hurt? Looked like it hurt. If not physically, mentally.

Apollo rubbed his temples. "Stan, this isn't up for debate. The prophecy–"

"To hell with the prophecy!" Stan snapped, surprising even himself with the venom in his tone. From the gasps that rippled across the crowd, he could assume chatting shit to gods wasn't recommended. Then again, if Apollo didn't have his oh so precious lyre, whatever that was, could he do much to harm Stan? "You're a god. Can't you just... fix it or something?"

"Mortals," Apollo muttered. Then, louder: "This is not something that can be fixed so easily. The lyre is integral to maintaining balance, to keeping chaos at bay. Hermes has taken offence. There will be a war if it isn't returned to him."

"So who lost it?"

Apollo was silent, then he squealed out a pathetic, "It was stolen...?"

"Right."

The rest of the campers watched, some with bated breath, others turning white at the prospect of their lives being in Stan's hands. He could relate.

Apollo sighed. "One day you'll understand."

The hell did that mean? Stan blinked, then blinked again.

When?

When was he going to understand?

"I must leave you now," Apollo declared, dropping his Capri Sun into the flames.

Blue eyes widened. "Wait, no–"

"I must return to my position, I expect the lyre brought to me in four days at the door of Olympus."

"What if I can't get it? I don't– dude?” Stan had at least expected an instruction manual. “What the fuck?!"

Apollo started to wave. "Goodbye, Stanley!"

And in a flash of white light, he vanished.

The fire crackled louder, each pop and hiss echoing in the black canvas of the night. The silence was so profound it was like Earth had fully stopped spinning. Campers remained motionless, tension thick to a suffocating degree, a sort of mental cement. Then, all at once, the chatter erupted. Stan flinched and covered his ears.

This was not happening.

Nope.

What happened to the McNugget sacrifice? Huh? Did that mean nothing?

Mr. Garrison clapped his hands sharply, commanding attention. "All right, everyone except... you, head to your cabins. Now."

The campers began to stand, murmuring among themselves and casting wary glances at Stan as they moved. Mr. Garrison gestured for the unlucky boy to follow him, but before Stan could take a step, somebody gripped his arm, he spun to face them.

"We'll wait for you outside the Big House," Kenny said firmly, brows furrowed.

Stan took a deep breath, nodded, and followed Mr. Garrison.

He had been ripped from his mom to come to this supposedly safer camp, where monsters were kept at bay, only to now be forced to venture back out there, go on a quest that would get him killed, all to solve his dads stupid issues, even despite having met the guy a whole ten minutes ago.

A psychologist would argue that Stan had been hurt by the unfair system bestowed upon him for simply being alive.

Stan would argue that he was just mega mega pissed off.

Finally, they reached the Big House, and Mr. Garrison ushered Stan inside. The interior was as cluttered as it had been the first time Stan had ventured inside with Mr. Mackey, stuffed full of ancient books and artefacts, a stale smell of neglect hanging in the air.

"Have a seat," Mr. Garrison said, gesturing to one of the armchairs. "Can I get you anything?"

When Stan didn't respond, glaring daggers at the centaur, Mr. Garrison just poured himself a glass of whiskey and settled into a chair. He took a sip, then placed the glass on the table with a heavy thunk.

"Alright," the centaur started to mumble. "I know this is a lot to take in, but we need to start planning your quest."

He reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick folder, dropping it onto the desk with a bang that spooked Stan out of his brooding.

"Take a look," Mr. Garrison said, scraping the folder across the table. "Inside, you'll find profiles on several campers who have expressed interest or are qualified for the job."

Stan hesitated, glancing at the centaur warily. He knew what he would find inside – profiles of his fellow campers, probably detailing their strengths, weaknesses, and past accomplishments. He opened it up. But what caught his eye most was the list of names scribbled out with thick tentacles of ink.

He didn’t want to know why.

"Three is a sacred number," Mr. Garrison continued. "Three fates. Three gorgons. Three powerpuff girls. Only three demigods can go on a quest together. Any more, you risk failing."

Stan nodded absently, his mind racing as he flipped through the pages. After a moment, he looked up. "So, these are just who you recommend?"

"Absolutely."

"But it's my choice at the end of the day?"

Mr Garrison nodded. "You'll leave tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, no later. You're in charge of requesting company."

Stan found himself scratching at his wrists. Breathing had never been so hard.

"Great."

Stan couldn't help but feel a pang of resentment towards Mr. Garrison. This guy had been born a centaur and would die a centaur, if he died at all. Stan had only been a demigod for a week.

But now, here he was, expected to choose two companions to accompany him on a quest of unimaginable danger. Stan just hoped the gods would have pity on him in the afterlife when he inevitably failed, it would otherwise be like putting a newborn baby in the driving seat of a bus and then being pissy when it crashed.

As he glanced around the room, his thoughts lingered on Kenny, Cartman, and Butters, who were waiting outside the Big House. He could never take Butters, even if he was one of the first names to pop up in the folder. That would just be cruel. The kid had survived one quest already, only to be reminded of the death of a friend each time he glimpsed his reflection.

And Cartman was... no. Just no. That wasn't going to happen. And yes, it was personal. Did the kid have qualities that would help with survival? Yeah, probably. He seemed a pretty heartless bastard, would definitely kill if he needed to, but Stan did not want to spend his last days alive around Eric Theodore Cartman. Therapists would likely class that as self-harm.

Then, there was Kenny.

When it came to traits that would allow survival, Kenny took the trophy as a literal son of Hades. Sure, he had that whole inferiority complex to get over, but if Stan could get Kenny over his seven years of trauma ideally within twenty-four hours and unlock the creepy death powers, he might make a pretty good teammate.

There was a risk in Kenny, though.

As the only living son of the big three, Kenny was designed to end the world. Henrietta had mentioned darkness, Kenny's domain. Could Stan risk that earlier prophecy coming true? He certainly didn't seem the type to end the world.

Christ, this was hard.

Was he still allowed to say Christ? Was that offensive to Zeus, or was the Christian God real too?

Stan flipped the page of his folder. Seeing a familiar name triple underlined and double asterisked by Mr. Garrison sent relief thumping through him.

Kyle Broflovski.

He seemed a good choice. Stan remembered the vicious orange tornado of blades he'd become during capture the flag. The fighting ability was definitely there. Then there was also his loyalty to Athena, what did he say back at the infirmary? Du et des? I give so you must give? Maybe Athena owed him or something for all the years he'd shown an excess of respect to her. He imagined an older lady with Kyle's hair and nose. As the goddess of justice, maybe she could bitch slap Apollo for them?

It was starting to come together now. Kyle could prove himself to Athena, Kenny could prove to camp that he wasn't some creepy monster who wanted to kill everybody, and Stan could get this shit done as quickly as possible, return home, get some serious therapy, and chill out.

"Alright," he said finally, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside him. "I've made my decision."

Mr. Garrison leaned forward, curiosity burning in his eyes.

When it came to their biggest weapon, ambition, or spite, would have to do.

Stan was barely out of the door of the big house before being ambushed by Kenny, quick to be pulled into a hug. The moon smirked down at them, stars like dust in the night sky.

Yeah, he definitely made the right choice.

While Butters trembled slightly, overly interested in the dirt at their feet, Cartman's curious glint was far more intense; dangerous – it reminded Stan of that same ambition he'd waged his life on in Kenny and Kyle.

Finally, Kenny pulled away. "Who'd you choose?"

Stan opened his mouth but no words came out. A couple pathetic noises escaped before he regained the ability to speak English.

"Not sure yet."

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Cartman raised a brow. "Bojack Horseman not make you pick?" He asked, crossing his arms.

"Nope."

Butters shifted nervously, his voice barely above a whisper. "Um, Stan? Are you... um, feeling okay?"

Stan managed a weak smile. "Yeah, Butters, I'm alright. Just... trying to process everything."

Kenny glanced at Stan with concern, sensing the weight on his friend's shoulders. "Take your time, dude. We're here for you whenever you're ready."

Cartman, as always, couldn't resist injecting his usual sarcasm. "Yeah, let's sleep already. Got your will sorted out, Stan?"

Kenny shot Cartman a look that was more serious than usual. He didn't say anything, but his expression spoke volumes alongside the sudden drop in temperature. Stan couldn't help but chuckle faintly.

"When I do, you definitely won't be in it."

Cartman scoffed. "Yeah, yeah, very funny, Marsh."

Finally, some normalcy.

Regardless, as they made their way back to their cabins, Stan couldn't shake the weight of his decision. He knew he needed to share the news soon, but imagining their reactions made his gut spin.

"Oh yeah, I... I need to sleep in the Apollo cabin tonight," Stan said.

"Garrison say so?" Cartman questioned. "Didn't even give you a day to adapt to all this? Insensitive bastard.”

Stan nodded, though it was another lie. In reality, he just didn't want to be interviewed by the kids in cabin eleven. "Yeah, camp tradition or something, I guess."

"Totally lame. If you want, one of us can get your stuff from the Hermes cabin?" He offered, surprisingly polite. "People'll talk."

"Yeah, yeah, that's cool. Thanks.”

They reached the Hermes cabin. Before Cartman and Butters entered, Kenny gave Butters' shoulder a squeeze. A collection of curious faces stared back at him as the door squealed open, eyes like leeches feeding on the little dignity Stan had left. When it shut again, they were consumed by silence.

"How're you holding up?" Kenny asked.

"I'm... peachy."

His laugh was a noise that calmed Stan down a little. "Peachy," he echoed. "That's one way of putting it."

"I feel like fate has just crapped all over me, dude, what other words do you want me to use?"

"Nah, nah, that one fits," he smiled. "I'm sorry."

Stan sighed. "You haven't done anything."

"No, no not like that. Just– yeah." Kenny shook his head. "I'm sorry it was you. That was chosen, I mean."

Stan felt something in his chest drop down a couple inches. "Yeah."

"You'll be fine, just pick a good team," Kenny reassured, his voice tinged with concern. "You were real brave back there, by the way. Holding your own against Apollo."

"You think?"

"Absolutely."

Stan's fists clenched at his sides.

This was it.

He couldn't keep Kenny in the dark anymore. It was killing him. Stan knew Kenny's time left had already started to dwindle because of this stupid prophecy, the more time he spent beating about the bush, the harder it would be to reveal his choice; that same choice he'd already lied about less than two minutes ago.

"Listen, Ken. I–"

Before Stan could continue, the door swung open, revealing Cartman with a saccharine smile. Stan found his rucksack thrust towards him.

"Anything else you need?" He asked, his demeanour dripping with false sweetness.

It was clear now what Cartman was doing – trying to cozy up and wheedle his way onto the quest. Stan's jaw tightened.

"No, thank you."

Cartman shot him a thumbs up, gave Kenny a look that only they could understand, and closed the door with a bang.

"C'mon." Kenny nudged Stan after a moment of standing still. "I'll walk you to the Apollo cabin."

They strode forward, enveloped by the night, the moon casting a ghostly glow on their path as cold wind bit at their skin.

"Is Henrietta alright?" Stan asked, rucksack on his back heavy as his shoes squelched into wet grass.

"Yeah, she'll be fine. She's tough."

"How did you two even become friends?"

"She's the gothiest goth to ever goth, I'm the son of Hades. What's more goth than that?" He laughed. "Though it's weird that she knows more about my future than I do, maybe that's why she's friendly? I dunno."

The mention of the future, a reminder of the prophecy hanging over their heads, sent a shiver down Stan's spine.

"I have something to tell you."

"Oh?"

"You need to not get mad, or angry, or kill me, please. I had no other choice, really," Stan pleaded.

Kenny's eyes narrowed, playful smile dropping into a frown. "You didn't."

Shit.

"I had to," Stan whispered.

Kenny took a step back, raising a hand as a barrier. Stan had expected shock or sadness, maybe anger. Not disgust.

"What the fuck, Stan?" He spat. "I know he's in Garrisons folder but oh my gods, man, you don't just– with the shit he went through? And you hid it from him back there?"

Stan blinked in confusion. "Wait, what?"

"Butters!"

"Dude. No."

Now, it was Kenny’s turn to look lost. "You didn't choose him?"

"I chose you."

A pregnant pause hung in the air as he processed Stan's revelation. Anxiety was gonna kill Stan before monsters got the chance to.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

Stan could see the gears grinding in Kenny's mind.

"Darkness devours..."

"But the prophecy?"

"Fuck the prophecy!" Stan exclaimed, frustration bubbling over. "I'm sick of the stupid prophecy."

"Stan, I'm sorry. I seriously thought you chose him."

"I get it, but I wouldn’t do that.”

"Wait, so who else did you choose?" Kenny asked, then looked vaguely disapproving. "Eric?"

Stan took a deep breath. "Kyle."

Kenny's disbelief was evident in his voice, it put Stan on edge. "Like... like Athena kid Kyle?"

"Yeah, that one."

Kenny fell silent, his posture straightening like a soldier preparing for battle. Stan wasn't sure why he clung to every micro-movement. Probably because the dynamic between Kyle and Kenny would indirectly choose whether or not they all lived. Stan needed them to get on, if the rivalry between Cartman and Kyle extended to Kenny too, they were all fucked.

"He seems... chill," Kenny admitted.

Oh sweet hallelujah!

"You think?" Stan asked.

"Yeah, I guess. Never really spoken to him, he seems alright. People like him."

Was that resentment? Probably not. This may not be too bad. Kenny, Kyle, and Stan would all get along. They would live. Probably. Fuck yes. That was a win.

"When are you telling him?" Kenny asked.

That was less of a win. "I'm not sure... Garrison says we're gonna have to leave at eight o'clock tomorrow latest because we only have four days, so, fuck."

Kenny hummed. "I'd tell him now."

"You think?"

"Give it time to sink in before tomorrow."

Stan took a breath and jerkily nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

Kenny led Stan to the Athena cabin. It was a grey building made of polished stone, with a low, tilted roof. When they knocked on the door, the silence squeezed Stan's chest like a python ready to strike.

As they waited, Kenny tapped patterns into his thigh, a nervous habit betraying his calm facade. Stan realised that while this was a new experience for him, Kenny had been navigating the murky waters of prophecy now for the past seven years. Weird. Stan already hated it.

Miraculously, the door swung open to reveal flaming red hair and a cacophony of voices that hit them like a tidal wave.

"Hey," Kyle greeted them, guarded but not hostile. If Stan looked hard enough, he could see stars from the night sky glistening against the lily pad green of his eyes.

"Can we, uh, talk?"

"Sure." Kyle held the door open wider. "Wanna come inside?"

Neither Stan nor Kenny moved. Perhaps if the gossip from the Athena kids had been less obvious, they would have entered.

"Could we go somewhere else?" Stan asked.

"Yeah, of course."

Kyle left the Athena cabin and the three strolled in tense silence for what felt like years.

Neither Kenny nor Kyle spoke a word to each other, though Stan watched them shoot glances when the other wasn't watching. Weird. The sensation was the same as tiptoeing through a minefield, each step fraught with the very real risk of detonation.

Finally, they found a secluded spot, away from the prying cabins that overlooked the lake. The moon and stars reflected off of the waters surface, casting a shimmering glow. Tiny waves, creases in the pool, gently lapped against the shore, chirping of crickets and frogs harmonising with the occasional hoot of an owl.

After a couple moments, Kyle cleared his throat. "You okay?" He muttered, voice low and slightly hoarse. "Like, after being chosen?"

"You heard about that?"

Kyle nodded, then sighed. "Apollo uses the lyre to channel his healing powers, if it's gone then he'll eventually lose the ability to maintain control over human sickness and disease."

"Yeah. Fab."

"And it wards off evil forces."

Stan clenched his fists, this was not helping his anxiety any. "Right."

"And the balance of natural elements, and it's a source of his divine strength, and–"

"Dude. Chill."

Kyle stopped his rambling to close his eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. When they burst open, Stan held his breath.

"You've chosen me, haven't you?"

Damn Athena kids and their ability to put two and two together.

Stan pressed his hands into his face, his voice muffled as he spoke. "Dude, I'm really sorry."

Kyle gave a sad smile, preferring to look over the lake than back to Stan. "It's okay, I kinda appreciate it."

"Seriously?” Stan said, looking up to exchange a glance with Kenny. “Why?"

"I've been preparing for this sort of thing for a while, I guess. We got a plan?"

Stan shook his head. "Not exactly."

"Right, well, I vote we get one. This might be rougher than necessary if we don't," Kyle said. "Know who else your taking?"

Stan looked to Kenny, then back to Kyle. Sure, Kenny hadn't spoken a word, but was it not kind of obvious? He pointed a thumb towards the son of Hades. "This guy."

Apparently shocked, Kyle's brows shot up. "Seriously?"

A cold breeze brushed over them, dragging their hair inches closer to the moon.

"What does that mean?" Kenny narrowed his eyes.

Kyle quickly backtracked. "No, it's just... it's nothing, sorry. That was rude of me."

"Yeah."

"Dude–"

"We're leaving at eight," Stan blurted, not enjoying the tension. "Are prophecies usually relevant to the journey itself? I've never done this before, so..."

"Depends," Kyle mumbled, orange brows drawn into a frown. When bushes behind them started to rustle, likely due to wind, he became slightly hunched. "You wanna head back to the Athena cabin? I don't like being out in the open talking about this stuff."

Stan didn't quite know how to remind Kyle that there was a reason they weren't in the Athena cabin to begin with. Like a guardian angel, however, Kenny swooped in to save the day.

"I, uh... I've got a cabin?" Kenny suggested.

"Right." Kyle nodded. "Son of Hades. Of course."

Midnight blue eyes dulled at the mention of his father, but Kenny silently wrapped his orange parka tighter around himself and led the way.

"Were you at the campfire?" Stan asked Kyle after a particularly gruelling moment of silence.

"Nope, I was with Ike when our siblings burst in and told us what happened. Honestly, I thought it was a joke at first."

Stan nodded, though felt awful about the following realisation. "Yeah, it's kinda crazy. You okay leaving Ike?”

“It’s only four days. He needs independence, maybe it’ll be useful for when I get back.”

When.

When he got back.

Not if.

Kyle glanced at Kenny, who was a couple paces ahead, and then back to Stan. "So, what's the plan?"

"Well, that's what we gotta find out," Stan said, crossing his arms. "Any bright ideas?"

Kyle pursed his lips, thinking. "Apollo mentioned heading west, right? So that narrows it down a bit. But the west is still wide open."

"I have a feeling we'll know where to go when we get there," Kenny said. "Just gotta follow the flow."

Kyle nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Though a good plan always helps."

"Sure."

"Great."

"Awesome."

They arrived at the Hades cabin with Stan resisting the urge to knock himself out. Kenny and Kyle were being weird, the energy was off.

If Kyle was a high-speed train, Kenny was a meandering riverboat. Stan would probably just be a bicycle.

As they entered the Hades cabin, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood and earth. It was clear from Kyle's facial expressions that he hadn't expected the mismatched furniture and dark drapes lining the walls. The faint creek of floorboards accompanied them as Kenny flopped onto the squeaky mattress, motioning for Stan to join him. Meanwhile, Kyle hesitated near the entrance, searching for a suitable place to sit.

"Make yourself comfy. Sorry for the mess," Kenny offered with a smile, rummaging through a drawer to produce a chocolate bar – a familiar treat he had used to coax Stan into learning Greek curse words. It crinkled when he opened it. "Want some?"

Stan enthusiastically nodded, but the redhead now perched beside him looked less keen.

"Nah, it's fine," Kyle softly said. "Thank you."

Kenny raised a brow. "Stole it from Cartman."

At the name, Kyle quickly looked up, eyes wide. But as he fully processed what Kenny had said, all tension fled from his face. It became clear to Stan then why Kenny and Kyle shared such uncomfortable energy. Kyle had been anxious about Kenny and Cartman being so close; this offer from Kenny pushed that to one side.

The chocolate was a peace offering.

Kyle relaxed when Kenny held it out towards him, snapping off a square with a hesitant smile. "Thank you."

"Any time." Kenny shuffled backwards, mattress creaking beneath them, and laid a map out flat. The paper rustled softly as he smoothed it out. "What's the plan?"

"Alright," Kyle said, crossing his arms. "If we're heading west, we should consider possible landmarks or places of interest related to Apollo."

"We could start by heading towards California?" Stan asked. "What's more west than that?"

Kenny shrugged. "Your quest, your choice.”

Christ, Stan hated that reminder. "Okay, so we have a general direction," he said. "But what about supplies? We can't go unprepared."

Kyle smiled. "Don't worry about that. The Athena cabin has a stash of gear we can use. And I'm sure we can get some help from the other cabins too."

Kenny added, "We'll also need to think about transportation."

Stan sighed, pressure resting on him to not end the world crushing his soul into one pathetic little heap. "Right. So, tomorrow morning, we gather supplies, sort out transportation, and start heading west."

Kyle nodded, then his eyes brightened with an idea. "I was thinking we could–" Before he could finish, a sudden rustling noise erupted from the bushes outside Kenny's window, shattering the quiet of the cabin. "Hear that?"

Kenny dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Probably just a raccoon."

"It didn't sound like a raccoon," Kyle countered.

Stan's spine tingled with unease. Hadn't he angered one god already today? What if this was another, seeking revenge? He strained his ears, listening intently, but all he could hear was the faint hum of insects.

"I think we're safe," Stan said tentatively, noticing Kyle visibly relax.

"Yeah, right. Okay," Kyle replied, his red hair bobbing with a forced nod. "Well, I was thinking we could catch a greyhound bus? There should be a stop near the camp."

Stan nodded. "We got this."

"Absolutely, dude,” Kyle said.

Kenny hummed, opting not to support Stan with words but to instead throw another lump of chocolate at him. However, as Stan had been too busy inspecting the map, the chocolate could only slap against his cheek with a dull thud, bouncing to fall onto Kenny's bedding.

They all stared at it in silence.

Nice.

Kenny and Kyle exchanged a quiet glance before grinning, then, giggling. Stan could only wonder who the hell would trust these three idiots with saving the world.

Chapter Text

As night fell, Stan stood outside the Apollo cabin, which glowed eerily with golden light. The moonlight shimmered against the walls, casting rippling shapes of sunbursts and scattered musical notes that danced with every flicker of shadow. Stan knocked, shifting from foot to foot.

After a few moments, a lanky guy finally answered. He didn't say a word, just offered an exaggeratedly sympathetic tilt of his head, his eyes half-lidded as Stan awkwardly shuffled past him.

The cabin's honey-hued walls seemed to glow under the warm, amber light of sun-shaped lamps, their beams stretching into every corner, casting long shadows beneath the wreaths and instruments.

His comfort vanished when he saw Shelley lying on the bed, her back to him. Shelley's back was stiff, her shoulders bunched up near her ears, every muscle taut as if carved from stone. When Stan dropped his rucksack with a loud thud, she whipped her head around, glaring at him with eyes that had turned from their usual soft brown to hard, molten gold, brimming with silent fury.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"Don't."

Stan swallowed back a response. Not like he could think of one anyways, his brain felt like hot fuzz. Hot, angry fuzz that was burning through his cheeks and frown. It wasn't his fault that Apollo was a dick. He was the one about to die, not Shelley. He seriously did not get her.

Like adorable little hostages to fate, their siblings slept around them. Why they were allowed to relax, immune to responsibility, and not Stan was simply beyond him.

He glanced at the door, then at his rucksack. Could he just run away? What could they do? Surely, they'd just pick someone else for the quest. Unless losing the lyre really did lead to a war among the gods that he, according to Apollo, was expected to prevent... would that extend to demigods too? Would they be expected to fight for their parents?

If a literal god hadn't appeared before him crying about fate or whatever, there would be a Stan shaped hole in the wall right now.

Fuck.

He regretted telling Kenny and Kyle.

If he ran away now, they'd notice. Just the thought made his heart race. He could imagine Kenny's blank expression, lights flickering as life left Stan's body. Terrifying. But not as terrifying as the very real possibility of Kyle skinning him alive. They hadn't known each other long, but Stan could already spot the violent streak in the guy, whether from the way he slammed down his chess pieces or the dagger he constantly carried.

The once vibrant sun motifs seemed to sneer at him, their vivid colors bleeding into one another, a messy, orange haze as his vision grew cloudy.

That's when the first tear rolled down his cheek and fell like a pebble hitting the floor. He looked around. Shit. They couldn't see him crying. He was the saviour of the universe for fucks sake, if they saw how confident he wasn't they'd probably start killing themselves just to make the inevitable less melodramatic.

He non-suspiciously shuffled to the cabin bathroom, door slamming behind him. Inside, he took a moment before confronting his reflection. Blue shadows pooled under his eyes and cheeks. He took a great long look at his face – the freckles dotting his nose, the awkward way black hair fell into his eyes, the slight gap between his teeth. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the sink, his breath ragged and uneven as his eyes grew red and sticky with water.

Apollo had looked at him with something like pity in his eyes. Like he knew this was too much to ask of a kid. Maybe being an immortal made it impossible for him to understand how truly messed up this was. But still, he asked. And now, Stan had to deliver. He let out a breath, tightness in his chest easing slightly.

Then, something inside him shifted. He looked at his tear-streaked face and clenched his jaw.

"Pussy."

The fear was still there, threatening to unravel his determination, but another emotion surged – a desperate resolve. He forced his chin higher, swallowing back the ache in his throat.

"Don't be such a pussy, me. We got this."

With a splash of cold water on his face, the boy in the mirror looked different now – older, somehow. Stan stood straighter, took a breath, and left the bathroom, turning his back on the little boy in the mirror and entering the golden light.

This might be his last night alive.

The thought scared him, but was equally invigorating. He'd always wondered what came after death, maybe reincarnation, maybe Jesus swooping down and dragging him up to heaven, maybe the Pope clawing at his ankles and dragging him down to hell.

Shaking his head, Stan cleared this image from his mind and sunk down into his soft mattress. Pity he would only realistically sleep in it for one night, this thing felt crafted by the gods themselves. He could sleep here for eternity – and yes, the irony of that did not evade him with only four days left to live.

Outside, birds chirped and hooted, the sound like pebbles against glass windows. But as exhaustion settled in, the crisp bedding lulled him into a gentler world, the calming melodies of the morning fading into the familiar hum of wind whistling through trees.

The dark void behind Stan's eyelids began to shift, to stretch, morphing into images of gruesome injuries, fast paced battles, and then thin, brown logs. Elongating and twisting until they resembled stripes of a barcode. They branched out into skeletal oak hands with tiny green dots for fingernails until finally the image clarified. Stan was in a forest. These were trees.

Wind whipped his face, and he looked up to see two blurs whizzing above him: a black owl and a white owl, fighting. Wings flapping furiously, screeches pierced his ears like needles. Until finally, there was a sound.

It began as a high-pitched alarm, like a car alarm mixed with the grating of nails on a chalkboard. Then it transformed into a wail. A deep, resonant cry, rumbling like tectonic plates shifting beneath the earth.

A hawk.

Seeing the creature, all air rushed into Stan's lungs at once, knocking him backward.

Everything stopped.

But the piercing, high-pitched cry of the hawk persisted, blending into a word that sounded awfully like 'heard.'

Stan snapped awake to find Shelley scowling down at him. "Turd!"

Stan yelled and jerked backward, tumbling out of bed. Sheets tangled around his legs and he landed on the floor of the Apollo cabin with a bewildered yelp.

Shelley sighed, arms folded as she watched him struggle to disentangle himself. "The chosen one."

"What time is it?" He mumbled, squinting at the bright light casting shadows across the wooden floor. "The fuck, Shelley?"

"Just before six."

Bedsheets rustled as Stan tried to break free, succeeding to sit back down on the bed. "Oh, okay."

That was when Shelley threw something heavy at him.

A bow.

Made from blue, almost silver, polished wood, carvings of sun rays and hyacinth flowers adorned the limbs of it – bulbous, with bell-shaped blooms. The leather grip was worn and supple, clearly shaped by years of use.

He blinked, running a finger over the bowstring; it was thicker, more robust than the guitar strings he was used to. "What's this?"

"A car," she deadpanned. "What do you think?"

"Well, yeah. I get that. Why are you giving it to me?"

"It was a gift from Apollo," Shelley said. "To me. Have it."

"But why are you giving it to me? It's yours."

"Because," Shelley crossed her arms, irritation softening into a sad frown. "I don't trust you not to mess it up."

Stan smirked. "You stealing the glory?"

"Fuck off, I still hate you," Shelley grumbled, then frowned. "You can shoot one, yeah?"

"Apparently."

"Good. Wouldn't want to waste it on dead meat."

"Considerate. Thanks."

"It's enchanted. Only a strong magical force can break it, Apollo created it so that it heals rapidly," she started to ramble. "Basically indestructible, Asclepius didn't want it. Keep it safe or I swear to–"

"Shelley?"

"What?"

"Thank you."

Shelley's eyes softened ever so slightly before she masked it with a huff. "Yeah, whatever. Just come back in one piece. And with the lyre. Or else."

Stan nodded, clutching the bow to his chest. Her sincerity touched him more than he cared to admit. "I'll try."

"Good."

With one final glance around, he absorbed the golden hues and sun motifs. The room that had promised distress now felt like a temporary sanctuary, a fleeting moment of peace before the storm. Stan gathered his belongings, looked back at Shelley for possibly the last time, and left the Apollo cabin behind.

The first blush of dawn streaked the sky with pale gold, the soft light spilling over the camp and painting the dew-kissed grass with a faint shimmer. The morning air was cool, carrying the scent of dew-soaked grass. It didn't take long to reach the scrappy little Hades cabin. Stan knocked, waited a minute, and then squeaked open the door.

Inside, Kenny was already rummaging through supplies. Stan was surprised to see Kyle there too, meticulously reviewing their plans, trying to pace but hindered by the cluttered space. He bent down to move a stray shoe aside, ensuring it was neatly placed against the wall.

"You guys been up long?" Stan asked.

Kyle hummed, nearly tripping a different shoe. "Had to make sure Ike's set. He's... yeah."

"Not doing well?" Stan offered.

"Not exactly," Kyle sighed, slumping onto Kenny's bed. "Told him this morning. He kinda flipped? Not flipped. Broke?"

Kenny looked up from where he'd been folding spare Camp Half-Blood shirts into a black rucksack. "Ike the kid who got attacked a couple months back?"

Kyle nodded. "Yeah, that one."

"Shit, man, that sucks."

Kyle hummed, glancing at his watch. "He'll get over it when we all return fine. I'll prove to him it's safe out there."

"Speaking of coming home," Stan started, resting his own rucksack and bow on the floor. "We figured out how we're going yet?"

Kyle nodded, handing Stan a notebook. "I've been looking at bus times."

The page was drowned in furious scribbles. Stan half-expected it to scold him for poor planning.

"There's a one at eight-thirty," Kyle said. "Think we should aim for San Diego? Apollo said to head west. What's more west than California?"

"I guess. How long'll it take?"

"Just under eighty hours."

The cabin fell silent, except for the sound of their breathing. Stan's heart sank at the thought of an eighty-hour bus ride.

"Eighty?" Stan echoed, eyes wide. "We only have four days; are we seriously gonna use three of those on a bus?"

"It's not like we have a private jet waiting," Kyle grumbled, adding a note to the margin. Then, more seriously, he seemed to consider it. "Even if we did, Zeus isn't pleased with Apollo after he lost– sorry, somebody stole the lyre."

"So?"

"Zeus would strike us out of the sky."

Stan grimaced. "Well, I guess we're going to California. On a bus. For eighty hours."

Kenny hummed, shoving another shirt into his bag. "Least there's gas station snacks," he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Think of the Twinkies!"

While Kenny's forced optimism was well-intentioned, Stan couldn't quite bring himself to join in.

"Exactly. You get the Twinkies, I get the nausea medicine."

Kyle shot him a concerned glance. "You get travel sick?"

"Life sick."

"Ah... well, breakfast starts at seven," Kyle said, checking his watch yet again. "Would you mind if I ate with Ike? Are we even doing breakfast?"

Kenny nodded. "Yeah, man. That's cool." He then pointed a thumb at Stan. "This guy needs to break the news to a couple people this morning, so..."

"Fuck."

Kenny shook his head with a dry smile. "Good luck, man. I'll be right behind you."

Stan took a shallow breath, already imagining the bloodshed that telling Butters and Cartman would cause. "Am I in danger?"

"Not with Butters."

Kyle cringed at that, understanding fully whose wrath the pair had in mind. "Okay, so if we want to be ready for eight to meet that bus?"

"I can go sort out money with Mr. Garrison?" Kenny offered, raising a hand. "Drachmas probably aren't gonna get us much out there. We'll need dollars."

"Sounds cool," Kyle said, turning to Stan. "You coming with me to get last-minute weapons?"

"Yeah, let's go," Stan replied, his voice steady despite the turbulent thoughts swirling in his mind.

As they stepped out of the cabin into the cool morning air, Stan drew a deep breath, relishing its crispness. The scent of pine mingled with the faint aroma of wood smoke from distant campfires, carrying the promise of a new day.

Stan glanced at Kyle, noting the tension in his furrowed brow. "You feeling prepared?"

Kyle's jaw tightened slightly. "Well, I made my offerings to Athena this morning. Did you make any to Apollo?"

"Nah."

"Maybe you should. Apollo's the god of prophecy. Could be useful."

"God of prophecy?" Stan asked. "Like a magic 8-ball, maybe."

"And how's that?"

"Throttle him, get a vague answer, then wonder what the point was in the first place."

Kyle's smile didn't quite reach the green of his eyes.

Thankfully, the Hephaestus cabin loomed ahead, halting their discussion before it dropped to debate. The dark stone roof was reinforced with iron beams that spoke of craftsmanship and strength. Smoke billowed from the chimney, carrying with it the promise of industry and the faint scent of metal and oil.

As they approached the door, Kyle ran a hand through his hair, a nervous tic Stan had noticed way back in the infirmary. After a long minute, he knocked, and none other than Craig Tucker swung the it open.

Draped in a thick layer of soot with a blowtorch clutched in one hand, he stared blankly at Kyle. But when his eyes fell on Stan, they narrowed into thin slits.

"Einstein and Heatstroke," he addressed, looking them up and down. "What d'you want?"

Unlike Stan, who felt his cheeks burn, Kyle didn't back down to the awkward energy. "We need weapons."

Craig didn't give them much of a reply, simply opening the door wider and turning to walk deeper into his cabin, placing the blowtorch down on the way. Stan shrugged to Kyle but stepped in after him.

Inside the Hephaestus cabin, the air was thick with the smell of metal and oil, even in the early morning. Workbenches were cluttered with gears, screws, and blueprints, each surface a testament to the cabin's industrious nature. Stan figured it made sense for a guy as dull as Craig to thrive in the overly structured environment.

"Don't break anything," Craig said, turning to Stan. "I know you have a habit."

Kyle shot Stan a puzzled look, clearly feeling the tension but lacking the context to understand it. That was when Stan had the brilliant realisation that nothing he said now mattered: not if he'd be dead within days anyway.

"Got any spears?" He muttered.

“Not for you."

"Figured."

Kyle cleared his throat, stepping between them. "Craig, dude, tight schedule. Weapons, please."

Craig wordlessly passed Stan a sword, but his awkward delivery left Stan grasping it by the sharp blade instead of the handle.

"Oh, uh." Stan cleared his throat, adjusting his grip carefully. "Thanks?"

Craig handed them three sets of basic weapons – one for Kyle, one for Kenny, and one for Stan. They were far from customised; in an ideal scenario, they would have been fitted with armour tailored to their builds, but necessity dictated otherwise.

Craig shrugged, leading them to the door as an indirect invitation to fuck off. They stumbled outside. "That's everything you should need."

"Any words of wisdom?" Kyle asked, forcing a polite smile for the trouble.

"Kill stuff."

Then, with a bang, Craig slammed the door.

Stan turned to Kyle. "I seriously can't stand that guy."

Kyle grinned. "I figured, what happened?"

"A guy breaks a spear one time–"

"Ah."

"Seriously, it was a mistake."

Kyle shrugged. "At least we have what we need."

They walked in silence for a while, the weight of their upcoming journey palpable in the air between them. The morning sun cast long shadows across the campgrounds as they made their way towards the breakfast pavilion. The structure loomed ahead, its roof supported by tall, wooden columns that echoed the architecture of ancient temples. As they entered, the scent of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee enveloped them, mingling with the quiet chatter of early-rising campers.

Stan stood with his arms crossed beside Kyle as he methodically prepared a tray for Ike, slender frame casting a balletic shadow across the floor.

"We preparing for a famine?" Stan remarked. Ike's plate had become a mountain of food, almost as if he wouldn't venture out himself to eat in the four days they were gone.

Kyle shot him a half-smile. "It's not about that. Just want to make sure he's getting what he needs."

"You think too much."

"I'm sure my mom would say otherwise," he sighed, stopping. There was something in the furrow of Kyle's brow that concerned Stan, he just couldn't place a finger on it. "What if this whole thing goes south? Are you sure you made the right choice? Choosing me, I mean."

There it was.

Stan paused, thinking carefully. "Kyle, I barely know you; I could be making a huge mistake taking you, but I seriously doubt it."

"I guess."

"Back in the forest you had my back, even on different teams," Stan offered a small, reassuring smile. "And hey, if it gets too tough, we'll just come up with a plan. Technically, we're on the same team now."

Kyle took a deep breath, feeling a bit more at ease. "Thanks, dude. I guess I just needed to hear that."

Moments after Kyle hurried out of the pavilion, balancing a tray of food for Ike, Stan settled into his seat, his fingers tapping nervously on the table. His nerves were jittery as he scanned the pavilion, tense and restless as he waited for the other three to arrive. Kenny appeared first, followed closely by Cartman and Butters, and they settled at the table with a mix of tension and forced casualness.

"So, uh, how are we all feeling?" Kenny started.

Stan watched Kenny speak, dread pooling in his stomach as he took a deep breath, desperately trying to calm the storm of nerves inside him.

At least they could take this slow.

They'd have breakfast.

Have a nice chit chat about normal stuff, like not the end of the world.

And then Stan could very calmly reveal who he chose.

Except no. Cartman practically lunged over the table, ignoring Kenny completely. "Who'd you choose, Lightbulb?"

Never mind.

They were doing this now then, okay. Okay! Stan hesitated, his heart beating his insides like a hyperactive child would a piñata. "I chose, uh, Kenny."

Butters grew pale, but Cartman shrugged, tension coiling in his shoulders. “Duh, who else?”

"Uh, I..."

Stan couldn’t breathe.

"Kyle."

Shocked, Butters spun to face Kenny, who could only return the wide eyed stare with a nod.

Cartman politely tilted his head. “What? I didn't quite hear you."

"Kyle."

“Hm? What was that, sorry?”

"I chose Kyle... for the quest," Stan blurted out, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Cartman leaned closer, cupping his hand around his ear as if he needed to hear the words clearer. "Say that again, sorry?"

"I. Chose. Kyle."

Cartman's palms struck the table like thunder. "THE FREAKING GINGER MIDGET–"

“Oh gods,” Kenny groaned, his head falling into his hands as nearby campers turned to stare, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Stan could only jump back. "Dude, I don't even–"

"Are you insane?!”

"It was a split-second decision!” Stan defended himself, his voice rising in pitch as the heat of embarrassment crept up his neck.

"No, yeah. No! That's fine," Cartman rambled, sitting back in his seat, rubbing his temples with wide eyes. "It's fine! It's okay... fuck! Seriously, you guys, what in the name of all that's holy does that ginger Stygian troll have that I don't?!"

Kenny smirked. "A soul?"

Butters nodded earnestly. "I think Stan just wants to stay alive–"

"I'm absolutely stunned, shocked, and bombarded by this news," Cartman proclaimed more seriously, almost like he was already accepting the end of the world. "I mean, Stanley, c'mon. You wanna doom us all? That's on you. Personally, I would've chosen someone a lot more... not shit. You don't need him."

Kenny crossed his arms, orange fabric of his shirt pulling across his chest. "He needs someone who won't eat all the rations."

"Ay!"

Butters pressed closer to Kenny's side. "Gosh, Stan, are you really sure about this?"

"Yeah, it wasn't easy. At least you won't be alone. You'll have Cartman."

Only after he spoke did Stan realise that might not have been very reassuring.

"Whatever. Do what you want, who cares. I applaud you," Cartman shrugged, now slowly clapping. "But when you both die, I'm having the Hades cabin."

Kenny was like a kid at the zoo, genuinely fascinated by his audacity. "Wow, man."

"Just... promise me you'll stay safe, fellas," Butters pleaded, breaths concerningly shallow.

Stan tried to reassure him with a smile, then realised his own anxiety probably presented it as a grimace, so stopped. "We'll do our best, Butters. Promise."

Cartman grumbled under his breath, digging into his pocket. "Here, take this. Luck or some shit, pretend I gave a speech about honour and truth."

He threw a bracelet to the table with a quiet clatter. It was a makeshift piece, a knotted string with a tiny glass charm dangling from it – like a miniature glass jar with a red rock inexplicably rattling on the inside. It was laughably simple, really, almost like he'd mugged it off a toddler.

"What's this meant to do?" Stan asked, though slid the contraption onto his wrist regardless. "Make me less likely to die?"

Cartman shrugged. "Take it or leave it, you ungrateful twit."

"Sweet."

Opposite Stan, Butters sighed. "I wish I could come with, fellas," he tried. "I really do."

But Cartman was busy glaring at the table. "I still don't get why that crappy little egghead gets all the glory."

Kenny rolled his eyes. "It's not about glory, Cartman."

He scowled. "Please, Kenny, everything in this world is glory."

"Thanks for the bracelet," Stan said again.

"Don't mention it," Cartman grumbled. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation to uphold."

The tension in the pavilion eased slightly as their conversation drifted to lighter topics, but the weight of their impending journey hung over them like a spectre.

Stan couldn't shake the unease creeping up his spine as he observed his friends around the table. Butters seemed engaged in the conversation, laughter twanging at various attempts of humour, but it was hard to ignore the way his shoulders shook, the way his hands were clutched together, the way he'd grown white as snow with only that icy river etched across one eye reminding Stan just how dangerous this endeavour was going to be.

Meanwhile, Cartman seemed more focused on the tabletop, his fingers interwoven like he was plotting some grand scheme. After a few moments, he glanced at Kenny, then, at Stan.

At exactly eight o'clock, not a moment earlier, they shuffled out of the dining pavilion. Metres from the door they paused. Nobody was quite sure why, it was just one of those meaningless human things like yawning or saying "ow" even when you weren't hurt – they just felt the need.

That's when Butters, who'd been holding it together thus far pulled Kenny into a shaky hug. If it weren't for Stan's gift from Apollo, giving him advanced hearing, he wouldn't have heard Butters' whisper: "I can't handle another funeral, please. Not after last time."

Stan glanced at Cartman beside him, who observed the hug with a hollow glint.

Stan sighed. "Look, just– sorry. For not choosing you."

"Whatever, Stanley, take the red-headed jinx if you want," he said, voice synthetically flat. "Hell, maybe it'll be satisfying for me. Like watching a slow-motion train crash."

Fucking hell – this guy needed a shrink. Stan just blinked, slowly stepped away, and refocused on Kenny and Butters.

Kenny clapped Butters on the back as they finally parted, offering a reassuring smile. "Take care of yourself, Butters."

"You first."

With a final nod, Kenny and Stan turned away from their friends, moving side by side through the camp. Their footsteps echoed along the gravel path, crunching underfoot.

They passed cabins and training areas where early risers bustled about, heading towards the Hades cabin. It stood solemn against the brightening sky.

"Well... that could've gone worse," Stan remarked, hands buried in his pockets.

Kenny remained silent.

Approaching the Hades cabin, they found Kyle anxiously double-checking his rucksack. Adjusting their own packs, they prepared to leave camp and catch the bus. The morning was quiet, punctuated by birdsong and rustling leaves. Stan took a deep breath.

"How did telling Fat Boy go?" Kyle asked, breaking the peaceful moment.

"Let's not," Stan sighed, shaking his head slightly.

"Understood. Anybody die?"

Stan glanced at Kenny, who hadn't spoken since saying goodbye to Butters. "Not physically."

"Could've gone a lot worse, then."

"Trueee."

A cold sigh brushed over Stan's lips as they reached the top of the hill, each turning to stare down at Camp Half-Blood nestled in the verdant valley. Demigods of all ages moved like tiny dots – some trained with flashing swords, others huddled in groups – but they all shared a common bond.

Stan, Kyle, and Kenny were doing this for them.

"I hope we're doing the right thing," Kyle murmured.

"I only just found this place," Stan said, rucksack already digging in. "Think we'll see it again?"

"Of course," Kenny assured, shattering his silence. "Worst case scenario: we come back and haunt Cartman as ghosts."

"That's... oddly comforting."

"I'm in," Kyle smirked, adjusting his rucksack straps. "He's probably already plotting his revenge."

"Yeah," Stan said, "I'll deal with it when we get back. If we get back."

Kenny dryly chuckled. "Way to stay positive, Stan."

"Just being realistic."

Upon reaching the camp boundary, marked by a line of tall trees, Stan stopped and turned to them again. "Last chance to back out, guys. I wouldn't be mad. Kinda."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Nice try, dude, but we're invested now."

Kenny hesitated, frowning as he glanced back at the campers in the valley, most of which had alienated him his entire childhood. In his midnight blue eyes, Stan glimpsed a shadow of hope. This was Kenny's chance to defy the Big Three prophecy, to prove he was more than his troubled heritage, to be himself away from the complexities of his reputation.

"I'm in," he reaped a grin.

With a final glance at the rising sun casting a golden hue over everything, they embarked on their big adventure; just them, four days, and a boatload of shit trying to kill them.

Stan smiled, twisting the new bracelet on his wrist.

This was so fucked.

Chapter Text

Stood at the bus stop, Stan adjusted the blue and brown bow slung across his back.

Around them, verdant foliage cast dappled patterns across the ground. Stan tilted his head back as the breeze picked up, cool air rushing over his face and through his hair. As dust kicked up by passing vehicles settled on his skin, something about waiting for a bus with these two in particular felt oddly familiar.

"Hey," he started. "You guys getting déjà vu?"

Kenny nodded. "Yeah, man. Like we've done this a hundred times before."

"Weird," Kyle muttered, glancing down at his wristwatch and then back to the road. "Probably just the camp barrier messing with us."

"Probably," Stan nodded. When Kyle checked his wristwatch yet again, he raised a brow. "What's up?"

"The bus is two minutes late. What if something happened?"

"We aren't that unlucky," Kenny declared. "Probably."

Stan nervously laughed. "Unlucky enough to be chosen by Apollo."

"Don't say that," Kyle reflexively muttered. "It's a blessing."

"Yeah, right up there with getting a root canal," Stan replied, shifting his bow again. It was about as comfortable as wearing a backpack full of bricks. He wasn't built for this. He wasn't a hero. He was just some random kid with a hand-me-down bow and a toddler’s understanding of Greek mythology.

Kenny, likely sensing the anxiety, nudged him. "Cool bow. Very Robin Hood."

Stan managed a half-smile. "You think?"

"Hell yeah, what's up with those markings?"

"I mean, the suns are probably an Apollo thing," Stan guessed. "The flowers? No clue."

"They're hyacinth flowers," Kyle said, earning two bewildered stares. "Named after the Spartan prince your dad fell in love with. Symbol of power, pride, and, well, death."

"Huh," Stan inspected the bow more closely, running a finger over the curves and bumps. "You know too much."

Checking his watch again, Kyle gave a small smile. "No such thing."

"What happened?" Stan asked. "With Hyacinth and Apollo, I mean."

"Apollo wanted a game of discus. Hyacinth was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Apollo used him as a discus?"

Kyle shook his head. "Nah, Apollo struck him down with one."

"Oh... romantic," Stan said. He wondered if Apollo had loved Hyacinth as he loved his mom and if that was why he'd stayed away until now. "So, Apollo just... killed him?"

"Seems like fate had a hand in it too," Kyle said. "I doubt it was intentional."

"At least he left his mark?" Kenny suggested.

"Yeah," Stan said, "but in the dude’s skull."

A lone car roared past, dust swirling up around them. Kyle faced the sky and groaned. "C'mon bus, don't screw us over here."

"Hey," Kenny said, stepping forward and pointing to something beyond Stan's head. "Look!"

Stan followed Kenny's gaze down the road, face lighting when he saw a speck on the horizon gradually growing larger and more defined; sunlight glinting off the bus windows and reflecting the polished exterior.

Kyle beamed, then glanced at Stan, brow furrowing with concern. "Dude, you need to transform your bow."

"What?"

"Transform it."

"Why?"

Kyle jabbed a finger at the approaching bus, its rumbling growing louder by the second. "They'll see you with a weapon on display and think we're outdoorsy terrorists. Hurry!"

Stan looked at the bow, then back at Kyle. "How?"

Kyle's eyes widened like they were trying to escape his face. "You don't know?!"

"Of course not– what the fuck?!"

"Uh, just... just think!"

Stan squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that his lashes seemed to meld into his skin. Every muscle in his arms tensed, shaking with the effort as he tried to will the bow to transform. Kenny and Kyle exchanged a wide-eyed look. Despite Stan's desperate concentration, the bow remained stubbornly unchanged.

Kenny winced. "You look constipated."

"Real helpful, dude. Seriously."

"We're screwed," Kyle announced.

"No, no– just gimme a sec..." Stan's voice cracked slightly.

But the bus was now near enough to read the number plate. Stan gulped before clenching his teeth. This was getting real.

"What if I just sort of hide it?"

Kenny's eyes darted around. "Where?"

Stan spotted a nearby tree. "Over there!"

"Stan Marsh," Kyle declared, exasperated, "you are a saviour of Olympus, do not hide behind that tree."

Stan groaned in panic and screwed his eyes shut again, concentrating hard.

All sorts of images popped into his head: Apollo, the harpie, a lyre, that one time his mom tried to make vegan cookies for him in the fourth grade, only for them to turn out awful. He grinned at the memory, recalling how they'd thrown open the doors and windows, the stench so strong it could have killed a small Victorian child. He clung to this image: his mom's hearty laugh, the way she'd taken him to the store afterwards, how Stan had tried to pay with his pocket money for new, unburnt cookies but barely had enough to buy a pack of gum.

A subtle ripple ran across the bow.

Encouraged, Stan focused harder. The memory flickered to that time his Uncle Jimbo taught him to ride a bike, the thrill of his first successful ride – their neighbour, Ned, clapping from the sideline. He thought of the time his mom stormed into his bedroom in sixth grade only to catch him having a one-man dance party to Black Sabbath. She hadn't shouted, she hadn't argued, she'd simply joined in.

As these memories flooded his mind, the bow began to transform. There was a creaking, like joints and mechanisms clicking into place, and the familiar grip of the weapon in his hands became lighter and lighter, more delicate. The long, curved limbs were shrinking and straightening, transforming into thin, metal legs. The bowstring retracted into a taut needle and pivot point, rich blue wood morphing now into glistening silver.

Opening his eyes, Stan exhaled slowly, relief flooding through him.

"Did you see that?" Kenny exclaimed.

Stan took a deep breath, marvelling at the transformed bow. "Yeah, I think that worked." He held up the new device. "But the fuck is this thing?"

Kyle let out a relieved laugh, shaking his head. "Brilliant."

Stan raised an eyebrow. "What's so funny?"

"Your bow transformed into a bow compass," Kyle explained, still chuckling. "You use those to draw circles in geometry."

Stan blinked and let out a groan. This was almost as geeky as Mr. Mackey's bow tie transformation. "Perfect. Nothing cooler."

Kenny grinned. "Hey, it's better than nothing. Think about us. Dunno about Kyle but my sword remains a sword."

Kyle nodded. "It's a blessing, dude."

Stan raised a brow, tucking it into his pocket. What was with this guy and blessings?

Moments later, the bus screeched to a halt in front of them, the doors wheezing open with a hydraulic hiss. The driver, a grizzled old guy with a bushy grey moustache that gave him a walrus sort of charm, looked them up and down.

"California?" He grunted.

"Yeah, please," Stan nodded.

"Hop right on."

They did, navigating past murmurs of conversation and the rustling of newspapers, finding three empty seats with slightly work upholstery. Kyle offered Stan the window seat, believing it would help his travel sickness, and Stan accepted the offer in a flash. This left Stan and Kyle sitting together with Kenny sitting in the same row but over the aisle, dedicating the spare seat to his rucksack.

After a few moments, the bus rolled forward, gentle vibrations rattling beneath them. Stan leant his head against the window, hoping it'd cool his brain. Or at least freeze it so he wouldn't have to think anymore. "This doesn't feel real."

"True," Kyle said as the forest blurred past. "Just remember, this isn't a game. We need to be ready for everything."

"We'll be fine," Stan tried, just this once, not to be sarcastic. "What's the worst that could happen?"

The bus hit a pothole, jostling them in their seats. Kyle cast a wary glance at Kenny, then back to Stan. "You really shouldn't say things like that."

Stan straightened, still wincing from the jolt. "Got it."

Kenny pulled his feet onto the seat, sitting with his knees by his chest. Fiddling with the beads of his Camp Half-Blood necklace, he seemed transfixed by the outside world.

"Or else black roses will bloom," Kyle sighed, snapping Stan's attention back to him. "I wish I was at the campfire when the oracle spoke. Like what does that even mean?"

"The prophecy not give us any cryptic clues or something?"

"Unfortunately for us, it's a prophecy, not a GPS," Kyle sighed, unzipping his rucksack.

He took out his notebook and flipped to a page where he'd made annotations around a quote bubble with more branches than the forest they were rattling away from. Then, Kyle started to read.

"Born from sun’s shadow, a soldier arises, something about glory, silent fury mesmerises, four days to reclaim, else the black rose flowers, failing means something about horns? Then darkness devours."

"Who even writes these things?" Stan asked. Nothing like a prophecy to get in an apocalyptic mood.

"The three sisters, you think they'd be more straightforward."

"Gods, I wish," Stan said. When Kyle huffed in amusement, he raised a brow. "What?"

Kyle smiled and shook his head. "Nothing, just you've only been a demigod for a week and you've already inherited the... I dunno, the phrases."

"Huh?"

Kyle dropped his voice to a whisper, took a glance around, and then leant forward like he was muttering an ancient curse. "'Oh my gods,' that sort of thing."

"What? Is saying that bad?"

"Dangerous, the gods might take offence."

Stan dismissively waved a hand. "My dad already put us in grave danger, it's fine."

"Just be careful with it," Kyle said.

"Totally dude."

The bus continued to rumble, its engine humming beneath a chorus of muffled conversations and the occasional squeak of worn-out seats. Snippets of music seeped through headphones, mingling with the rhythmic cough of an older man three rows behind them, his hacking like a relic from a life spent with cigarettes.

Despite the groggy warmth enveloping the bus, a cold shiver snaked down Stan's spine. As the journey wore on, he noticed more passengers sneaking glances in their direction. The unease in his gut grew, gnawing at him in a way that went beyond travel sickness. He nudged Kyle, his eyes darting around.

"I think we're being watched."

Kyle looked up from his seat, barely moving. "You think?"

"Totally," Stan confirmed, nodding vigorously. His gaze shifted to Kenny, who had slumped into a restless sleep, his head lolling over the aisle. "Hey, dude."

Kenny barely stirred, his eyelids fluttering but remaining shut.

Stan blinked. "Is he dead?"

Kyle shrugged and leaned over to tap Kenny awake, only to pause inches from making contact. Stan raised an eyebrow. Did Kyle not feel comfortable even tapping him? What was up with these two?

Miraculously, the bus hit another pothole, jolting them all. Kenny snapped awake, blinking in confusion.

"Sup," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"We're being watched," Stan hissed urgently, anxiously turning the bracelet from Cartman on his wrist. Christ, he hadn't noticed how heavy it was before now.

Kenny's eyes widened. "Seriously?"

Kyle tried to be rational. "Maybe it's just nerves? Let's not panic yet."

Easy for him to say – he probably had an escape plan stashed away in his notebook, meticulously colour-coded and ready for action. Stan shifted in his seat and glanced at the other passengers, each one now feeling like a potential threat.

Kenny, still groggy, yawned and stretched. "So, what do we do if someone tries something?"

Kyle's eyes remained on the window, though his fingers drummed nervously against his thigh. "We stay alert. Just don't make it obvious that we aren't fully human."

Before Stan could respond, the bus's PA system crackled to life with a loud, static-filled announcement.

"Attention, everyone," the driver's voice boomed, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "We're pulling over for a fuel stop and a half-hour break at the Sunoco gas station up ahead."

A collective murmur of relief and annoyance swept through the bus. Stan's stomach tightened further. The break could mean more exposure, and he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

Kyle turned to Stan, his face tight with concern. "Alright, this might be our chance to stay out of the way and act natural."

The bus slowed to a stop, and the driver's voice came over the intercom again. "We'll be at the Sunoco in five minutes. Please make sure to take all your belongings with you."

Stan swallowed hard, nodding. He glanced over at Kenny, who was now fully awake and looking around with a puzzled expression.

"Fucking hell," Stan whispered. "This is weird."

Kenny nodded, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Yeah, let's just get our strength up."

The bus pulled into the Sunoco station, the harsh fluorescent lights casting long shadows inside. As the bus hissed to a stop, Stan, Kyle, and Kenny quickly stood, their movements tense and hurried. Stan's eyes darted around, fingers gripping the seat's backrest as he prepared to lead them off.

Once inside the gas station, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft whoosh, they headed straight for the bathrooms. After freshening up, Stan emerged to find Kenny and Kyle staring at one corner of the store. His heart sank when he saw what they were looking at: survival gear.

Great. He'd dragged them into this mess, forcing them to grow up too fast. Stan needed to change the vibe and fast. He glanced around, spotting something that could lighten the mood.

"Hey, guys, check this out!" Stan called out, waving them over to another aisle.

Reluctantly, they left the survival kits and followed Stan. They found themselves in the candy aisle, brightly lit shelves packed with colourful wrappers. Soft pop music played in the background, creating a strange contrast to their tense situation. Stan picked up a package of candy, feeling the coolness from the refrigerated section on his cheeks.

Kyle rolled his eyes but couldn't hide a small smile. "Candy? Seriously, dude?"

"Yeah, why not?" Stan shrugged. "Maybe buying candy is the butterfly effect we need to fix this lyre crap. Plus, we deserve a treat."

Kenny's eyes lit up. "Hell yeah! These are my favourite," he said, grabbing a bag of Sour Patch Kids.

Kyle looked sceptical. "What's our budget again?"

"Thirty bucks for food this week," Kenny said, pulling out a small pouch and dangling it off of one finger.

Kyle thought for a moment, then reached for a box of Nerds. Stan gave him a look. "Nerds? Really?"

Kyle shrugged. "Yeah, dude. The packaging is practical."

"A son of Athena getting Nerds? It writes itself," Stan joked.

Kyle snorted. "Let a guy live. Pick something yourself, prophecy kid."

Kenny chuckled, gently taking a bag of gummy bears off the shelf. "My sister loves these."

Stan and Kyle looked surprised. "You have a sister?" Stan asked.

"Somewhere," Kenny nodded. "Foster kid."

"Ah."

"Alright, so we're getting these, these, and those... Kyle, you sure about the Nerds?" Stan asked.

"Yep," Kyle confirmed, holding up the box. "You?"

Stan bent down, his knees cracking, to grab a Hershey's Milk Chocolate Bar.

Kenny laughed. "Simple, I like it."

After paying for their candy, something caught Stan's eye – a fireworks display off to the side, its sparkling designs and eye-catching graphics drawing him in. The packaging was vibrant, a mix of reds, yellows, and blues.

"Guys, check this out," Stan said, but they were already moving outside, not wanting to be easy targets by the bus. They slipped behind the gas station, finding a quieter spot to wait.

The curb was rough against their hands and feet as they settled down, litter and leaves rustling in the breeze. They had fifteen minutes before the bus left. Traffic rumbled in the distance, the faint aroma of gasoline mixing with the night air.

Stan sat cross-legged, leaning back against his rucksack. Kyle had his knees up, hugging them to his chest, while Kenny crouched nearby. They began unwrapping their candy, the crinkling wrappers breaking the silence.

"Man, this is magic," Kenny said, popping a Sour Patch Kid into his mouth.

Stan laughed. "You get out of camp often?"

"Nah, not really. Never been allowed to."

Kyle's eyebrows shot up as he carefully shook Nerds into his hand. "Seven years straight?"

"Basically, yeah."

"Why weren't you allowed to leave?" Stan asked.

"Mr. Garrison never said. Just that I couldn't."

"You sure?" Kyle's green eyes darkened with suspicion. "What changed? Why can you come now?"

"I dunno... it's probably not that important," he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably.

"Yeah, but there has to be a reason," Kyle insisted, leaning forward.

Stan intervened. "Kyle, chill."

Kenny stared into the distance, jaw tight. His shoulders hunched. He shook his head subtly.

Suddenly, an eerie screech pierced the air. They froze, glancing up.

Stan took out his compass and it instantly transformed back into a bow, dread coiling in his gut.

A powerful whoosh and flap of wings filled the air as three dark figures fell from the sky. Their wild, unkempt hair streamed behind them like snakes. Their forms flickered like disturbed reflections on water.

"I knew this would happen," Kyle muttered, eyes wide as he glanced at Kenny, who was more focused on taking a sword from his rucksack.

Stan panicked, rising to his feet. "What the hell are they?"

"Erinyes," Kyle whispered, barely audible. "The Furies."

The Furies, ancient goddesses of vengeance, fixed their gaze on the boys. Their presence brought an oppressive weight, freezing the very leaves in mid-fall.

Stan swallowed hard. "What do they want?"

"Us.”

The Furies edged closer, their sinister presence casting long, flickering shadows under the harsh gas station lights. Stan, Kyle, and Kenny pressed against the grimy wall, their breaths ragged and quick.

"Shitting fucking fuck," Stan muttered, his voice barely audible over the mounting tension.

"Stay calm," Kyle said, though his voice wavered. "Fight smart, stay calm."

The first Fury lunged with a piercing shriek, her blade cutting through the air with a deadly grace. Stan barely had time to react, ducking as the blade whistled past his face, the cold wind of its passage stinging his skin. "Crap!"

Kyle sprang into action, feinting left and then darting right with quick, practised movements. He aimed a strike at the Fury's exposed side, but her reflexes were unnaturally fast. She twisted mid-air, her blade parrying his blow with a metallic clang that reverberated through the night. Kyle gritted his teeth, eyes darting for any weakness in her relentless defence.

Meanwhile, Kenny engaged the second Fury with nimble agility. He darted between her slashing talons, his small frame making him a difficult target. He lunged with surprising speed, landing quick, shallow blows. Yet each time, the Fury's claw-like appendages swiped through the air, forcing Kenny to dance just out of reach. The Fury's relentless aggression was starting to wear on him, her strikes growing closer and more desperate.

Stan's gaze swept the darkened sky, searching for the third Fury. The moonlight glinted off her ominous, outstretched wings as she descended. Stan's heart raced, the oppressive weight of the situation sinking in.

The third Fury dropped from above, her eyes glowing with a malevolent light. Stan's instincts screamed at him to move. He twisted away from her razor-sharp claws, feeling the wind of her descent whip through his hair. The Fury's landing cracked the pavement, sending shards of concrete skittering across the ground. Her eyes locked onto Stan, and he felt the icy chill of her gaze as if she were piercing his very soul.

He notched an arrow. Drew back the bowstring. His hands trembled, sweat trickling down his brow. He released, but the arrow splintered against the concrete.

"C'mon!" He yelled in frustration.

Stan barely had a moment to react before the Fury's claws crashed into him, slamming him to the ground with bone-jarring force. His breath erupted in a harsh, agonized gasp as he hit the cold concrete, the world spinning violently around him. Every nerve in his body screamed in pain, a dark haze clouding his vision.

He tried to push himself up, but his limbs felt leaden, unresponsive. The Fury loomed above him, her monstrous face twisted into a cruel sneer. Her breath, a putrid mist of decay, washed over him, filling his senses with a suffocating chill. Stan's heart pounded wildly, each beat a desperate plea for escape. His mind raced frantically, but the ground seemed to pull him down, and the Fury's shadow eclipsed his dwindling hope.

As the Fury raised her claws for the final strike, Stan's strength waned. The reality of his grim situation settled in—there was no way out. The cold, merciless grip of despair tightened around him, and the encroaching darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

A distant hiss. A trail of sparkling embers.

Then, an earth-shattering boom.

The beast leapt back. Stan covered his ears as a burst of yellow exploded in the sky.

Brilliant streaks of cyan, red, and yellow arched through the smoke. Explosions of colour scattered sparks. The smoke hung low, stinging Stan's eyes. He barely made out the Furies' silhouettes, momentarily illuminated by trails of light. They screeched, terrified, wings flapping to flee. That's when it clicked.

Fireworks.

Seriously?

The flying, clawed, killing machines were afraid of fireworks?

Stan could taste gunpowder with every breath. Another firework launched, its cyan arc visible through the smoky veil. A surge of heat, and the world exploded into blinding light. Colours dazzled, scarlet and lemon flashing bright, burning into his vision. Sparks cascaded down like molten rain, searing the ground. The Furies fled, their screeches echoing as they dissolved into the night.

As the smoke cleared, the explosions ceased. An eerie silence fell.

Stan's ears rang. The residual vibrations still shot through his body.

Slowly, Kenny and Kyle came to their senses, charred and panting heavily.

With a groan, pain shooting through his ribs, Stan pushed himself up. The others followed, breathless and battered. He squinted through the thick smoke, eyes watering. Debris and remnants of fireworks littered the ground.

"We all good?" Stan panted, voice strained.

The smoke began to thin. A fourth figure emerged from the haze, initially just a vague smudge against the lingering fog. Stan frowned.

The fireworks.

Of course, somebody must have been shooting them.

The figure moved closer, becoming clearer with each step. Slowly, the outline of a red hoodie took shape. Stan's heart raced as the details sharpened – the familiar swagger, the smug expression.

Stronger this time, Stan's bracelet tugged his wrist forward.

"Don't all thank me at once," the figure said, rolling his eyes. "Seriously, don't."

Eric fucking Cartman.

Chapter Text

As Kyle pressed his dagger against Cartman's throat, lunging forward and pinning him against the gas station wall, his orange curls were matted with ash, his face flushed in anger.

"How'd you find us?" He growled, smoke curling around their forms.

"Wow, thanks for saving my life," Cartman mocked in an insultingly higher pitch. "You're so cool and noble and–"

Kyle pressed the dagger down harder, grip so tight his knuckles had gone white. "I'm serious, Fatass. How?!"

Cartman shrugged, smirking. "Intuition?"

Kenny and Stan shared an exhausted look. Neither were shocked when Kyle's boot slammed into Cartman's balls.

"Don't make me repeat myself," Kyle hissed, moving the dagger to let the heavyset boy fold forward in pain.

"Fucking hell?!" Cartman groaned, hands shooting to his stomach, eyes squeezed shut.

"Tell me!"

"Ask Sunshine Bear."

Stan's eyebrow twitched at the comparison to a Care Bear, but the confusion of that statement overshadowed the disgust. He frowned, then, felt the same familiar tugging on his wrist that he had all day. Upon closer inspection, the little bead inside of the glass charm rattled.

Eyes widening, Stan looked up. "You sneaky son of a bitch."

Of course, the friendship bracelet had been a trick – the little bead inside of the glass charm quite literally pointed in Cartman's direction, it had acted as a magnet, leading him towards their location ever since he'd slipped the bastard thing on his wrist. Biting his tongue, Stan resisted the urge to scream.

Somehow, Cartman had been following them all day. Even worse, nobody had noticed.

"What?" Cartman perked a brow, pulling off the 'puppy who never realised pissing on the carpet is frowned upon' look. "You thought I was getting you a leaving gift? Seriously? Dude, get real."

Stan yanked the bracelet off, slipping it into his pocket. "Where'd you even get these from."

Cartman shrugged, standing at full height again. "Hermes kids keep some crazy shit."

"We need to take him back," Kyle begged, eyes blown wide. "We need to, the rule of three states that–"

Cartman loudly groaned. "The rule of three is fucked, Kahl. Live a little."

Kyle's eyes blazed, lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line.

"I don't think we have time," Kenny said, cupping the back of his neck.

Kyle snapped to face him. "What?"

"He has a point," Stan said and shrugged. "We've just spent six hours on a bus; we can't exactly escort him back..."

"Who said anything about escorting?!" Kyle interrogated, rapidly glancing between Stan, Kenny, and that other blemish he generally tried not to look at. "Strap him to the front of a truck for all I care, he isn't coming."

Stan closed his eyes, craning his neck to face the sky. He took a deep breath, then shot Kyle an apologetic look. "Listen, we send him back alone, he's monster chow."

"So?"

"So, we can't do it. I'm sorry."

Kyle panted, eyes wide. "But the prophecy? There's already three of us."

"No offence, I ain't killing a guy," Kenny said, holding his hands up in surrender. "Us kicking him out would be murder. The three of us couldn't even take down the furies, imagine him alone."

Cartman's eyes were cold, their red sheen giving off an air of threat as he stared Kenny up and down. "Uh, did I or did I not just save your flat ass?"

Stan raised a brow. Whose side was this lunatic on?

Kyle crouched down as though in a prayer, hands shielding his face. "What have I ever done to deserve this?"

"Oh fuck you!"

Kyle rose to full height, teeth bared. "This isn't fair!"

"Life isn't fair," Cartman growled, "get over it."

"Guys," Kenny interrupted, looking distracted.

"I'm trying to see things from your perspective, Kahl, I am," Cartman continued, using quick hand gestures.  "I just can't squeeze my head that far up my own ass!"

Kyle leapt forward, his punch to Cartman's shoulder making him stumble back a few steps. "You little bitch!"

"Guys!" Kenny tried, a little louder.

Cartman rubbed his shoulder. "You think you're so tough, Broflovski? Hitting me when you can't win with words? I just saved your life, ungrateful bastard."

Kyle's face flushed with anger. "This isn't about winning, it's you being a selfish jerk all the time!"

"THE BUS!" Kenny finally shouted.

Stan turned, eyes blown wide.

The bus was leaving.

"Shit!"

As he fell into a sprint, Stan's worn-out converse scuffed against the pavement, navy blue hoodie askew, bow slamming into his hips with each step until it swiftly transformed back into a geometry tool in his hand. Kyle hesitated for a fraction of a second, glaring at Cartman. Then, with a resigned growl, bolted after Stan, Kenny right behind him.

When Stan reached the bus, the doors were beginning to close. "Wait! Hold the door!"

The driver, with a perpetually annoyed expression, glanced at Stan, rolled his eyes, and reluctantly reopened the doors.

Stan jumped on, followed by Kyle and Kenny. They turned back, eyes widening as they saw Cartman still lagging behind. The bus had already begun rolling away. The doors were closing.

"Hurry up!" Kyle shouted as Cartman tried to sprint. "Drive faster!"

The driver obeyed. But Cartman huffed, managing a burst of speed. Just before the doors shut, he made a final leap onto the bus, squeezing through and leaning heavily against the wall, gasping for air.

The driver grunted, giving them stink-eye. "What happened to you?"

Stan, still catching his breath, glanced at the driver and then back at his team. Oh crap. He'd forgotten. Cartman's fireworks left all four covered in ash and black smudges.

Seriously not in the mood to lie believably, Stan shrugged. "Fell over, dusty floor."

The driver raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. Stan turned to his friends, wondering how the rest of the passengers hadn't noticed their dishevelled state. Then he remembered the mist, the magical veil that concealed the truth from mortal eyes. Maybe they hadn't heard the fireworks because that would also involve the mist revealing the furies to them.

Kenny leant in, whispering, "We're lucky no one saw what happened."

Kyle nodded, still glaring at Cartman. "Yeah, lucky."

The driver grumbled something under his breath and pulled away from the gas station. The bus lurched forward, sending the boys stumbling towards their seats. Stan, Kyle, and Kenny sat back down while Cartman paused in the aisle.

"I have to sit next to Kenny?" Cartman scowled.

Stan rolled his eyes. "You can be left by the side of the road if you want."

"I don't wanna catch Kenny's big three kid germs."

"You obnoxious asshole," Kyle hissed. "Just sit down and shut up."

Cartman grumbled but shuffled into his seat regardless, Kenny staring out of the window, rubbing his eyes. Kyle and Stan took their places, with Stan glancing at the map spread out on his lap.

"Alright, so what now?" Stan asked, trying to shake off the frustration from the last few hours.

"We should focus on the next step," Kyle said. "We still have to deal with whatever's coming next."

"I hate to break it to you guys," Cartman said, finally finding a moment of peace in his seat. "But it's not like the furies are done with us. Without me, you'd all be seriously dead. Not just dead – I'm talking dismembered with crows pecking at your eyeballs dead."

"Insightful," Kyle shot back. "Thanks for that."

Stan grinned at the quip, though grew concerned with how Kyle had sunk into his seat, rubbing his temples as the bus rolled on. Of all four, Kyle managed to look most stressed.

Stan glanced at Cartman, who was slouched in his seat next to Kenny, clearly irritated but silent. Stan's ears still rang from the fireworks. Unfortunately, Cartman had a point. Without him, Stan would've died back there. No doubt about it. Weird, how the most selfish bastard he knew could come in clutch at the strangest time. Although, Stan was just as aware as anybody else why Cartman chose to come along. Kenny had mentioned it way back before Capture the Flag. A quest was Cartman's chance to be scouted by Olympus, claimed as a demigod. He'd saved them, sure, but was still no less selfish than he had been days ago.

After a few moments, Kyle took a long, shaky breath. Stan turned to inspect the boy more closely. His shoulders were hunched and rigid as if his body were a tightly wound spring ready to snap.

"Hey, dude," he nudged Kyle in the ribs, jolting him a little. "You good?"

Kyle glanced at Stan briefly, then turned back to the window. "It's nothing. Just... the furies freaked me out."

Stan wasn't convinced. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Kyle nodded.

They sat in silence until the bus hit another pothole. Kyle instinctively reached for a dagger and then squeezed his eyes shut.

"Not entirely," he admitted.

"What's going on?"

Kyle opened his eyes, leaning forward so only Stan could hear. "It's Kenny."

"Huh?"

"It's just..." Kyle hesitated, knee bouncing so intensely it shook Stan's seat. "Kids of the big three attract more monsters than regular demigods."

Stan's face tightened as he processed this new information. "Wait, seriously? Why didn't anyone tell me before?"

Kyle's expression was grim. "Yeah, it's probably why Garrison never let him out. Along with the whole destroying the world thing. There's no way he wouldn't have known that before coming with."

Stan leant away. "What're you saying?"

"It's just... isn't it suspicious?"

Stan shook his head. "Kenny wouldn't lie to me."

"You've known him for a week," Kyle reminded.

"And I've known you for less, what's your point?"

Kyle crossed his arms, dropping into a whisper. "Look, I don't necessarily think Kenny's being immoral here. But he isn't safe–"

Stan clenched his fists, putting great effort into staying quiet enough to keep Kenny from hearing. "So, what, Kyle? You want to just ditch him because he's 'dangerous'?"

Kyle's eyes flashed. "That's not what I'm saying. But we can't ignore the risks of having him here. If Kenny's attracting monsters, especially furies, we have to be cautious."

"Yeah, and what about you? Think we should treat him differently because of who his dad is?"

Kyle's jaw tightened. "I'm saying we need to be prepared. You've been a demigod for a week, Stan. You don't know what it's like growing up with this crap."

Stan leant forward. "He's a friend."

"Friend?" Kyle shot back. "He could be why we get killed!"

"You don't know that," Stan's voice was rising.

For a moment, Kenny turned. But, seeing Kyle with a red face, assumed they were arguing about Cartman and gave them their privacy back.

Stan took a deep breath. "We can't just push him away. We need to stick together."

"Sticking together doesn't mean ignoring the facts, Stan. It's stupid to trust somebody blindly."

Stan scoffed. "Sure. Just give him a shot, he's harmless."

"Trust is earned, not given. And right now, I'm not sure he's done anything to earn my trust."

Stan took a deep breath. "Maybe not. But he's done nothing to deserve your suspicion either."

Kyle's eyes softened, but the tension remained. "I'm not saying we abandon him. I'm saying we need to be careful. For everyone's sake."

"Fine," Stan said through gritted teeth. "But we aren't turning our backs on him. Got it?"

"Got it, and we aren't being stupid, either," Kyle countered, "not with Lard Arse over there also breaking the rule of three. It's your quest; maybe you should do something about that."

Stan frowned and turned to face the boy in question, who seemed to be having an equally frustrating interaction with Kenny. Cartman had leant forward, elbows resting on his knees, face contorted into a scowl. Kenny, on the other hand, sat rigid with crossed arms, deliberately avoiding eye contact. His Camp Half-Blood shirt was bunched up around his waist, smudged black.

"Oh, come off it," Cartman spat, rolling his eyes. "He'll be fine. Quit acting like he's some fragile baby."

Kenny shook his head, his voice low. "You left him alone."

"He's fine."

"You don't get it," Kenny murmured. "You weren't there the first time when he came back from—"

"I was!" Cartman threw up his hands in exasperation. "I showed up the same week, genius."

Kenny finally looked at him. "Then why can't you get it?"

"Hera's tits, dude. Butters isn't made of freaking glass."

Stan winced at the choice of curse, then upon processing the subject of their discussion, felt like the worst person alive.

In the rush, Stan had failed to consider Butters being left at camp alone.

It made Cartman's nonchalance towards the whole thing even more grating, clear enough from Kenny's expression. But still, Stan had seen Butters fight. He wasn't exactly a bully magnet. Except maybe a little socially. But he could handle himself, he'd probably cope fine. It was the principle, of Cartman leaving him, that seemed to piss Kenny off most. Butters would cope fine, Stan told himself.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

Okay, probably not, but Stan didn't have the energy to admit that.

The bus jolted over the rough terrain, shaking him from his thoughts. He tried to relax, leaning back into his seat, but as his eyes closed, the night's events replayed in his mind. The furies at the gas station, their menacing faces, lunging at him. Stan's frustration simmered; Kenny hadn't used his dark powers to help them, even when they were losing. Stan really needed to get that kid over his issues.

He opened his eyes again. The sky outside had deepened into a velvety darkness, the moon casting a cold, silvery light over the landscape. The bus was quieter now, its occupants sprawled across the seats, their faces mostly softened by sleep.

Why couldn't they just get along? Why was it so hard to work together, to be allies?

A faint whispering from the front of the bus pulled him from his thoughts. Two women were hunched together, their voices barely audible over the engine's low rumble.

Understanding he was never realistically getting back to sleep, Stan leant forward, straining to catch their conversation. Eavesdropping? Sure. But when you're bored on a quest to save the world, anything is justifiable if you think hard enough about it.

"My son was there, Wednesday it was," the larger of the two declared, arms crossed over her chest. "Never seen Denver look so sunny."

"I thought it was just some weird reflection," the second said. "But then I notice those bright spots on either side of the sun. My husband was amazed. A sundog, they call it."

Stan's heart skipped a beat as the realisation hit him. This week, Apollo had lost his lyre. A sundog in Colorado at the very same time? The same day Stan had been claimed, having a vision of Apollo drinking like a lunatic with Dionysus? C'mon now, this was just too obvious. Maybe the Fates weren’t good writers after all: this discovery was pure, unbridled plot convenience.

"Look, he took photographs," the first woman grinned, shifting to retrieve her phone.

"Just look at that!"

Stan silently rose to his feet, peering over the seats to take a look at the woman's phone. Neither noticed him in the darkness, thankfully, but it was useless anyway: the picture of the sky was blurry, like the sun had sprouted ears. Great. The fate of the quest relied on the investigative prowess of two middle-aged women who probably believed pulling out a grey hair would cause two more to grow back.

Still, this was it. They were heading through Colorado anyway to get to California. It was all coming together: get off the bus in Colorado (embracing that the entire first day of their four-day quest had been wasted arguing on a bus), investigate the sun event, find the lyre, return it to Olympus, get therapy, and live the rest of their lives in peace.

Easy.

His first impulse was to wake the others and share the news. It could be crucial. But then he hesitated. The tranquillity around him was oddly comforting. He relished the rare silence and the calm that had settled over the group. For once, it was just him and his thoughts, without the clamour of arguments and discord.

Stan weighed his options. He could share the information, potentially setting off another round of debates and chaos. Or he could hold onto it, let the silence linger a bit longer, and maintain a brief respite from the turmoil. He chose the latter. After all, they technically didn't need to like each other for this to work. Just had to rely on and trust each other, totally a different thing. Fuck these dicks.

It was Stan's quest, his responsibility to make the decisions.

Right now, he needed the peace more than he needed to disrupt it.

Right now, he didn't need them.

Chapter Text

Morning arrived with all the grace of a bad joke.

Throughout the night, Stan kept waking up, either because Kenny was groaning in his sleep like he was fighting off literal demons, or because Kyle's knee had this superpower of jabbing him each time the bus hit a pothole, which was apparently every other minute. They'd both jolt awake, grumble, shift around like they were playing some weird game of uncomfortable Tetris, and then crash back into a restless half-sleep, only to repeat the whole miserable cycle less than an hour later. By the final time Stan rubbed his eyes open, the sky outside was already an obnoxiously bright blue, sunlight flooding through the bus's grimy windows, showing off every single speck of dirt caked on the glass. Relatable, honestly. Their lives were just like that window – coated in layers of crap they couldn't quite scrape off.

Stan glanced at Kyle, who was rubbing his temples like he was trying to keep his brain from exploding. Yeah, this wasn't over – Stan knew that much before Kyle even opened his mouth. Last night's blow-up hadn't settled anything; they'd just hit pause. And now, with Cartman and Kenny stirring, it was pretty clear they were about to dive straight into round two.

"Morning," Stan muttered, not exactly expecting a cheery reply.

Kyle just grunted, lost in thought. But Cartman, now fully awake and, annoyingly, in fine form, didn't waste a second.

"Any brilliant ideas?" Cartman yawned, stretching out like a cat and accidentally whacking Kenny awake in the process. "Or are we just gonna sit here until the monsters decide to rip us a new one?"

Kyle turned, eyes narrowing. "You're still dead weight, Cartman. Don't think you get a vote."

"I'm doing you a favour, Kahl. Without me, you three losers would've been monster chow last night. You're welcome."

Stan's fists tightened at his sides. No way could he handle another round of this. Not after everything they'd been through already. If they didn't hold it together, they'd tear each other apart long before the monsters got their chance.

"Can we not?" Stan cut in, jumping between them. "Just drop it, okay?"

Kyle clenched his jaw, obviously not thrilled, but nodded anyway. Whether it was agreement or just sheer lack of fighting spirit, Stan couldn't tell.

"Fine, whatever," Cartman grumbled, slumping back in his seat.

Kenny sighed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "We need to figure out our next move before something else goes to crap."

Stan nodded, reaching into his backpack and pulling out a crumpled map. He flattened it on his lap and traced the route they'd been following with his finger. "We're heading through Colorado," he muttered, half to himself. "I heard something about a weird sun event last night. Might be connected to... everything."

Kyle leant forward. "What kind of event?"

"Sun dog," Stan replied.

"The hell is a sun dog?" Cartman scowled.

Kyle, already leaning forward with his arms crossed, jumped into explanation. "A sun dog is a phenomenon caused by sunlight refracting through ice crystals in the atmosphere. It's–"

"Blah, blah, blah. Ice crystals, forget I asked," Cartman interrupted, waving his hand. "The real question is how do we know this isn't some trap?"

Kyle frowned. "What?"

"How do we know the hippies aren't just trying to drag us to Colorado and brainwash us with kombucha and banjo music? Huh?"

"Well," Stan said, folding the map and shoving it back into his bag. "Even if it was a trick, it's better than sitting around here arguing. Especially when we've got bigger issues than kombucha, like, I dunno, saving the freaking world."

"Touché, fine leader, touché."

"Yeah, but how exactly are we gonna do that?" Kenny, who had been staring out of the window like he was contemplating jumping out of it, finally turned back to the group. "Save the world, I mean."

Stan froze as they all stared, waiting for him to pull a plan out of his ass. Problem was, he didn't have one – just a few half-baked ideas and a lot of wishful thinking. He glanced at the rolling hills swiping past, hoping for some sudden inspiration. Like the protagonist would do in a music video. But nope. Nothing. With no better option, he put on his best "confident leader" face, trying not to tank their morale any more than it already had in the last eighteen hours.

"We'll go to Denver. I guess we should look for symbols and stuff."

Kyle tilted his head, eyebrows raised. "Okay... so we rely on symbols to find a trail of where he's been or would want to be?"

"Totally! Let's go with that." Stan scratched his neck. "Most gods are pretty full of themselves, right? So, Apollo maybe left a trail of like... Capri Sun wrappers or weed or something."

Cartman snorted, earning three simultaneous death glares. "Right. Because no other weed in Colorado would throw us off the scent."

"Shut up, it's not the worst idea," Kyle shot back. "We also need to think of places he'd wanna hang out – where the lyre could have been stolen without him noticing."

Kenny frowned. "So... music venues, hospitals, that sort of thing?"

"Exactly!" Kyle, though still visibly apprehensive towards him, grinned. "Good thinking, dude."

Cartman slouched against the window, blocking the sunlight and facing them fully. "Yeah, whatever. But if we end up spending days wandering around like total dicks, I'm holding you all responsible."

Stan shrugged. "No one's forcing you to come, dude."

"Yeah, well, I could always bail if this gets too lame. Just saying, I ain't sticking around if it turns into a total crapfest."

Kyle dryly laughed. "Looking forward to it."

Cartman's face twisted into a sneer. "Oh, 'looking forward to it,'" he mocked, voice all high-pitched and nasally. Kenny snickered at the antics, but Stan shot Kyle an apologetic look. Cartman wasn't deterred. "Real mature, Kahl. Real mature."

When the bus finally screeched to a halt, the boys stumbled out onto the chaotic mess of downtown Denver.

The city sprawled out around them – towering skyscrapers loomed above, while old brick buildings jostled for space below. Neon signs flickered like erratic fireflies, and the air was thick with the blaring of car horns, the street vendors shouting over the buzz of overlapping conversations.

Stan took a deep breath, glancing instinctually across the street at a corner cafe, where a mom and her messy-haired kid sat in the window, enjoying a quiet moment over two steaming drinks.

"Lucky jerk," Stan muttered under his breath, unheard by his team as they surrounded him for instructions. After a long moment of silence, however, Kyle took the lead.

"I don't know the layout of Denver," Kyle started, voice tight. "We should find a map, but for now, keep an eye out for any symbols or signs that might indicate Apollo's presence."

Cartman grunted, adjusting his overstuffed rucksack on one shoulder. "And let's find somewhere that doesn't reek of pot. These damn hippies are everywhere."

They trudged down the street, passing by music venues with flashy marquees promoting bands they'd never heard of. Kyle's eyes darted from one sign to another, scanning for any hint of meaning. Yet, with each he glanced up at, his shoulders grew more tense. By the time they stopped in front of a dingy club with a flickering neon sign, he looked ready to rip his hair out. The place looked like it had given up on life, with peeling paint and posters barely clinging to the doors, but the thumping beat and loud strums from inside vibrated through the sidewalk. It almost terrified Stan that a club could be open slap bang in the middle of the day, but hey, that's Denver.

"This might be something," Kyle said, glancing at the others.

Stan nodded, though could already feel his ears ache. "Totally."

Cartman raised a brow but followed them in with Kenny regardless. The club was dimly lit, filled with the stench of stale beer and sweat from the crowd packed inside. A band was thrashing on stage, their music shaking the floorboards with heavy bass and screaming guitars.

Kyle elbowed his way to the bar, shouting over the noise. "Excuse me! We're looking for someone who might know about... strange occurrences. Anything to do with the sun or light? A parhelion?"

The bartender, a tall guy with black and red tattoos snaking up his arms, sized them up. "You kids lost or something? This isn't the place for that talk."

"We're not kids," Kyle snapped, growing red. "We're–"

"Yeah, yeah," the bartender cut him off, turning away to serve someone else. "Look, I don't know what you're on about, but I haven't heard anything. Either buy something or leave."

Stan sighed and grabbed Kyle's arm, pulling him away from the bar. "Come on, dude. We're not gonna find anything here."

As they trudged out of the club, disappointment hung around them like a bad smell. The sun still hung bright in the summer sky, yet this did nothing to aid their pounding hearts. They'd already wasted a day.

"We're running out of time," Kyle muttered.

Stan felt his frustration bubbling up, but he swallowed it down. Now wasn't the time to lose their cool. "We'll find something."

Wandering down another crowded street, Kenny's eyes landed on something bright splashed across the side of a worn-down building. Half-hidden behind a couple of overflowing trash cans, a piece of graffiti stood out – a massive sun setting over a beach, its rays bursting out in vivid colours that almost seemed to shimmer in the warm Denver light. 

"Hey, check this out!" Kenny perked up, pointing. "Maybe it means something?"

Stan and Kyle slowed their pace, turning to inspect the mural. Cartman trailed behind. Kyle leant forward, studying the artwork for a moment before shaking his head, initial interest fading.

"It's...nice, I guess," Kyle said, shrugging, "but it doesn't have anything to do with Apollo, Kenny. It's just street art."

Stan could admit Kyle had a point. Sure, the sun was a symbol of Apollo, but so far, they'd strolled past so much graffiti that treating any mural at all as a clue felt hopeless.

Kenny's shoulders sagged a bit, his brief spark of excitement dimming. He looked like he was about to drop it when Cartman, who had been watching the exchange with growing interest – and apparently fluency in the odd power dynamics between them – seized the moment.

"Wow, Kyle," Cartman drawled, far too casually. "Didn't realize you had a degree in street art analysis. Maybe you should give tours or something?"

Kyle quickly looked between Cartman and Kenny, taking a step back. "I'm just saying it doesn't look like it has anything to do with Apollo. We don't have time to go chasing after every piece of graffiti we see."

Cartman shrugged, a spark of something dominant in his eye. "Oh, totally. Wouldn't wanna waste time. I mean, you've been leading us so well."

Kyle's face flushed. "I'm just trying to keep us focused. We have a lot to figure out, and we can't afford to get distracted by–"

"Right, right," Cartman interrupted, nodding slowly. "Focus is key. But I don't know, maybe you're just brushing off Kenny's idea a little too fast, hm?"

"Cartman, it's an ugly painting. Not a sign from a god. Don't be dumb."

"Dumb?" Cartman echoed, raising an eyebrow. "Or what you think is dumb? I get that you're running the show now, Kahl. But remind me, whose quest is this again?"

Stan, who had been quietly observing like a child caught in their parent's messy divorce, suddenly felt the weight of a thousand suns shift onto him. In the emerald eyes, there was a silent apology. In the blue eyes, a cold detachment. In the crimson, lust for control.

Kyle bristled, breaths low. "I'm not running anything, dude. But the clock is ticking."

"But how do you know it doesn't matter?" Cartman pushed, strategically taking a step toward Stan. "Maybe Kenny's onto something. Or maybe you're too focused on being in charge to see it. Stan, does it not bother you that Kyle is basically taking over your quest?"

Stan shifted; chest tight. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate Kyle's help – he did. But Cartman was good at this, at slowly turning up the heat, making it hard to ignore the things that might have gone unnoticed before. 

Kyle shot Cartman a sharp look, but there was a flicker of doubt across his face. "I'm helping, Cartman. Try it sometime."

"Please," Cartman laughed. "Kyle, I'm just making sure every idea is considered. And Stan, shouldn't you be leading?"

Stan bit his lip, looking to the side. Was he really this shit of a leader that he'd thrown all the responsibility at Kyle?

"Alright," Stan sighed. "Alright. Let's check it out."

Kyle raised a brow. "Fine. But if it's nothing, we move on. We're running out of time."

As they approached the graffiti, Stan examined the mural closely. The sun was vivid, but there was nothing that really screamed divinity – just a colourful beach scene, like something out of a crappy vacation resort commercial.

Stan glanced at Kyle, who was struggling to hide a deluxe told-you-so stare.

"Well, dude," Stan said. "You were right. It just looks like, well, art."

"Awesome," Kyle deadpanned, unimpressed.

Kenny coughed, avoiding their eyes. "Sorry."

Stan gave him a sympathetic look. "It's okay. We're still figuring things out."

"Right," Cartman chimed in, suddenly putting on an innocent tone. "But, Stan, you're in charge here. If we're not following leads that make sense to you, we're just wasting time. What's the plan?"

Stan scanned the area, his frustration mounting. He had a feeling that whole stunt before was less Cartman fighting for Stan's authority and more just an excuse to drag Kyle down. With nowhere else to turn, Stan's eyes landed on an old vintage vinyl store across the street. The window display was simple – a few vinyl records and a vintage poster of a band from the '70s – but there was something about the way the light hit it, creating a halo around the display, that made him pause.

"Wait," Stan said, stopping in his tracks. "This place..."

The others turned to look at the store. It was unassuming, the kind of place you'd walk past without a second glance. But there was a feeling, something almost electric in the air, that made Stan think they were on the right track.

"What about it?" Cartman asked, raising a brow.

"I don't know," Stan admitted. "But we should check it out."

"You sure about this?" Kyle asked.

"No, but my gut's telling me this is important."

Kyle nodded, his eyes narrowing as he studied the place. "It's your quest, not mine."

Wish it wasn't. Stan smiled.

And so, the four crossed the road, pushed open the door, and all mentally shat themselves in fright when the bell above the door jingled aggressively. Inside, the store was cloaked in a dim, golden light that was filtered through dust-covered windows. The air was thick with the musty scent of old vinyl records and faded cardboard. It stuck to the roof of Stan's mouth. 

The only noise was the faint, persistent hum of a record spinning on a turntable behind the counter: 'The Last Waltz' by Engelbert Humperdinck. They'd played it at his middle school disco. Stan glanced around in awe.

An old man, his face lined with years and his hands trembling slightly, sat behind the counter. He wore a green polo shirt, logo slapped across his chest, newspaper clutched in knobby fingers. It was an oddly wholesome sight, really. His voice, warm but incredibly loud, cut through the quiet. "Can I help you boys?"

Stan stepped forward, struggling to look at him as he glanced around like a kid in a candy store. "Yeah, uh, we're looking for something specific. Something about the sun, or light, maybe? The sun dog like... inspired us."

The old man's brow furrowed. His newspaper was tossed to one side. "Odd request. Few folks come asking about things like that."

Stan shrugged, trying not to give too much away. Though, at the same time, he kind of wanted to warn him of their quest: give him time to find a bunker and some survival gear for when the four of them inevitably triggered the end of all mankind.

"I like your store," Stan said.

At least if he did indirectly kill this old man, he'd die knowing Stan found his life's work pretty neat. Way to cushion the blow.

"Your mom and dad raised you well," he chuckled. Engelbert Humperdinck crackled louder from the turntable. "Look around, boys. But hardly anything comes to mind."

Stan's gaze wandered around the store when the man stood to shuffle towards the staff room, door banging shut behind him. Dusty shelves held rare records and old CDs, the rustling of album covers and scratchy scuffle of the turntable making Stan's heart flutter. He'd dreamt of working in a place like this as a kid. Handwritten labels. Worn price-tags. He picked up a pristine copy of "The White Album", its cover glimmering faintly under the flickering lights. What would it be like to make one of these?

This place had everything, he thought, placing it back down and silently moving to the rhythm of the song bursting into life at the turntable. The Righteous Brothers, Nat King Cole, so much Frank Sinatra he felt the urge to scream and jump around all at the same time, unexplainable joy bubbling up like bursts of solar radiation.

But, absorbed in his own head, Stan never heard the approaching thuds of black combat boots on the floor. Louder. Heavier. Sharper. What Stan did hear, however, was his own startled gasp as somebody crashed into him.

Vinyl shattered. Sharp, jagged pieces that skittered across the wooden planks like a thousand tiny knives.

Stan's heart raced. He looked up.

The collision had been with a boy. A boy who, honestly, looked like he'd been raised by wolves. His hair - stark blond, messily cut close to his scalp - hinted at a time where he might have cared about appearances. While his leather jacket, pomegranate crimson, was scuffed, creaking with each frustrated breath. The corners of his mouth tightened. He didn't blink, didn't move, just locked into Stan with an intensity that made the space between them seem smaller. Like Stan was staring down a griffin. 

The blond boy's gaze flickered briefly down. To the orange shirt slithering out from beneath Stan's blue hoodie. Sweat pooled across his forehead. "I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," he growled, his voice like roughened gravel. "Just watch where you're going."

When the scary guy stomped away, Stan dropped to the floor.

"You okay?" Kyle asked, crouching down to help Stan pick up the shards of vinyl. From the glare directed at the stranger, it was clear Kyle recognised the injustice that was Stan having to clean the mess.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Stan said, his voice a little steadier now. "Just be careful with those – they're sharp."

"Thanks."

"Find anything?"

Kyle shook his head. "I was looking for signs of... I don't know, light exposure? Scorches or something. There's nothing."

As they gathered the broken pieces, Stan noticed how Kyle's fingers trembled slightly, how his brows were knitted together. The soft light from the overhead bulbs caught on Kyle's cheeks, highlighting his freckles and the smudges of grime left over from yesterday's fireworks. The grey smudged beneath his eyes dazzled almost blue.

"I'm sorry, dude," Kyle finally muttered, voice low. "For taking over. If it was bothering you, could've told me."

"You didn't take over anything," Stan countered, questioning how a guy so smart could be so stupid. Could Kyle not tell how much he appreciated the help? Stan was fucking useless. He needed Kyle the same way the blind needed a stick. "Honestly, I like how you think ahead. It balances my 'wing it and see' technique."

Kyle let out a small, relieved laugh, looking away for a moment. "Shut up, you're learning quickly."

Stan cracked a grin. "I'm being serious."

"I can tell," he smirked, then grew quiet again. "But... also the bus thing and Kenny and– just, I could've been more mature. So... yeah."

Stan froze, leaned back, and shot a glance across the room at the boy in question. There he was, rummaging through records with Cartman practically glued to his shoulder, blabbering about something Stan couldn't quite decipher. Stan totally got why Kyle was so uptight about the big three stench coming from Kenny, especially considering the mess they were already in. But seeing Kenny focus so intently on the task, after all his contributions that day, Stan couldn't help but be relieved that Kyle was finally admitting how awkward he was being.

"We all have our moments. I'm sure Kenny would understand if you explained to him."

"I guess."

"Plus, I get it," Stan admitted, earning a bewildered look. "You want to succeed here as much as the rest of us. If I saw a threat, I'd also want it brought up. Thanks. For looking out for us."

An invisible relief washed over Kyle like rain in a drought. "Thanks, dude."

"How are you feeling with the other... situation ?" Stan asked, then instantly regretted it when Kyle's expression darkened again. But before he could speak, that same loud, frustrating, annoyingly commanding situation interrupted their discussion.

"AY!" Cartman shouted, pointing to Kenny like he'd just won the lottery. "Tombstone Tony found something!"

Stan gave Kyle a final sympathetic look, then, ignoring the nickname, strolled towards Kenny, leaving the broken vinyl shards and a few stray dollars on the counter, hoping the store owner wouldn't mind too much. There was a revitalised bounce to his step, happy he and Kyle seemed on good terms again. Now, he just needed Kyle to repeat the same sentiment to Kenny, and find a gang willing to kidnap Cartman, and they seemed on track to sort out Apollo's crap.

This was going to be simple.

Probably.

They surrounded Kenny, who was holding up a record with a cover that nearly knocked Stan's socks off. The album featured a blazing sunburst in vivid oranges and yellows against a backdrop of deep blues. It was almost as if the sun was bursting off the cover, radiating energy.

"Guys, look at this!" Kenny exclaimed, holding the record up with a mix of excitement and hesitation. "It's like the sun's exploding off the cover."

Kyle squinted at the cover. "Yeah, it's interesting, but it doesn't scream Apollo. We need something more concrete."

Cartman, ever the opportunist, leaned in with a smirk. "You know, if this is the best we've got, it might be worth investigating. Or are we just gonna ignore it like the last ten leads?"

Stan, feeling a rising frustration, was about to respond when he noticed a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision. The blond kid who'd knocked him earlier was hovering close to them, just near enough to eavesdrop, yet concealed fully from view. Almost as if to avoid being spotted.

Huh.

How normal.

"Look, don't freak out," Stan started to whisper, not wanting the guy to hear. "But I think we have a stalker."

"Oh," Kenny said. "Cute."

"No, I'm serious. Look."

All three turned to find the guy, but of course, Cartman was the first to blurt something out.

"Poseidon's pussy, that's weird."

Kyle, using every ounce of his patience, immediately punched him in the arm, causing Cartman to let out a dramatic yelp and hop back.

"The hell, Kahl?!"

"Show some respect for the gods, Fatass," Kyle growled, shaking his hand like he'd just punched a brick wall. "But seriously, I think I know that guy."

"You do?" Stan asked.

"Yeah... a little."

Cartman clicked his tongue. "Suspicious."

"Not like that," Kyle said, rolling his eyes. "He might just have one of those faces."

"No, no, I get it," Kenny said, nodding. "I've seen him before."

"You have?"

"Yeah... maybe back at camp or something."

Upon mention of a camp, the lights in the store suddenly shut off, plunging them into an eerie darkness, light from the windows not quite reaching the back of the store. Then, the blond guy stepped out from behind the shelf, jaw tensed as he took long steps towards them.

"We're closed," he snapped. Being taller and wider than most of them, his domineering presence made all four shrink back. "Out."

His strength hurt as he shoved them toward the door.

"Wait, what's going on?" Stan demanded, stumbling back as the kid's grip tightened.

"Hey, chill out!" Cartman yelled, but his bravado faltered as the kid's face remained unyielding.

The kid's face was a mask of steely determination. "I said out. Now."

With one final, violent shove, they were thrust onto the street, where the cacophony of the city immediately engulfed them. Behind them, the door slammed shut with a resounding thud, the "Closed" sign swinging into place with a chilling finality. Curtains were yanked shut with almost desperate urgency, plunging the interior into an impenetrable darkness, as if to conceal some unspeakable secret.

"That was... subtle," Stan dryly remarked. "Didn't realise he works there."

"I don't understand," Kyle muttered, face a tight mask of anxiety. "Why do I know him?"

Cartman glared at the closed door, one hand on his hips with the other tugging at his chestnut hair in annoyance. "Oh, come on, Stan. There's no way he works there – just look at him! He probably chows down on broken vinyl for breakfast."

Kyle hummed. "He can't work there, the old guy was wearing a green polo uniform. Remember?"

Oh crap, Stan did remember. And now was incredibly concerned for a fellow music nerd potentially in danger.

A gust of warm wind swept through, rustling the leaves of a nearby tree and carrying with it the faint, acrid scent of asphalt baking in the sun. Yet the summer breeze did nothing to thaw the icy knot forming in Stan's stomach. He glanced at Kenny, noticing the way his friend's face had gone pale beneath his mop of blond hair, eyes wide with recognition.

When Kenny finally spoke, his voice was low and trembling, but each word was unmistakably clear.

"That guy... that was Trent Boyett."

Chapter Text

"Trent's dead, Ken."

Stan's thoughts were scrambled, trying to piece together the few things he knew about this Trent kid. The name alone felt like an old ghost story – someone who'd gone on a quest with Butters and that scrawny Aphrodite kid, Bradley, a few years back only to never return. If this was Trent, somehow back from the dead, or perhaps having never even died in the first place, something was seriously wrong.

"I'm telling you," Kenny insisted. "It was him. He looked the same, he had all Trent's scars, his walk, his eyes, his–"

"Okay, fine. Let's pretend it's Trent for a second," Kyle interrupted, Kenny folding his arms. "Why kick us out of the store? And how did the lights shut off like that without Trent going and flicking off the switch? It makes no sense."

Stan raised a brow. "Who’s his godly parent again?"

"Nemesis."

Great. "So, there's no way he could've been controlling the lights."

Cartman bit the inside of his cheek. "Unless he's up to something shady."

"Like what?" Kyle raised a brow.

"Hell if I know. Maybe how he's not a rotting corpse, maybe something about Apollo's little fuck-up."

"Wait– hold on a second," Stan couldn’t help but butt in. "Are we seriously saying he stole from Apollo? A whole ten minutes after meeting him?”

Cartman shrugged. "Son of Nemesis. Checks out."

"Does it, though?"

"Goddess of vengeance ," he spelt it out slowly. "You're telling me you wouldn't want revenge on Olympus after what happened on that quest? That you wouldn't wanna piss off the gods by, I dunno, stealing from them?"

There was a hiss as Kyle drew air through clenched teeth, the mere idea of disrespecting the gods giving him grey hairs. "I mean..."

"Fucking hell– we all know you're a wuss, Kahl, but if it were me, I'd be out for blood. What if he's pulling a Jason Todd?"

Kenny raised an eyebrow.

"What if he's come back to fuck us up?" Cartman specified. "To get back at the gods?"

"Nah," Stan said, readjusting his backpack. "He wouldn't know about the quest unless he's got some intel from camp."

“And how’d he know we’re demigods?” Kenny asked. “Look at us, man.”

Stan could admit that Kenny had a point. Four guys on the street, a rucksack each, covered in ash and dirt, they looked more like rogue Boy Scouts than demigods. Kyle's eyes narrowed at the idea as if something finally clicked. His lips pulled into a straight line, staring down at the pavement like he was piecing together a puzzle only he could see.

"When Trent bumped into you, talk us through exactly how that went."

Stan blew air into his cheeks, trying to recall every detail. "I apologised, he gave me a look like I kicked his puppy, then he rushed off."

"Anything else?"

Focusing, Stan pulled at a loose string of his hoodie. Nothing was springing to mind. Then, when it clicked, his eyes widened.

"He saw my shirt."

Kyle snapped his fingers, the satisfaction of figuring out the puzzle quickly giving way to their grim reality when he groaned. "There we go. Four guys wearing orange shirts babbling about Greek Mythology. Gave ourselves away."

Cartman rolled his eyes. "Yeah, still doesn't explain the whole Frankenstein thing, though.”

"His body was never found, maybe he just... healed."

"Nah," Kenny muttered under his breath. "No one comes back from that, Kyle."

"If what we were told happened actually happened," Kyle said, his tone suggesting a doubt that made Cartman and Kenny snap to face one another, shocked.

It took Stan a moment to understand why Kyle's theory had been so offensive. When it clicked that this meant questioning the account of the ordeal from Butters, he stayed quiet.

"You saying it was all bullshit?" Cartman asked.

"No, I'm just saying... maybe what we were told wasn't exactly what happened. Could've been reported wrong."

"So, you don't believe it?"

Kyle's voice hitched as he quickly shook his head. "No– no, I'm not saying that," he darted a glance toward Stan, almost pleading for assistance. "But we can't rule anything out. Not anymore."

"Look who's changed his tone," Cartman scoffed.

"And so have you, apparently."

"Listen," Stan interjected, taking a step forward. "What do we do if it is the dead guy?”

"Or it isn't," Kenny mumbled, zoned out.

The group fell silent, stunned Kenny was questioning himself now. Stan crossed his arms and raised a brow. Was it not his idea that this was Trent in the first place?

"I'm a son of... y'know, I should be able to sense this stuff," Kenny looked between them. "Right now, I'm just not getting dead vibes. What if it's something pretending to be him?

Stan blinked, confused. "Like... what? A ghost?"

"Kenny has a point," Kyle said, eyes widening as he nodded along. "There's this god, right? Proteus. He's a shape-shifter – he can turn into anyone or anything. He'd screw with people by taking the form of someone they trust."

Kenny looked genuinely shocked that Kyle was giving his idea the time of day. "That'd explain the weird shit. You really think that's it?"

"Look, I don't know. But we can't ignore it."

Stan felt a rush of relief wash over him, seeing Kyle and Kenny finally click. About damn time. But did that stop his brain from spiralling out of control? Hell no. His stomach twisted. "So, what you're saying is that this might get worse than just some dead guy?"

Kyle nodded, looking increasingly certain. "It makes sense. The weird lights, the way he's been acting. If it's Proteus, he's just using Trent's form to screw with us. Waste our time, make sure we don't find the lyre before the deadline."

"Well shit," Cartman clapped his hands together. "Now we're dealing with the Greek god of cosplay. Excellent work.”

"So… what?" Stan asked. "Do we just leave him in there? Move on?"

Kyle ran a hand through his hair, then, to Stan's despair, shook his head. "He's gonna just follow us to the next place if we ignore him. We should probably just sort it out now before he comes after us and we aren't prepared. Plus, I think there's a reason he kicked us out. There might be something in there we need to see."

"But how do you fight a shapeshifter?" Stan asked.

Kyle chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes darting around as he thought it through. "You can't, not really. Proteus only shows his true form if he's forced to. And to do that, we'd have to catch him first."

Stan crossed his arms, raised a brow, and shot a puzzle glance at the clearly locked door. "And how do we even get back in?"

A brick flung from Cartman's hand with a thunderous crash, back door window exploding into a dazzling burst of sharp fragments that clinked and tinkled to the floor.

The four stood behind the record store in a dingy little alley. Beside them, bins swarmed with flies. Kyle’s eyes had shot wide open, but Stan and Kenny exchanged an exhausted look.

"You did not just—"

Cartman slapped Stan on the back, hard enough to make him stumble forward. "You're up, Sunshine. Get to work."

But Kyle hadn’t let it go. "You said this was a quiet plan!”

"I said I had a plan, Kahl. You just assumed it was quiet."

"Because that makes sense! Make sense, Moron!”

"Woah! Woah!” Cartman raised his hands in mock surrender. "Can't say that. Not everyone can be a child of Athena. That's discrimination."

Kyle glanced at Stan and then at Kenny, who had never looked more bored. "You know that's not–"

"Will you hurry up, Stan?" Cartman snapped. "We haven't got all day."

Stan groaned, took a deep breath, and stepped forward, now gently reaching through the now-destroyed window to grapple around for a door handle.

"Why am I the one doing this?" He grumbled, wincing as his skin scraped against the sharp edge.

"Because it’s your dumbass dad that fucked the world over," Cartman retorted. “Your dad, your problem. Plus, I ain’t even qualified to be here.”

"Hardly noticed."

"Asshole."

Then, a miracle.

Finding the handle, the door crunched open. Stan gingerly pushed it forward and stepped inside, motioning for the others to follow. The smell hit them immediately – stale, like old water and forgotten corners. A mix of rot and mildew that had them all wrinkling their noses.

"Stay close," Stan whispered, though he knew he didn't have to say it. No one was about to go wandering off in here.

They moved cautiously through the aisles, eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. Everything about the store that earlier felt cosy now felt wrong. Shelves of old supplies and broken knick-knacks lined the walls, but they seemed off, twisted somehow. Stan trembled. He didn't know much about Proteus, and all he could do was follow Kyle and the others' lead. He felt blind.

"Hey, dude," he said, voice low but firm as he tapped Kyle's shoulder. "What else should we know about this Proteus guy? Y'know, before he's attacking us?"

Kyle's eyes darted around the store as he spoke. "He's known as the 'Old Man of the Sea.' He's a shapeshifter and can turn into anything – sea creatures, animals, people. He's got this ability to mess with people's minds, it's super elusive. The only way to force him to reveal his true form is to trap him somehow. Otherwise, he'll just keep changing forms to avoid confrontation."

Stan frowned, not able to digest the idea of a sea god just casually hanging out in a record store in Denver. It seemed off, seriously random. "Old Man of the Sea?"

"Yeah."

Stan thought back to the old man from earlier. "Think he was disguised as the old guy working here? The cashier wearing green?"

Kyle froze. "Explains why nobody saw him come in."

A sudden noise made them all freeze. The squeak of a floorboard. A scrape. Stan's heart raced. He pulled out his bow compass, knuckles white as he squeezed it in once hand. Then, it transformed into its full form with a flash of bright light in the darkness.

"Subtle," Cartman grunted.

But Kyle was quick to draw his dagger, the mere reappearance of it promptly shutting Cartman up. They crept forward, hearts pounding, and found themselves facing the blinds of the main window.

There, standing eerily by the blinds, was Trent – Proteus, even. His back was to them, but the light filtering through the dusty windows illuminated his jacket in a menacing red glow. In one hand, a bat. It looked dramatic. Bit like a painting.

Stan knocked an arrow on his bow, careful not to make a sound.

A god of the sea armed with a bat instead of a more fitting weapon, like a water bottle, seemed odd. And was red really the right colour scheme for a sea god? Whatever. Stan's eyes narrowed, adjusting his aim. If he shot the bastard now, Proteus would probably live. They could interrogate him. But no. Maybe it was their breathing. Maybe it was their reflection in the window. Regardless, Proteus spun around.

He raised the bat defensively, backing into the window with a muffled thud. His eyes were wide, lips parted to reveal chattering teeth. "What?"

"Way to make a guy feel welcome," Stan muttered, arrow poised. He stepped forward cautiously. "Let's just chill, dude."

Proteus hunched over, his breaths ragged gasps. "Fuck off! I'm not going back to that place!"

He's trying to throw us off. Where'd he be going back to? The sea? Maybe that's why the guy was casually hanging out in a landlocked state. He was like the anti-Ariel.

"We're here for the lyre," Kyle said, his tone more composed. "And we're not leaving until we get it. Drop the act, Proteus."

Proteus's eyes flicked between them; he snarled, then cocked his head, like a confused puppy. Only scary. And godlike. "You've got ten seconds to get out!"

Stan considered taking Proteus up on that offer, but Cartman flashed a smug grin. "Or what?"

Somewhere far, far away, all three Fates facepalmed at once.

Proteus lunged at them with a guttural shout, bat swinging through the air with a menacing arc. 

Stan barely had time to jump back, feeling the whoosh of air as the bat missed him by inches. "Dude!"

Proteus, eyes wide, swung again, only for Kyle to intercept.

His dagger flashed through the air, aiming for Proteus's side. But Proteus sidestepped the attack like it was nothing. Kyle's blade sliced through empty space, and the bat slammed into his gut, sending him crashing into a shelf. CDs clattered to the floor.

Stan tried to fire an arrow, but his aim was off. The arrow whizzed past. "Shit!" He tried again, but Proteus knocked the bow aside with a powerful kick.

Cartman, seeing his friends in trouble, let out a war cry and charged forward. Using his bulk, he rammed into a shelf, tipping it over with a heavy crash. The shelf toppled, creaking and groaning as it fell. For a moment, Cartman thought he had him. But Proteus moved like lightning, darting out of the way just in time. The shelf crashed to the ground, barely grazing his leg. His stare clutched onto Cartman, who nervously laughed.

"Heyyy."

He raised a sharp edge of vinyl, lifting like an axeman preparing to strike. Cartman screwed his eyes shut, but before anything could happen, a vinyl crashed into Proteus's head, shattering into a thousand pieces. The bat slipped from his grip and hit the floor with a heavy thunk.

In one hand, hiding behind a shelf, Kenny balanced a stack of records and hurled them at Proteus like frisbees, giving Cartman enough time to leap back. Proteus ducked and weaved through the onslaught, but Kenny continued to throw records with strange satisfaction.

When Kenny ran out of records, Kyle staggered back to his feet and threw himself at Proteus. The blade caught his cheek, free hand shooting to the wound. There was a pause. A slow moment, Proteus lifting his hand away, watching the blood dribble down his fingers, Kyle panting as Proteus met his gaze. Then, the bloody hand shot out. He grabbed Kyle's wrist.

Kyle threw himself backwards, trying to escape, but when Proteus twisted, the combined force resulted in a disgusting crunch.

"Agh!"

Kyle's blade clattered to the floor. It took Kenny tackling Proteus for the god to release Kyle entirely. Holy shit. Stan panted, loading another arrow. He pulled it back, released it with a gasp, and fucking missed! Proteus delivered a single brutal punch, sending Kenny sprawling to the ground. The record shards scattered around him.

For a fraction of a second, black smudges coiled around Kenny. With a grimace, they fled. Kenny looked up at Stan, afraid. But it wasn't fear of Proteus – it was something deeper, something that made Stan's anger flare. Kenny's shadows were begging to be used. 

They were on the brink of disaster, and Kenny's inaction was making everything worse.

Stan gritted his teeth and fired another arrow, but his frustration made him miss, the arrow embedding itself in the ceiling.

He tried to swear, but all that came out was a gasp as Proteus's fist connected with Stan's face.

He crashed to the floor. Everything above his neck was on fire. He could hear waves crashing in his ears, records hung on walls spinning, distorting like disco lights. His bow skidded out of reach. But as he lay there, gripping his jaw, a new sound broke through the onslaught.

Someone was frantically banging on the staff room door.

Stan frowned. His mind flashed back to the old man in the green polo who had vanished into that room earlier. That had to be Proteus.

Stan blinked hard and then stared at the 'god' looming over Kenny, eyes wild, bat raised. If Proteus was in the staff room, he couldn't be the guy disguised as Trent. So, if this wasn't Proteus, then it had to be Trent.

What the hell was going on here?

The Trent-looking dude's movements were too grounded, too raw – nothing like the fluid, supernatural grace of Proteus. Stan's thoughts raced as pieces of the puzzle started to click together.

This guy's sheer brutality didn't match the cunning and elusive nature of 'The Old Man of the Sea'. Proteus would have twisted their perceptions and played tricks with their minds. But this guy was swinging wildly, fighting like someone desperate. He hadn't shifted forms once.

This couldn't be Proteus.

This was Trent.

Stan's voice cracked, his heart sinking as he saw Kenny flinch again. "Do something!"

For a brief moment, the shadows at Kenny's feet twisted and writhed, as if they were responding to his terror. 

Trent grabbed Kenny by the collar and yanked him roughly forward. The shallow breaths of Kenny were enough to send a supernatural breeze through the shop, tickling the bell above the door with an overbearingly sweet, rotting scent but it was too little too late. Trent threw Kenny towards the pile of shattered pieces of vinyl.

Kenny crashed into them with a wet thud, the sharp shards digging into his skin as he slid across the floor.

Seeing this, Cartman made a last-ditch attempt to tackle Trent but was met with a powerful blow to the stomach. He was sent sprawling into another shelf, which gave way, crashing down and trapping Cartman beneath its weight. The sound of splintering wood and shattering vinyl filled the air as Cartman struggled to free himself.

Stan managed to get to his knees, his head pounding and vision blurred. Trent's eyes were wide, like a caged animal fighting to survive. He was relentless, his attacks brutal. Stan could see it in every move, every bone-crushing strike. And all Stan could do was watch as Kenny's fear paralyzed him.

Holy shit.

They couldn't win. 

Close to Stan, Kyle panted on the floor, clutching his wrist and writhing in pain.

"We can't beat him," Stan said, slowly reaching to retrieve his bow, gripping it more tightly and leaning heavily against the wall.

"Sorry," Kyle groaned, eyes shut in pain.

Cartman grunted as he pushed with all his might. "A little help here, you assholes!"

Stan and Kyle scrambled to help, their fingers digging into the wood as they lifted the shelf just enough for Cartman to roll out. They didn't waste a second, dropping it with a heavy bang. Stan and Kyle sprinted down the corridor, with Cartman hauling Kenny to his feet after Kenny risked an arm to take back Kyle’s dagger that had been kicked away.

All four bolted for the unlocked back door, glass from their break-in crunching beneath their feet.

They burst out of the store, the bright light hitting them like a shock when they almost ran into the overflowing trashcans from before. But there was no time to enjoy the fresh air; Trent's footsteps thundered behind them.

Kyle spotted a sewer grate further down the alley and sprinted toward it, dropping to his knees to pry it open, wincing at the pain in his damaged wrist.

"Down here!" he shouted, motioning for the others to follow.

Cartman ripped the grate from the floor and hurled himself into the hole with a splash. Kyle grimaced at the overpowering stench but descended without hesitation.

"Move!" Stan barked, and Kenny scrambled down the ladder. Stan followed.

The last thing he saw was Trent rushing in the wrong direction to chase them down the street. Then, yanking back the grate, he let himself be consumed by the nothingness.

Chapter Text

It struck Stan suddenly that, both literally and metaphorically, they were in pretty deep shit.

Soggy shoes slammed into the wet stone as they sprinted deeper into the sewer, filthy water splashing up around their ankles, legs burning, breaths sharp in the damp air. Each step was a battle to push forward, to run as far away from the opening as possible before Trent realised the stunt they’d pulled and chased them down here.

After a few minutes, they skidded to a halt, gasping for breath.

Faint clanks from distant pumps rattled through the darkness ahead of them, and Stan had never felt so disgustingly alive.

"I'm gonna throw up," Kyle gagged, his face pale in the dim light.

Stan would've agreed, but he couldn't risk inhaling more of the rancid sewer stench. It coated his mouth, a sour taste that lingered like regret. His stomach churned, lukewarm and acidic, beneath skin slick with grime.

Then he noticed something eerie: his arms were faintly glowing. A soft, golden light pulsed along his veins, illuminating his forearms like some kind of living lantern. Creepy, but somehow... useful.

"I'm – seriously, you guys," Cartman wheezed, hunched over with his hands on his knees. "Something died down here."

Kenny grimaced, yanking a shard of vinyl from his arm. Even in the darkness, jaw and torso both throbbing from the earlier assault, Stan couldn't help but notice the blood dribbling from the younger boy.

Kyle let out a low groan. He clutched his wrist like it might fall off. "Kenny– those cuts, don't let them get infected. You'll get tetanus."

"Got it."

Stan glanced over his shoulder, still panting. "Is Trent behind us?"

They stood in tense silence, each bracing for Trent's enraged shouts to echo through the tunnel, for him to appear around the corner and finish them off.

But no, there was nothing – just the relentless drip of water.

Kyle sighed in relief. "Seems like we're good."

"Oh, thank the gods!"

Cartman rolled his eyes at Stan. "I'm thanking them for fuck all. They put us in this mess."

"You put yourself in this mess," Kyle corrected.

"Trent should've snapped more than just your wrist."

"How's the broken rib?" Kyle jabbed, raising a brow that made it clear to Stan that he probably wanted to break a few more.

Cartman scowled. "You're just mad 'cause your bones are weak, Kahl. Maybe drink a glass of milk once in a while."

In no mood to argue further, Kyle went to rest his weight on the wall only to recoil sharply upon realising how gross it was. Frantically, he wiped his good hand on his jeans, looking seconds from killing somebody. "Oh shut the fuck up, Cartman!"

"Can we focus on what's actually important?” Stan asked. “Please?"

"Like what?" Kenny muttered, unzipping his rucksack and balancing it on one knee to avoid getting it dirty. He retrieved a spare shirt, slung the rucksack back over one shoulder, and got to work dabbing his cuts dry. "How we managed to mistake Trent for a god of the sea?"

"Yeah, cool, not our best move," Stan dismissed. "But we... we all agree that he is back, right? Trent?"

Silence stretched between them like a rubber band waiting to snap. No one wanted to confirm it, but their collective unease was answer enough.

Cartman grunted, folding his arms. "Dunno how he pulled that off. Dude doesn't exactly scream 'immortal' to me."

Kyle shook his head, cradling his wrist. "He couldn't have died in the first place. Unless he got himself deified or something, there's no way he's back."

Stan frowned. "Deified? Like, actually turned into a god?"

"Sort of, yeah. It's not exactly a common thing, but weirder shit has happened."

Stan took a moment to process that before nodding towards Kenny. "Did Butters and Bradley ever say much about how he apparently died?"

"Yeah, both of them said the same thing. They were fighting the Chimera."

Stan blinked. "Chimera? What's that?"

"It's got the head of a lion, the body of a goat, and a serpent for a tail," Kenny explained, far too casually for Stan's liking. "Oh, and it breathes fire."

Stan's eyes widened. "Of course it does."

Kenny hummed, dabbing a particularly nasty cut. "Yeah, anyway, the fire thing is what fucked Trent up. He... didn't make it out. Fell into the flames. Butters and Bradley bolted. Didn't wanna stick around and join him in a fiery death, you know?"

Stan cursed himself for having such a vivid imagination.

He pictured it: a small boy, silhouetted against the raging inferno, flames licking at his skin, bright orange and red, a terrifying contrast to the dark shadows around him. The heat was almost tangible, radiating outwards, warping the air like a mirage. He could see Trent's desperate face, eyes wide with shock and pain, as he stumbled backwards, arms flailing, the fire crackling angrily around him. His clothes were instantly consumed, turning to ash and smoke, the smell of burning fabric mingling with something more visceral. Stan could almost hear the scream that would never escape, a chilling sound swallowed by the roar of the flames.

He gulped back a gag, breaths shallow. "They actually saw him burn?"

"I guess."

Kyle frowned, searching Kenny's face for answers. "Did you ever ask Butters directly? Get any details?"

"It never really came up. I was kinda hoping he'd forget the details."

"Yeah, I get that," Kyle said softly, almost apologetically. "But don't you think it's a bit... strange?"

Cartman, surprisingly serious, leaned in slightly. "If you're about to accuse Butters of lying again, I swear to the gods, Kahl, I will lose it."

Kyle held Cartman's gaze for a moment, then turned back to Kenny, his voice dropping to a more personal level. "We need to know what really happened. Just– I do believe Butters and Bradley saw what they saw. I'm not questioning that."

"Then why's it weird?" Stan asked.

Kyle took a deep breath. "In the Iliad, Homer describes how the Chimera was this unbeatable terror, right? It was slain by Bellerophon, but even after it died, it still lived on in the imaginations of the people. It was a monster, sure, but also kind of immortal in the minds of those who feared it."

Cartman groaned. "Oh, great, now we're getting a history lesson. What does any of this have to do with Trent?"

Kyle's eyes flashed like he was onto something. "What if the Chimera messed with their minds? Fucked up their memories, made them think they saw him die when he didn't? I mean, Chimera means 'unrealisable dream,' right? What if their encounter wasn't exactly... real? All we know is that Trent's definitely alive. What if they defeated the Chimera but remembered it differently?"

Cartman snorted. "So you're saying Butters just has a broken imagination? How do you know that Homer guy wasn't just being dramatic like 'oh, he totally lives on in our hearts, blah blah blah,' when really it's just ancient PTSD and they didn't have therapy back then?"

"We aren't Homer so we'll never know," Kyle shrugged. "But it's not impossible if magic's involved that it quite literally haunts your mind. I'm just saying, we're dealing with some weird shit here."

"So... what?" Stan asked, rubbing his temples as if massaging his brain might somehow help the gears start turning. "Butters was hallucinating? Or are we?"

Kenny scratched his chin. "Or maybe Trent found a way to survive without anyone knowing. I dunno..."

Kyle sighed. "Look, we do have a lead on this. I just don't know what it is yet. All the pieces are here, they just aren't connecting in my stupid brain."

"You aren't stupid," Stan argued with a frown.

"Actually–" Cartman snickered, clearly about to retort, when another wave of the sewer stench hit them all.

Kyle gagged, clamping a hand over his nose. "Oh gods, how is this getting worse?"

"Pretty sure it's us," Stan said.

Cartman's eyes went wide in horror. "Speak for yourself. I'm fine."

Kenny raised his arm, looking distinctly not fine. "Yeah, no. I think I've got, like, every disease ever right now."

"Why does this have to be so awful?" Stan asked.

"At least we're alive," Kyle tried.

"Barely."

Cartman's sigh crackled through the dark tunnel. "When this is over, I'm suing Trent."

"If he doesn't kill us first," Stan mumbled, rubbing his throbbing jaw.

Seeing this expression of pain, a realisation flickered across Cartman's face. "Wait a second– Stan, bro, you can just heal us."

Stan raised an eyebrow, perplexed. "I can?"

"Yeah, yeah! Like when you were being claimed."

Stan gave him a blank stare, feigning positivity. "Oh, you mean that time I was in a magical coma for two days?"

"Details." Cartman waved his hand dismissively. "Can't you just fix up the small stuff?"

Stan rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean... maybe. But passing out in a sewer? Not ideal."

Kenny clapped him on the shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. "Totally, man. Don't worry, it was rude to ask."

Stan glanced at Kenny, feeling a surge of gratitude mixed with frustration. It was a small comfort, knowing that Kenny was on his side in this mess of a team. But as much as Stan appreciated it, he couldn't shake the annoyance that Kenny, the son of Hades himself, was so stubborn about using his own powers.

It wasn't just that Kenny was resisting using his abilities; it was that he was actively avoiding them. Back in the record store, the shadows had been itching to defend them, quite literally coiling around Kenny like eels of dusting charcoal only for Kenny to resist.

But here they were, battered and bleeding in the dim light of a sewer tunnel, and Kenny had been too caught up in his own reservations to prevent it all the way he was very able to.

"Look, dude," Stan said, the words coming out gentler than he intended. "Maybe you should start using yours."

"Huh?"

Stan shrugged. "We got fucked up back there."

Kenny's brows raised, then furrowed seconds later. "That wasn't my fault."

"No, but–"

A distant, echoing noise cut through their discussion – a low, rumbling growl that seemed to reverberate off the wet, grimy walls of the tunnel.

"What was that?" Kenny rasped.

Another noise followed, louder this time a guttural, almost primal sound, like the claws of something large and menacing clinking through the muck. Shadows at the far end of the tunnel quivered as if responding to the sound, herding the group back the way they came.

"Well, it's been crappy knowing you all," Cartman quipped.

"Fuck off, Cartman," Kyle snapped, his eyes scanning the darkness warily.

"Stay close," Stan ordered.

The group fell silent, each step back echoing unnervingly in the tunnel. The stench of the sewer intensified, mingling with a new, inky scent that hinted at something worse. Stan tightened his grip on his bow, the cool handle offering a small comfort against his clammy palm. Kenny hesitated, visibly bracing himself, his eyes darting around the shadows.

Then, a silhouette emerged from the darkness, its form advancing slowly. The shadow moved with the eloquent threat of a feline but with a serpentine grace, great wings folding as it crouched like a cat in the muck. The creature's eyes glowed with a menacing light.

Stan exchanged an exhausted look with Kyle, both realising that this would absolutely be a problem.

"Uh, hi," Stan said, waving awkwardly.

But the shadowy creature remained still, her eyes glinting in the dim light as she stared them up and down.

"Listen," Cartman scowled, stepping forward with a barely visible wince. "We don't want trouble. Piss off."

In the sewers, his choice of command felt mockingly relevant.

"What are you?" Kyle wondered aloud.

"What might you be?" she echoed back. "Do you know? Or are you just a reflection of others' perceptions?"

Her words slithered out like dry leaves scraping together in a gritty, high-pitched rasp.

"What do you want?" Cartman snapped.

"What do you want? Glory? Acceptance? Recognition?"

He snorted. "To get out of this fucking sewer, mostly."

Kyle thwacked him with his good arm, his orange brows heavily creased over wide eyes. "Dude?"

"What was that for?!"

"Don't antagonize the monster," he whisper shouted.

"What makes me a monster?" she questioned.

The shadow took a powerful stride forward. Bars of light from a grid overhead illuminated her form.

She possessed the body of a lion, its golden fur smeared with grime, each powerful muscle rippling beneath the filth. Massive paws, streaked with mud, pressed into the slick ground, claws gleaming faintly in the flickering light from the grates above. Her lithe, muscular torso coiled with latent strength, a tension that seemed at odds with the decay surrounding her. Along her back, the fur caught what little light there was, wet and matted, shimmering faintly like tarnished silk.

Her face, hauntingly human, bore an expression of quiet torment. High cheekbones and a regal nose seemed untouched by the muck that clung to the rest of her, as though the filth dared not mar such ethereal beauty.

Two wings, vast but tainted, unfurled from her back. Feathers, once glorious, hung heavy with sludge, their twilight hues dulled and sodden, dragging the air as if burdened by their own weight. Each subtle shift sent droplets of water cascading down, the sound eerily soft as it echoed through the tunnels. Her long, serpentine tail twitched lazily, cutting through the muck like a snake through water – silent, deliberate, and the only movement in the suffocating stillness of the sewer.

"Travellers," she hissed. "You stand before me as countless others have, yet few have left unscathed. I am a guardian of this path, the one who holds knowledge and doom in equal measure."

"You're a sphinx," Stan announced.

"No way," the Sphinx deadpanned, her unimpressed stare boring into him. "Do you know, children, how many bones lay beneath my paws?"

"A lot?" Stan guessed.

She paused, her head tilting ever so slightly, her voice lowering to a scratchy purr. "And now you stand before me. A new story? Or perhaps a repeat of the old? If you wish to cross my path, travellers, you must answer a riddle."

Cartman scoffed. "Listen, lady, what's stopping us from turning around and going home?"

"To fall short of my riddle is to unbind yourself from the world you know."

Stan's frown deepened. "You make no sense."

"If I make no sense, why do you tremble as though you understand?"

"Stop playing games," Kyle said, stepping forward.

"Am I the one playing games? Or are you playing, unaware of the stakes?"

"You only speak in questions?"

She licked her lips. "Do you accept my riddle?"

"What if we don't?" Stan asked.

Slowly, unsettlingly, the corners of her lips curled upward, as if invisible hands were tugging at them. A faint crease formed, stretching wider until her mouth split open, revealing jagged, bone-white teeth – too sharp, too perfect, to belong to any human. Her cheeks pulled tight, skin taut and paper-thin, barely clinging to the bones beneath. Her eyes bulged unnaturally, the whites glaring and bloodshot, swelling as if they might burst, like she'd forced them wide open in the middle of a scream. The sickly yellow light around her seemed to flicker, casting shadows that made her form look somewhat grotesque.

Nice.

Totally not creepy.

Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman all turned to Stan, waiting for some kind of direction. Stan's brow furrowed. This was bad – really bad. If they messed up the riddle, they'd probably be toast. And trying to run? That was just asking to get shredded by Trent. It was a lose-lose, no matter how he looked at it. But Stan wasn't one to back down just because things seemed hopeless. If they were going down, they were going down swinging. At the very least, they had to try.

"Fine, we accept the offer."

Her wings shifted, sending a gust of stale air through the space as her voice dripped with ancient authority.

"Here is your riddle," she intoned. "What is more powerful than the gods, more evil than the devil? The poor have it, the rich need it, and if you eat it, you die."

The faint drip of water echoed in the distance, its steady rhythm amplifying the growing tension.

"Seriously?" Stan muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Kyle's fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, his breath quickening as he paced. "What is more powerful than the gods, more evil than the devil..." He mumbled it repeatedly, as if willing the answer to appear.

Cartman crossed his arms, shooting the Sphinx a bemused look. "Pfft, more powerful than the gods? Have you met them? They're just overgrown toddlers with trust funds."

"Cartman, do not get us killed!" Kyle snapped, anxiety cracking into anger.

"I would never."

Stan wiped his forehead, feeling the heat rising. "Okay, let's think. What's something both rich and poor people care about?"

"Cancer," Cartman declared.

"Dude…?”

Kenny shook his head. "Nah, man, it's gotta be something abstract. Plus that barely fits."

Cartman raised an eyebrow. "You don't think cancer is worse than the devil, Kenny?"

"Can we just focus?" Kyle snapped, his anxiety rising. "It's not cancer!”

Kenny nodded. "Plus, if you wanna get technical about it, the devil didn't invent cancer, God did."

Cartman clicked his tongue. "Spoken like a true son of Hades."

"Oh, just fuck off."

"Then what do you morons think? Screw this if you don't wanna make an actual decision," Cartman exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air. "Why don't we just say nothing and get it over with? I mean, why not just let her kill us all?”

Kyle stopped dead in his tracks, glaring at them both. "What? That's not even–"

Kenny's eyes lit up. "Wait. That's actually a good point."

Stan, who didn't quite understand the appeal of group suicide, shot Kenny an incredibly concerned look. "You wanna like, talk about that, dude...?"

"Just think about it," Kenny said, excited. "'Nothing' is more powerful than the gods because nothing can stop fate. It's more evil than the devil because nothingness means the absence of everything. The poor have nothing, the rich need nothing... and if you eat nothing, you die."

Kyle stopped pacing. “Wait... that actually makes sense."

A burst of joy rose in Stan's chest. "So, we're going with 'nothing'? That's our answer?"

While Kenny and Cartman seemed on board, quickly nodding, Kyle hesitated. "I don't know..."

"We don't have anything else."

"But what if it's wrong? My mom–"

"Kyle." Stan's tone softened, the frustration melting into something more urgent but tender. He placed a hand on Kyle's shoulder, grounding him for a moment. "It sounds right. Take the risk."

Cartman, leaning back with arms crossed, was still defiant. "It's obviously the best answer. I mean, we're not exactly swimming in genius ideas here."

But Kyle was trembling, he kept looking at Kenny. "What about the prophecy?"

Stan frowned. "What prophecy?"

Silence pressed down on them, thick and stifling, like the air had been sucked from the tunnel.

Right.

That prophecy.

Kenny's voice, soft but steady, cut through it. "You're scared if we get this wrong, it'll trigger it? That I'll be the one to end everything?"

Kyle glanced at Kenny, his face pale. "It’s your answer. If we die here... we can't finish the quest. And then..."

Kenny stepped forward, closing the gap between them. "Kyle... trust me."

Kyle's gaze locked with Kenny's, searching for something – anything – to hold on to. Kenny's steady posture, the way his eyes met his without hesitation, the small, almost imperceptible nod.

”Please,” Kenny rasped.

Slowly, Kyle's frantic breathing began to calm. He nodded, biting the inside of his cheek as he gave in, his posture softening.

For a brief moment, something passed between them – unspoken, but solid. A mutual understanding.

"We all in agreement?" Stan asked.

Kyle looked at Kenny one more time before he nodded, this time with more certainty. "Yeah. We're all in."

Stan faced the Sphinx, whose eyes gleamed with growing impatience. "The answer is ‘nothing’."

For a moment, nothing happened. The Sphinx remained motionless, her eyes boring into them, weighing them like prey. The silence was unbearable, thick with tension. Kyle's breath quickened again, panic rising, and even Cartman's cocky posture faltered.

Finally, the Sphinx's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. "Correct."

Kyle nearly collapsed with relief, a shaky breath escaping him. "Oh thank you."

Stan shot him a look, half-relieved, half-exasperated. "Well, thank fuck that's over."

The Sphinx stepped aside, wings rustling as she revealed the path forward into the tunnel's darkness.

"I can't believe that worked," Kenny muttered with a soft laugh, grinning.

Kyle ran a hand through his hair, still trembling slightly. "Let's get out of here before we run into Trent again. That was far too close."

But Cartman, usually quick to celebrate his own genius, was quiet, his face unreadable as he lingered at the back of the group. He continued to stare up at the Sphinx.

"Hey," Cartman casually called out to her.

The others froze.

Kyle blinked, horrified. "The fuck is he doing?"

Stan rubbed his face. "Don't ask me, I was happy leaving with my life."

"We need to find someone real bad," Cartman said to her. The Sphinx raised an eyebrow. "You have all this divine knowledge. You know where Apollo was last seen in Colorado, don't you?"

The Sphinx's wings rustled, her eyes narrowing with interest. She'd blocked the path again, trapping Kyle, Kenny, and Stan back with the brave, if not stupid, boy. "Could I?"

"Cut the crap," he continued, staring her down with a divine confidence. "We all know you do. You've been watching people for freaking ages. You know everything."

The Sphinx tilted her head slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "And why is this of importance to you, mortal?"

“Let's make a deal."

Kenny whistled under his breath. "Oh boy."

"A deal of what sort?"

Cartman stood firm, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his posture radiating control. His chin lifted with a smug tilt, as if daring the Sphinx to challenge him, while his eyes, half-lidded with arrogance, locked onto hers in a silent declaration of dominance.

"Bet you get real sick of asking travellers questions, huh? Same riddles every time, same dull answers. I bet it's mind-numbing, this being the order you were born into. Ever feel like you’re missing a challenge?”

The Sphinx's expression barely shifted, but there was a flicker of something behind her golden eyes.

"How about we spice things up? We ask you a riddle. If you think it's good enough, you tell us where you last saw Apollo. As payment for doing you a favour like we are.”

The Sphinx seemed to study him, her wings slightly lowering, curiosity clearly piqued. "You propose to challenge me?"

Cartman shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "If we ask something real clever, you give us what we want. Fair deal?"

Every gesture, from the way his feet were planted solidly on the ground to the occasional dismissive flick of his hand, was designed to show he was in charge, fully commanding the moment as if the whole encounter were playing out exactly as he intended.

Stan and Kyle exchanged incredulous glances.

"Will this riddle be of standard?" the Sphinx inquired.

"Best riddle you’ll ever hear.”

"Very well. Proceed."

Cartman spun to face his friends, suddenly wide-eyed with panic. "Anyone have a riddle?"

Kyle shot him a blank stare. "You don't have a riddle.”

"My mouth is quicker than my brain, I didn't think that far ahead!"

"Of course you didn't."

"Listen, she knows everything, she has to know where Apollo last was,” Cartman justified, his hands flying up in mock surrender. "This is our shot for a solid lead, no more wandering around aimlessly following this indecisive bastard."

Kyle glared. "Oh, so this is my fault now?"

That's when Cartman's eyes gleamed with an unholy excitement. "Son of Athena."

Kyle scowled. "What?"

"You, Kyle, are supposed to be good at this crap!" Cartman cooed, his voice dripping with fake charm – shockingly, not butchering Kyle's name for once. "Impress your mom. I don’t care. Just figure something out before the dumb bitch kills us."

The Sphinx yawned. "Will this be long?"

"We wouldn't dare keep you waiting!" Cartman turned to her with a flashy grin. "Just making it extra perfect for you now. As a reward for your excellent hospitality!"

It scared Stan how quickly Cartman could crawl into that confidence. Was there a Greek god of audacity? If so, ding ding ding – found the missing father.

Kyle crossed his arms. "You want me to think up a riddle?"

Cartman gave him a look. "Well, it sure would be nice."

Kyle smirked, eyes practically glowing as he pounced on the moment. "Are you, Eric Theodore Cartman, actually admitting that I'm smarter than you?"

Stan shot Kenny a look, barely holding back a grin. Then they both turned to Cartman, who had frozen – his face twitching like he was about to explode. Clearly, just the thought of admitting such a thing disturbed him on a deep emotional level.

"Fine, be like that then. I'll ask her a riddle myself."

Before he could fully spin to face her again, mouth already open, Stan and Kenny grabbed him, yanking him back with the precision of someone saving a toddler from jumping into traffic.

"Nope."

"Not happening."

Kyle rubbed his temples, as if mentally preparing himself for the ridiculousness of this shit. "Fine I'll do it."

Everyone else stood back, watching with a mix of impatience and disbelief. There was a pause. Then, with a deep breath, Kyle looked up at the Sphinx, his voice firm.

"Alright. Here's the riddle."

The Sphinx blinked lazily, her tail swaying slowly in the muck. "I am listening, son of Athena."

Kyle cleared his throat again. "I walk on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening. What am I?"

Stan and Kenny shot each other quick glances. Cartman's eyes narrowed like he’d trusted Kyle with a winning lottery ticket only for the fool to set it ablaze.

"Moron," Cartman hissed. "Did you seriously just ask her that? That's like, the oldest riddle in existence! She's gonna tear us apart for wasting her time!"

Kyle was a mix of pissed and petrified. "Do you have a better one, Cartman?"

The Sphinx's lips twitched slightly. Her molten gold eyes gleamed in the dim light of the sewer, and for a second, Stan felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck.

But then, the Sphinx spoke, her voice low and amused.

"The answer, of course, is man. Crawling on all fours as a baby, walking upright as an adult, and using a cane in old age." She paused, her gaze hardening just slightly. "I have heard this riddle for millennia, young one. Are you trying to insult me?"

Kyle's heart skipped a beat, but before he could stammer out a reply, Cartman butted in, his smug grin already plastered across his face.

"Of course not, your... uh, great Sphinx-ness," Cartman said, waving his hand dismissively. "Kyle just wanted to see if you were paying attention. You passed, obviously. Good job."

Kyle shot him a furious look, mouthing, What the hell are you doing?!

But Cartman, ignoring him, pressed on. "Now that we've cleared up that little warm-up riddle, how about you return the favour by giving us a bit of info? Hm?"

The Sphinx's eyes narrowed, her wings rustling as they shifted behind her, dislodging bits of grime. "I do not play games, mortal. I have fulfilled my end of the bargain. If you have a more fitting challenge, present it now – or die. I am grossly insulted."

For a moment, the group stood frozen, but then Kyle straightened up, a glint sparking in his eye. "I have one more challenge for you. If you'd be kind enough to indulge us."

"Speak or forever hold your peace."

Kyle took a breath, confidence building. "I exist in code, live in a world of cubes, and spend my days digging for treasure. My enemies explode if I get too close. Who am I?"

The Sphinx's golden eyes flickered, the question clearly stirring her interest.

For a second, Stan thought it was too simple. She must have got it already, it was clear that Kenny and Cartman had. She considered it, her wings shifting again as tension crept back into the air. The only sound was the steady drip of water from the tunnels, echoing in the silence as they awaited her response.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke, her voice steady and low.

"The answer... is Medea."

A grin blazed across Kyle’s face, bright with triumph and framed by his sharp cheekbones. “Nope."

Her gaze lingered on him, calculating, as if weighing whether or not he was worth sparing. Then, almost imperceptibly, her muscles eased, and she gave a slow nod.

"Zeus?"

Kyle shook his head triumphantly. "Still wrong."

The Sphinx exhaled. "Very well. I shall respond to your request, mortal. But first – what is the answer to your riddle?"

“Steve."

The Sphinx tilted her head, brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Steve. From Minecraft," Kyle clarified.

Her expression hardened with further confusion. "Where is this Minecraft? Polis or deme?"

"No, no– dude, it's a game," Kyle explained, chuckling under his breath. "Y'know, with blocks and stuff."

Her eyes narrowed. "A... game? You mortals mock me with this nonsense?”

Stan snickered, nudging Kenny. "Is she seriously trying to process Minecraft right now?"

“I think we broke her.”

The Sphinx's confusion deepened. "This Steve you speak of – what kingdom does he rule?"

Kyle chuckled, shaking his head. "Look, let's just say Steve's kind of a big deal in his... worlds. All of them. So, are we good here?"

The Sphinx closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply like she was seriously regretting her life choices.

"Very well. You have... entertained me with your riddle of... blocks. You may have your answer."

"Thank you."

Turning to Cartman, the Sphinx's voice deepened, layered with the weight of ancient knowledge. "Apollo was last seen in a sprawling structure where hands toil and dreams are packaged. It is a place where raw goods are transformed into treasures. If you wish to find traces of him, that is where you must go."

Cartman's face lit up with triumph. He shot Kyle a smug look. "Told you."

Kyle groaned, but there was a hint of relief in his voice. "I can't believe that actually worked."

Stan let out a long breath, clapping Kyle on the back. "Nice one, dude.”

Kyle just shrugged, his smile lingering. "Hey, I try."

Cartman, of course, wasn't about to leave without the last word.

"Thank you for your service, oh great Sphinx," he said, giving an exaggerated bow as they strolled around. "Your wisdom is truly unparalleled."

Stan, always the diplomat, quickly followed suit. "Yeah, uh, thanks. We appreciate it," he added with a small wave.

Kenny grinned. "Yeah, thanks for not eating us!"

The Sphinx's eyes gleamed, her lips curling slightly. "You are welcome, mortals. Go now, before I change my mind."

With that, they hurried past her, hearts still racing but a weight lifted off their shoulders. For the first time since this whole quest began, they had a real lead.

Stan wiped sweat from his forehead as they moved. "I can't believe we made it through that."

Kyle, still jittery from the encounter, laughed. “How the fuck aren’t we dead?”

Kenny nudged Kyle. "We've still got it. And now we know where Apollo last was.”

Cartman strutted ahead like he'd been leading the charge all along. "See? All part of my plan."

Stan rolled his eyes but couldn't help a smile. "Yeah, sure. Let's just get out of this sewer before our luck runs out."

Chapter Text

Stepping into the sunlight felt like tearing off a scalding, wet bandage, the brightness drilling into their skulls and the heat sinking into their bones like they'd been spat out from the underworld.

The sun sliced through their squinting eyes, faces blurred as they scanned the crowd, aware that even though they'd just escaped the Sphinx, they weren't safe. Not yet. Stan and Cartman heaved the grate back into place with a teeth-grinding scrape of metal.

Stan flinched as heads turned. Too many eyes. Attention was their enemy right now. They needed to blend in.

Except blending in was a pipe dream. When Stan looked down at himself, his stomach lurched. His clothes, plastered with grime, clung to his skin like they'd been painted on with filth. His orange shirt was now a mosaic of sewer sludge and soot.

His mom's voice echoed in his head, something she always said to keep him calm as a kid: Don't worry about dirt, Stan, we've got a washing machine for a reason. Well, sure. Except Stan wasn't just dirty. He was standing in other people's crap. There wasn't enough detergent in the world to fix this.

"Dude," Kyle groaned, flicking something unidentifiably gross off his sleeve. "No joke. Just kill me."

Stan straightened up, biting back a groan as his rucksack ground into his bruised shoulders. Morbid curiosity dragged him toward a parked car. The others followed. Their reflections in the tinted window made them recoil. It was like staring into a funhouse mirror, only the joke was that this was real life. They were disgusting.

Cartman crossed his arms, clicking his tongue. "Well, gentlemen, we've lived long enough to see ourselves become the villains."

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"In all but spirit, we are hobos.”

Stan dragged a hand down his filthy face. "Can you just...not be gross? For once?"

Cartman threw his arms wide. "Dude, look at us. We are gross."

Being covered in sludge was one thing. Cartman being right about something? Insult to injury.

"We need a bathroom. Or a hose. Or something."

Denver, to its credit, hadn't changed in their hour of being underground. Red brick buildings gleamed under a crystal blue sky, and the air didn't reek of sewage outside their immediate vicinity. But Stan had no idea where to even start looking for somewhere to clean up, and wandering aimlessly felt like an insult. Like, after everything they'd been through, the gods owed them at least one freaking lucky break. Was a public fountain too much to ask for?

As they hobbled down the sidewalk, the eyes of strangers crawled over Stan's skin. He found it grossly unfair that monsters were kept hidden from mortal eyes yet the effects of encounters with such divinity were shown clear as day. How were these people on the street to know that Stan wasn't just unaware of hygiene? That they were actually trying to keep eight billion people alive with the pressure of fuck knows how many deities on their backs, weighing them down, mouth-breathing in their ears?

If Stan were dealing with the public humiliation alone, just one strange dude in the street, he'd have jumped into oncoming traffic by now.

Can't smell crap if you're dead.

Or be expected to sort through your dads.

At least Stan wasn't suffering alone. Beside him, Kyle's once-vibrant orange curls had dulled to something between rust and ruby. His eyes drooped, and every time he rubbed them, he smeared more dirt across his face. Cartman's usual puffed-up swagger had deflated into a sulky hunch, his cheeks pale, his scowl permanent.

And then there was Kenny. Out of all of them, he looked the worst – and not just because he always gave off that creepy son of Hades vibe. Bloodstains darkened his sleeve, cracking as he moved, his eyes glazed like he was seeing something far away.

Stan's embarrassment deepened when four kids zoomed past on bikes, their laughter bright and carefree, like sunshine on wheels. He squeezed the bow compass hidden in his pocket, the sharp point digging into his thumb, the sting a welcome distraction. It couldn't touch the jealousy, though. Those kids – laughing, together, free of gods and monsters. It made Stan's gut twist.

But when they skidded to a stop and vanished into an alley, Stan raised an eyebrow. "What d'you think they're up to?"

Kyle frowned, glancing over his shoulder in the completely wrong direction. "Who?"

"Those kids on bikes. They just went down that alley." 

Cartman raised a brow. "Alley?”

“Yeah.”

“Drugs.”

“Alright then.”

But as they passed the alley, something stopped them in their tracks. Laughter, cruel and sharp, echoed from the shadows.

Stan risked a glance over his shoulder. The kids were crouched, tossing something back and forth, their faces twisted in delight. Whatever it was, it squirmed and yelped.

Stan's heart clenched. "Did you hear that?"

They edged closer, the scene coming into focus. A puppy, tiny and trembling, snapped its teeth in defiance as the kids taunted it, tossing it between them like a toy. One kid waved a scrap of food, just out of reach, while another flicked the dog's ear. The puppy let out a high-pitched growl that only made them laugh harder.

Stan's balled his fist at his side, the urge to knock some sense into those kids – or write a strongly worded email – rising fast. How could they laugh while hurting something so small? So helpless?

Kyle's hand gripped his arm, firm but calm. "We've been through enough. Stay focused."

Stan nodded, but the image of the puppy burned in his brain, the parallel too clear to ignore. That puppy was them – taunted, prodded, toyed with by gods. How heroic of them: running away. They seemed to do a lot of that lately.

They continued walking for a few minutes until finally, relief: a bathroom: a chance to feel human again.

They rushed inside. It was a small building, ripped straight from a horror movie. Cracks spiderwebbed across the two mirrors and graffiti plastered the walls – boobs, dicks, and sharpie-scribbled jokes that looked like a fifth grader's nightmare. The flickering lights cast a sickly yellow glow, the steady hum of buzzing bulbs the only thing grounding Stan in reality.

Cartman darted into the first of the two stalls like he was storming the gates of some holy sanctuary, no one even having the chance to argue. But Kyle politely waved Kenny into the second, earning a grateful smile before Kenny slipped inside.

Stan stood there, staring at the soggy floor, brain completely fried. Thirsty. Hungry. Tired. Absolutely done with the demigod gig.

Nothing could have moved him in that moment – except maybe the promise of something cold to drink, or actual food that wasn't just some chocolate bar from the gas station. But while Stan was savouring the feeling of being still, Kyle had already jumped at the chance to wash, the hiss of the sink occasionally giving way to his splashing.

Finally, Kenny and Cartman emerged, looking only slightly less dead. Stan and Kyle swapped places with them.

Inside, Stan's elbows banged against the rusted walls, every move scraping against the grimy tiles. He peeled off his filthy clothes, balling them up into a wad he'd gladly throw at the sun – or his dad – if given the chance. The smell alone could've knocked out a small army. His new clothes weren't much better – stale, but slightly less foul. Not that it mattered. They all smelled like something the dog wouldn't drag in.

As he stepped out of the stall, the metal door let out a long, painful screech. Stan winced. He wandered over to the first two sinks, splashing water on his face. The coolness jolted him back to life, but out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Kyle.

Kyle stood beside him, his brow furrowed in concentration as his fingers clumsily worked a fresh bandage around his swollen wrist, the trembling in his hands betraying the pain he was trying – and failing – to scowl away.

"You okay?" Stan's voice echoed slightly, hollow in the grimy bathroom.

"I'll be fine."

The sink was uncomfortably solid as Stan leant against it, stretching his throbbing jaw to check nothing was malfunctioning from Trent's punch. Considering it not too bad, despite the purple slug he forced himself to speak. "You were really cool back there."

Kyle finally looked at him, surprised. "You think so?"

"Yeah, man. It was awesome."

Kyle let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, shaking his head. "Anybody could've done that. I nearly screwed everything up."

"Huh?"

"Cartman was right," Kyle sighed, cars roaring distantly outside. "About the first riddle I tried. It was so bad, Stan. If she hadn't taken pity on us, we'd all be dead right now because of me."

Stan shrugged, reaching to turn the tap off. "You got it right in the end."

"But after all the crap I was giving Kenny..."

Stan shot him a look, crossing his arms again. "Dude, remember what I said back at the record store?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Seriously, Kenny didn't seem bothered. I think he's just happy you trusted him."

Kyle rubbed his injured wrist, wincing as the bandage tightened. "He isn't a bad guy."

Stan glanced outside to where Kenny and Cartman were huddled over some tourist map of Denver. It was far more detailed than Kyle's of the USA. This one resembled a purple spiderweb of streets and dotted paths, having been left abandoned amid slightly damp sink water.

They were an odd duo – Kenny, who kept to himself, and Cartman, who craved attention like a drug. And as they doubled over, laughing about something that Stan and Kyle couldn't hear, Stan was unable to ignore the faded bandages now clinging tightly to Kenny's upper arm. Unlike Kyle, who was working his wrist with delicate precision, the bandages wrapped around Kenny's cuts were hastily fastened, wonky, a testament to the fact he could put up with any crappy situation with his own ability to persist.

There was no way Kenny held a grudge against Kyle for his initial distrust. If he was a guy who held grudges, he wouldn't be giving Cartman the time of day at all.

A sharp breath from Kyle snapped Stan back to the moment. He was struggling with the wrap. Stan felt a pang of guilt.

"Let me heal that."

Kyle blinked at him, confused. "Huh?"

"Your wrist. Looks bad."

“No,” Kyle protested, shaking his head. "You'll pass out again."

Stan rolled his eyes. "That was one time."

"I mean it, you're the only thing keeping me sane here."

"Yeah, well. You're the only thing keeping me alive here," Stan countered.

"Don't say that."

"Why? It's true," Stan said, then snorted. "I swear, I've hidden behind you in like all our fights, dude."

"You're surprisingly efficient, though. For being new at this."

"That felt like an insult."

Kyle laughed. "Shut the fuck up. You're good, admit it."

"I'm a son of Apollo who hasn't successfully shot an arrow in three days. What exactly screams 'good' about that?"

"Wait... what?"

"Remember? Back at the gas station I missed, then at the record store I missed again... you're a better asset in a fight," Stan said. "If I had to sacrifice my consciousness for your arm, it would totally pay off long term."

"But what about back in the forest?" Kyle frowned, still hung up on the arrow thing. "You were a good shot then?"

"I learned how to shoot a bow a week ago, Kyle," Stan reminded him. "How long were you at camp before you had to come on a quest?"

Kyle hummed. "A good four years."

"So just imagine how batshit crazy this whole thing is for me. I'm a weapons virgin. Gimme your arm."

Slowly, Kyle nodded and held it out towards him. Stan gently took it – avoiding the sensitive wrist itself as he felt the rough texture of the wrap under his fingers. Kyle looked away, focusing on the mirror, his free hand gripping the sink.

The air hummed with energy as Stan's palms started to glow. A royal golden light seeped from his palms, chryselephantine beams shooting across the cramped bathroom.

Very quickly, a familiar mix of exhaustion and power washed over him, the divine energy coursing through him like an overloaded circuit. He felt both charged and drained, like his mortal body was barely keeping up with the godly power inside him. It felt only natural to let it free.

"You sure about this?" Kyle checked, although the process had already begun.

"Totally."

"I guess this is extra weird for you," Kyle murmured, glancing at Stan out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah, two weeks ago, I believed in physics like a normal person," Stan said, snorting. "Now look at me. All enlightened and shit."

Kyle quirked a brow. "Pun?"

"Uh?"

He nodded towards Stan's palms. "En-light-ened."

"That was awful."

A slow grin spread across Kyle's face. "You said it, not me."

"Yeah, well–"

"No excuse for that, dude. Apollo's a god of poetry. It's in your nature to be a wordsmith, even accidentally."

Stan scrunched up his nose. "Weird thing to have a god for, but okay."

"Poetry?"

"Yeah, poetry. I mean, what's next? A god for... I dunno, spreadsheets?" Stan chuckled, shaking his head. "It's so fucking dumb."

Kyle shot him a warning look. "Be careful, you don't wanna offend anybody."

Stan raised a brow. "What, the god of spreadsheets gonna smite me for bad formatting?"

"That's not funny, Stan."

Stan blinked, a little taken aback by how serious Kyle sounded. "Dude, come on. There's a god for poetry, but none for common sense?"

"That's not the point." Kyle looked frustrated, wrapping his good arm around his torso. "The gods control everything. You should be a little more respectful."

"Everything, huh? Like the god of, I dunno, toenails or something? Is there one of those too?" Stan grinned, but it faltered when Kyle didn't laugh.

Kyle shot him a flat look. "Actually, there's a god of health and cleanliness, so technically–"

Stan groaned, light from his palms flickering slightly. "That's exactly my point! They've got gods for everything!"

"Stan, be careful."

"Why do you care?"

"The gods are everywhere, and they're always watching. They gave us everything. If you don't respect them, they'll take it away. Maybe even more."

"So what? It's about fear?"

"It's about knowing your place."

"My place?" Stan echoed, frown heavy. "Kyle, dude, listen– I'm just saying some of this is out there. I'm not being disrespectful. But how do we even know all these gods care about us? You think they're just sitting up there keeping tabs on every single little thing?"

Kyle's expression tightened. "Yes."

Stan looked at Kyle, seeing how tightly wound his friend was. "You really think they'd hurt us just for not being... what, pious enough?"

"You don't understand because you haven't grown up with this, but they keep tabs, Stan. All they fucking do is keep tabs."

Stan sighed, backing off. But he knew this conversation wasn't over. For Kyle, it was life and death. For Stan, it was starting to feel like an increasingly absurd cosmic joke.

Kyle winced, eyes snapping to his wrist, and Stan instantly flinched away, the light from his palms retreating.

"Are you hurt?" Stan panicked.

"No– no, dude, absolutely not," Kyle said, turning his wrist as if to prove that it was working again. "Thanks."

"I was scared for a second."

"Why?"

Stan shrugged. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"The sensation shocked me, that's all," Kyle said, massaging his wrist. "It was different."

Stan wiped the sweat from his brow, relieved he hadn't passed out this time. He gestured outside, praying they were still on good terms. "Wanna see what these assholes are up to?"

Kyle chuckled softly. "Yeah, we probably should."

They slung their rucksacks over their shoulders, casting one last look at their own reflections in the mirror before shuffling out of the bathroom, their energy already fading.

Outside, stood by a dingy lamppost, Cartman wrestled with the oversized tourist map, its garish colors flapping like a wounded flag in the wind, while Kenny's eyes tracked every corner of it.

"What's the plan?" Kyle asked, rubbing his newly healed wrist like it still stung.

Cartman didn't look up. "Somehow find a way to wherever that bitch wanted us to go."

"Apollo was last seen in a sprawling structure where hands toil and dreams are packaged," Kyle recited, his brow furrowing. "The fuck does that even mean?"

Kenny shrugged. "Could mean anywhere."

"Where dreams are packaged," Stan muttered, squinting at the map. "Like... packaged dreams... like sleeping pills?"

After a deep breath, Kyle turned to Stan with so much patience that it seemed synthetic. "Explain that to me."

"Like... I dunno, dude, I have nothing else for 'dreams are packaged.' Maybe it means a pharmacy?"

"I guess," Kyle considered. "But how about sprawling structure?"

"Apollo is a god of healing," Kenny said. "Maybe Stan's right about a pharmacy."

Cartman squinted at the map like it had personally offended him. "Nah. No pharmacies here. Unless this piece of crap is outdated, which, knowing you–"

"Or you need glasses," Kyle interrupted, snatching the map before Cartman could react. His grip was quick, borderline aggressive. "Gimme."

Cartman scowled, crossing his arms with a slow, deliberate huff. "Dick."

"You'd know," Kyle muttered, eyes glued to the map, refusing to engage beyond that.

"Where hands toil..." Cartman said. "Could mean a bakery or some crap."

"You're saying your idea of a dream is food?" Kyle's smirk barely hid the bite.

Cartman's fists clenched at his sides, color rising up his neck. "Oh, fuck off, Kyle. Don't act like you're not starving too, alright?"

Kyle didn't bother looking up, leaning in closer until his brow furrowed, muttering to himself.

"Wait..." Kyle's voice softened, fingers tracing the lines of the map. "Check it out," he pointed, finally acknowledging Cartman's existence, if only because it served the moment. "That's a mall. Maybe that's where he was?"

Stan scrunched up his nose. "Does anyone even go to malls anymore?"

"Doesn't matter," he muttered, shaking his head. "The gods wouldn't notice something like this. They're immortal. Fifty years to them is like... what? A blink? Plus, check out the name."

Stan leaned over, squinting at the crinkled map in Kyle's hands. The paper was old, worn at the edges, yellowed from too many folds and too much use. His eyes landed on the bold, faded text.

"Star Mall," he grinned.

Last time Stan checked, the sun was a star.

Kyle nodded. "Where hands toil and dreams are packaged– hands toil meaning the workers and dreams are packaged meaning the produce! And malls are sprawling structures!"

"It's worth a shot," Stan shrugged. "Think we can walk it?"

Cartman gave him a look. "Stanley. It's the 21st century – cabs exist."

"Sure." Kyle rolled his eyes. "And how do we plan on paying for one of those?"

Cartman blinked, utterly unfazed. "Uh. Who said anything about paying?"

Nope.

Kyle didn't give him a second to elaborate. Without a word or even a nod, he spun on his heel and started walking, nose buried in the map like Cartman wasn't even worth the argument. He veered around a couple of people, adjusting his pace with the casual air of someone who had already decided he was right.

A smirk pulled at Stan's mouth, while Kenny snickered under his breath. Wordlessly, they followed Kyle, Stan stretching out his arms with a yawn.

Cartman stood frozen for a second, mouth hanging open as if the sheer audacity of Kyle blowing him off had short-circuited his brain. He stared up at the sky with a long, dramatic groan.

Finally, he trudged after them, muttering under his breath. "Nice talk, Kyle. Really."

When he caught up, Kenny gave Cartman an amused pat. "It was worth a try, man."

Cartman scowled. "Was it?"

"Totally," Kenny said with a cheeky grin. "I mean, who can blame you for picking up kleptomaniac tendencies from your time in the Hermes cabin?"

"Fuck off, McCormick. I was being legit, walking is a waste of time. The cab driver won't have minded."

While he did have a point, something about Cartman's apparent habit for stealing drove Stan the wrong way. Now that he thought about it, he absolutely wouldn't have paid for the fireworks back at the gas station either. Or asked for the bracelet he gave Stan. Plus he'd stolen Kyle's map back before capture the flag–

"You sure you're not a Hermes kid?" Stan checked.

Kenny snorted, but Cartman's eyes lingered on Stan for a beat too long. "You being serious right now?"

"What?" Stan grinned. "It makes sense."

"Thanks. Really. That's so nice."

Ahead of them, Kyle laughed. "No way is he a son of Hermes. Nobody that lazy has a dad that's the god of speed."

"Oh, fuck off!" Cartman barked. "You don't know me."

"I might."

Kenny chuckled. "So what's your guess then, Kyle?"

Kyle slowed to walk beside them, inspecting Cartman like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

"Momus," Kyle finally said.

The tight set of Cartman's jaw made it clear he didn't find this game amusing. "Who?"

"Personification of mockery and satire."

"Shut the fuck up, there's no way that's a real god."

Kyle's smirk deepened. "Yup. He got kicked off Mount Olympus for being too sharp-tongued."

Kenny burst into laughter, the noise earning them stares from passersby as they turned a corner. "Crap, that's a good one."

Kyle grinned. "Isn't it?"

Cartman's face turned a shade darker. "Guys, seriously. Stop."

"What's your bet, Stan?" Kenny asked, shifting the focus.

Stan thought for a moment, watching Cartman stew. "Is there a god of, I dunno... drama?"

Kyle's eyes lit up again. "Dionysus? God of indulgence, theatre, and ecstasy?"

Drama, drugs, and delight? Stan shot Cartman the side-eye. Yeah, that seemed about right.

Cartman's face flushed pink, his cheeks glowing under the dying light of the afternoon. "Can we focus on what's actually important here?" he snapped. "Are we taking this cab or not?"

"I already said," Kyle snapped like an exhausted parent. "No."

"But–"

"No. We're not stealing crap, Cartman."

"Gods, twist my words, Kahl. I never said steal it– just... not pay."

"Do you actually hear yourself?"

He couldn't finish. A group of bikes rattled past them down the street, the screech of metal wheels cutting through the air. The riders, loud and obnoxious, shouted to one another as they passed by, and Stan instantly recognised them with a flare of anger.

Those were the same four kids who'd beat up that puppy earlier. One of them hurled a slur that they certainly could not say into the wind, and Stan felt his stomach turn.

Kyle's lip curled in disgust. "Ew."

They screeched to a halt outside a building a couple yards ahead, dismounting and chaining their rides to the railings before disappearing inside.

Slowly approaching, it became clear to Stan that it was a café. The smell of roasting coffee and stale pastries made Stan's stomach rattle in his gut. Huh. He caught Cartman's eye, a spark of understanding passing between them without a word.

"Well, would you look at that," Cartman declared with a grin.

"What?" Kyle asked warily.

Cartman gestured toward the row of bikes now sitting under the fading streetlight. They gleamed like prizes, the last rays of sunlight bouncing off the chrome. "I think I know how we're getting to the mall."

There was a pause. Kyle's eyes went wide as realization hit. "No!"

Cartman tilted his head. "What?"

"We are not stealing those bikes!" Kyle practically squeaked.

Stan scratched the back of his neck, his eyes sliding between the bikes and the café, weighing his options. "I mean... they did beat up a dog."

Kyle shot him a look so sharp it could've cut steel. "That's not the point, Stan!"

Stan held his hands up defensively, his shoulders rising in a lazy shrug. "I'm just saying..."

"It's far too risky!" Kyle's voice pitched higher, his body tense as he practically planted himself in front of the bikes like a barricade. "What if we get caught? What if–"

"Oh, for Poseidon's lake!" Cartman groaned, cutting Kyle off with a roll of his eyes. "We're not gonna get caught if you stop being such a paranoid little bitch about it."

Kyle's fists clenched, his nostrils flaring. "Paranoid? You think swiping bikes in broad daylight is not the dumbest thing you've ever suggested?"

"Listen!" Cartman shot back, his face now inches from Kyle's. "And it's called opportunistic borrowing, moron. We'll bring 'em back. Maybe."

Kenny, standing off to the side, let out a quiet chuckle, clearly entertained by the growing tension. He leaned back against the wall of the café.

"Look," Cartman pressed, his tone almost conspiratorial, "we're broke. We need a ride. Those punks inside are gonna be stuck drinking overpriced lattes for hours. It's foolproof."

Stan, now looking slightly more interested, raised an eyebrow. "It's... an option."

Kyle's glare could've set fire to the pavement. "This is a terrible idea, and if we get arrested, I'm leaving you to rot in jail."

"Good luck explaining that display of sportsmanship to Athena," Cartman shot back. "Always knew you'd inherited her wrath but woah, the cowardice too?"

"Don't call her a coward."

"Tell Arachne that," Cartman mumbled, then laughed, returning louder. "Oh wait! You'd hyperventilate before being able to. Thank Athena for that."

Kyle froze, shocked that Cartman knew anything about the myths. Or his Achilles heel. Stan and Kenny exchanged glances.

Bringing up Athena was going for the jugular, and clearly, it had worked. Kyle looked down to the ground. "Fine," he gave up. "Whatever. Just– what's the plan?"

"We need a distraction," Kenny said.

"I'll do the chains," Kyle offered, raising a hand. "I want nothing to do with this."

Stan weighed his options. Either make a scene or play it cool and help Kyle, albeit while listening to his complaining the entire time.

"I'm with Kyle," he announced.

Cartman's eyes glinted with excitement. "That leaves me and Kenny on distractions!"

Kenny's eyes widened. "Oh shit."

"You'll be fineee," Cartman said with a dismissive flick of his hand. "Just follow my lead."

Oh shit indeed.

The familiar hum of conversation and clattering of cups washed over Kenny and Cartman as they pushed open the doors to the café. The queue was short, but that didn't matter – neither of them had a single dollar to their name. They hovered near the counter, pretending to browse the menu, their eyes scanning the crowd for potential targets.

"Alright," Kenny mumbled, eyes wide, leaning in closer to Cartman. "What's our angle?"

Cartman barely glanced up, eyes darting between the barista and the bike kids by the window. "Simple. We give these assholes an Oscar-worthy performance."

"Theatrical. Maybe Stan had a point about you."

"I'm not a Dionysus kid, Kenny," Cartman hissed, narrowing his eyes as if the mere mention of unclaimed status was a personal affront. "I'm serious, shut up."

Kenny raised an eyebrow but held back his usual quip. "Alright, fine. What's the plan, then? You know I don't—" He tugged at the collar of his shirt, the fabric scratching at his skin. "I don't like this kind of stuff."

"Being in coffee shops?"

"No, dude, all the attention and shit. I'm sick of it."

Cartman clicked his tongue. "Pity."

Kenny's stomach twisted. This wasn't new– Cartman's bitterness. Only last week, showing off to Stan when he still felt like a stranger, Cartman's relentless jabs about Hades had left Kenny with a rotting apple and a foul taste in his mouth. Now trying to diminish the fact that, as a freak of nature, Kenny hated being observed? He knew Cartman had always been sensitive about the godly parent stuff, but fucking hell. If Kenny were him, he'd relish staying unclaimed – fewer expectations, less danger. It seemed easier. And let's not get into that magnificent idiocy yesterday that lead to the guy abandoning Butters to join them in what was essentially a suicide mission.

"Just start the distraction, man," Kenny said, not willing to get into that can of worms.

"Watch and learn."

Without warning, Cartman launched into an off-key pop song, his voice cutting through the café's chatter like a siren. Though, nobody turned to look.

Kenny snickered. That plan had fallen through, then.

"Assholes,” Cartman muttered under his breath. "Dunno what they’re missing. Wait– how are they ordering already?!”

Kenny spun to face the counter. Crap, the bike kids were already placing their orders. He strained to catch their conversation, but the café buzz drowned out most of it. If only Stan were here with his Apollo hearing–

"What's your name?" a barista called.

"Todd," one of the bike kids replied.

Kenny straightened, an idea sparking. He felt like Sherlock. If he said the same name and ordered the same drink as Todd, surely he could steal Todd's drink and start a fight?

He nudged Cartman in the rib, excited. "I've got a plan."

"Sweet. Mine's better."

Before Kenny could protest, Cartman shoved him hard. He hit the cold linoleum floor with a thud.

Kenny lay there for a second, his brain trying to catch up to the fact that his ass was now on the floor. His body had decided to land at an angle that made everything sting just a bit more. Kenny tilted his head up to see Cartman standing over him, face twisted in righteous fury.

"You did not just say that!" Cartman boomed.

Forks clinked against plates. Heads whipped around. Conversations died instantly.

Eyes – so many eyes – turned toward them, locking onto Kenny, ass down on the cold floor. His mind raced, desperately trying to piece together what the hell Cartman was talking about. He kept his stance wide, jutting a pointed finger down at Kenny. "You sick bastard!"

He scrambled to his feet, ready to demand what the hell Cartman was playing at.

"You tried to sleep with her?!" Cartman near shrieked, his voice cracking like a cheap speaker. He shoved Kenny back a few steps.

A loud gasp echoed through the café, and Kenny froze, mouth hanging open like a fish out of water. "Who?"

"My GRANDMOTHER?!"

Oh what the fuck.

The café erupted into chaos.

A mug hit the floor with a crash, shards flying like confetti. Faces morphed into shock, curiosity, and a twisted sense of glee.

Kenny wanted to die. Beads of moisture gathered at his hairline. His bones felt like dry ice beneath pale skin. It was like that nightmare where you're naked in front of the class, except he was fully clothed and apparently a granny-fucker.

But Cartman wasn't done. Oh no, he had more.

"You know she needed a hip replacement!" He hunched over, laughing or crying, Kenny couldn't tell. "She– she needed a walking stick to live, Kenny! A stick! Not your dick!"

This is payback for the Dionysus comment, Kenny thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. Cartman never had an issue being under the spotlight, sure, but this was excessive. He wanted to fire back, but the words stuck in his throat like they were wrapped in barbed wire. His vision blurred, pressure behind his eyes swelling.

Then came the shadows.

Fuck.

He should've considered the shadows.

The café lights flared like angry stars, each flicker slicing through Kenny's fragile concentration. Hold it together. Don't freak out. But the whispers made that hard. Promising things. Truly, truly awful things. His jaw clenched, but the tremor in his teeth betrayed him.

The thought slithered through his mind, a venomous whisper that made his stomach churn. It was everywhere – rot.

Kenny was rotting.

And each stare, each name, each giggle was a nail in his coffin.

Skin cells dying. Bitten nails. Dead hair still clinging to people's heads. All around him he could sense death. And somehow, like a train rattling down the tracks, it shot inevitably towards them.

Cartman droned on, his back turned. "What's the appeal, Ken? Huh– was it the Life Alert necklace? Did she pay you with a Werther's Original?"

Every nerve buzzed against his skin, a live wire ready to short circuit. A sickly-sweet odour, like rotting flesh left to fester, invaded his nostrils. Was it coming from him? Did he somehow unleash this decay?

It felt like trying to stop a raging river with just his two hands, the current of his shadow powers thrumming beneath his skin, eager to break free.

The lust of letting go was a dead weight, an anchor dragging him down further and further toward a black, bottomless pit. He screwed his eyes shut, hiding behind his eyelids like a child.

It felt like dying. And Kenny had been dying for seven years.

Please don't let me open my eyes and see a room full of withered corpses. The images flashed through his mind: Cartman, lifeless on the ground. Kevin. Karen. His mom.

That memory haunted him as he strained against his powers. Explosions of smudged serpents. No.

Kenny gripped his hair. No. An invisible fist, the same one from that day seven years ago, closed around his throat, squeezing until the shadows were nothing but a distant hum and his lungs screamed for spongy release.

A dull roar, Cartman had faded into the background. He said something about something. Then a dramatic pause. Something about something else. Was that a scream? Had Kenny done it? Had he killed him?

Breath rasping, sharp and shallow, the cold air sliced through him like shards of glass. He'd done it. Ended life. Again. The quest. The world. He killed them– his shadow had killed them all–

BANG!

The deafening crash of a table flipping yanked him out of his spiral. Kenny's eyes snapped open, lungs seizing as he gasped for air.

Relief washed over him as he took in the scene: no corpses, just a normal café. Normal people. And there was Cartman, standing over the wreckage of the table, eyes glinting with that smug, gleeful look that meant he was savoring every second of the chaos.

Kenny felt the rush of adrenaline pumping through him, a frenzied current that drowned out all rational thought. The laughter in the café swelled around him, and he clung to it like a lifeline, ready to let Cartman take the reins.

"You aren't saying much!" Cartman yelled, eyes darting over their audience as if to silently cue to Kenny: get your fucking act together. "Is it because you're ashamed?!"

Cartman was a force of nature like this, a hurricane of chaos and bravado that Kenny could only trust like a crackling burst of light in a dark tunnel.

Dryly, Kenny swallowed. "Yeah?"

"Then you admit! You did fuck her!"

"Wait–"

Cartman gasped. "Did she at least take her dentures out?!"

"Why would she– no! I didn't fuck her!"

"Don't lie! I can smell the mothballs from here!"

"I didn't–"

"I bet you're the first guy to have to bring a feather duster to bed!"

Finally getting into the swing of it, Kenny shouted. "It wasn't your grandma!"

Cartman stopped, squinting like he hadn't seen that coming. "No?! Then who’d you fuck?!”

"Your grandpa!”

There was a beat, just long enough for the absurdity of the statement to hang in the air.

Cartman's cheeks went red, eyes wide as the corners of his mouth twitched up. Kenny was oddly proud.

"THE DEAD ONE?!"

Yeah, no, never mind.

He was going to punch Cartman right between the fucking eyes.

The young barista snapped them out of it, calling out drink orders of the bike kids in a voice that wavered with fear.

Kenny and Cartman exchanged panicked glances – this wasn't over. Outside, Stan and Kyle were still scrambling with the bikes, Stan on the verge of tears and Kyle fuming as he smashed a rock against the padlock. Time was up.

Do something.

Kenny muttered a quick apology under his breath to the poor barista before snatching one of the drinks off the counter. In one smooth motion, he lobbed it at Cartman, but of course, Cartman – ever the slippery bastard – sidestepped it. The drink sailed past him and splattered all over one of the bike girls, who let out a shriek of fury.

She squawked. "Are you fucking serious?!"

Cartman grinned. “No. My grandfather.”

Before the girl could launch into a counterattack, one of the bike boys threw a punch. Kenny took it head-on, wincing as he stumbled back, but his focus sharpened. The fear, the cold, the shadows – it all vanished in the heat of the moment.

With a low growl, Kenny dropped low and tackled the guy, slamming him to the floor.

The café erupted. People screamed. Chairs flew. Cartman cheered, sipping on one of the bike kids' overly sweet drinks like a king on his throne.

"Go, dude!” He cheered on the kid trying to murder his oldest friend. “Beat that granny-fucker!"

Dodging a punch, Kenny found time to glare at him before whipping the heavy rucksack off of his back and using it like a weapon. With each collision against this kids chest, he repeated his mantra.

That's. Hit.

What. Hit.

You. Hit.

Get. Hit.

For. Hit.

Beating. Hit.

Dogs. Hit.

Chairs squeaked against the floor, drinks splashed everywhere, and laughter mixed with shouts, creating a beautiful cacophony of teenage anarchy. Many patrons stood and rushed out of the door, not waiting around for the police to come break this up.

And then came the ding.

Kenny froze, giving the panting boy relief. He glanced over one shoulder to see Stan and Kyle stepping inside the café, their faces a perfect blend of confusion and sheer horror.

To be fair, it was a little absurd: Kenny, mid-brawl, with hair sticking up like he'd just survived a wind tunnel, trembling from adrenaline; Cartman reclining as if this was all just a typical Tuesday, casually sipping on a brightly coloured drink.

Reality kicked him in the nuts.

If Stan and Kyle had rushed inside, the bikes were free.

Time to leave.

Except no, the bike girl kicked Kenny hard in the gut. He doubled over, gasping, and before she could pounce again, Cartman yanked him out of the line of fire.

"Alright, alright!" Cartman shouted, tugging Kenny to his feet. "I'm taking him outside! Gonna have a proper alley fight!"

The bike kids cheered Cartman on, oblivious to the ruse, and when they went to follow Cartman outside, he skilfully deflected, raising a hand like a police officer stopping traffic.

"Hey, stay here, grab me another drink. On the house for my trouble."

The bike kids frantically nodded, three rushing to the counter while one – with curly black hair, a similar texture to Kyle's – gave them a puzzled look. Kenny gulped. Please don't. Don't blow their cover. Not yet. They'd done so well. C'mon.

Cartman yanked Kenny toward the door, the tension crackling as they made their escape. The café bell jingled.

The street was loud, but that didn't matter.

Kenny threw a leg over the nearest bike, a garish pink one with obnoxious twirls on the handlebars that made him feel like a very violent princess. He had barely kicked off, following Stan and Kyle on the two bikes in front when the door to the café burst open, slamming into the door.

"Those are ours!"

"Fuck!"

And they were off!

Kenny shot down the street, tires skidding for a split second before catching pavement. The air seemed to ripple around him, the rush of wind roaring in his ears.

Cartman, his face plastered with an unhinged grin, leaned low over the handlebars of a mismatched, rusted blue bike, weaving between parked cars like he'd done it his whole life. Kenny was right behind him, the tacky pink bike somehow becoming an extension of his body as they dodged pedestrians and rolled through intersections.

Behind them, the four bike kids – including the soggy girl – exploded into the street, shouting and scrambling, trying to stop cars, but they didn't stand a chance. Stan and Kyle tore down the road, their bikes humming with the rhythmic crunch of rubber against asphalt, kicking up leaves and loose debris as they flew through Denver's streets, now only streaks of color: neon signs, passing headlights, and the orange haze of the setting sun painting the horizon awaiting them.

Chapter Text

Star Mall loomed ahead, a sprawling oasis of grandeur styled in deep reds and rich golds, with massive arched windows. The late afternoon sun played across the building's ornate domes and sculptures, each casting long, stretching shadows that pulled the boys forward.

The four skidded to a halt at the grand entrance, where columns stood like sentries. They ditched their bikes near a lion fountain burbling a steady stream into an elaborate mosaic basin. Stan's bike clattered to the stone tiles, while Kyle neatly propped his up, adjusting his wristwatch with a quick, irritated glance.

"What's the time?" Stan asked.

"Just gone four."

Stan cringed. They'd already wasted too much time today, and if they wanted to make any progress at all before nightfall, they needed to move.

Recognising this, Kyle didn't wait around. He charged ahead as Kenny and Cartman were still dismounting, the other guys scrambling after him as the glass doors slid open with a soft hiss.

Inside, the air was fragrant with hints of jasmine and citrus, and the lighting was a soft, golden glow cast from chandelier-style fixtures hanging between polished marble pillars. Planters brimmed with exotic flowers and ferns. Stan was struck by how ornate everything was. Compared to the bare-bones start of this quest, the mall seemed almost enchanted.

But that feeling died the instant they reached the map.

The place was a fucking maze. Twisting halls on the map crisscrossed like some mad scribble, each labeled with store names that barely fit on the lines and seemed to spiral inward toward a mysterious "Atrium" that felt miles away.

"Who knew," Cartman muttered, folding his arms, "Helen Keller took up cartography."

Stan didn't know who the fuck that was, but Kenny's grin told him all he needed to know.

Kyle leaned in, squinting. "This doesn't make any sense. We came in from the west, but this says the exit's... northwest? And then south again? You can't have two souths."

"Maybe this is payback for your dumb first riddle," Cartman had to shout a little over the buzz of bodies around them to chat shit, but that didn’t stop him. "Send us here because Kahl pissed her off."

"Great."

"Anytime."

Kyle shot him a look that could melt stone, but Stan stepped in. "We're here, so let's just make it worth it. Cartman, shut the fuck up. Kyle, your riddle was fine."

Cartman crossed his arms and huffed, but Stan ignored him, starting down the hall. The others trailed behind, weaving through clusters of people. Footsteps clicked and thudded against the glossy tiles, punctuated by bursts of laughter, the chime of shop doors, the clatter of shopping bags. They passed rows of identical stores – perfume counters with clouds of cloying scents, arcades flashing neon lights, shoe shops, and knockoff clothing outlets crammed to the brim – until a faint sound snagged his attention.

At first, he thought he was imagining it, that it was a result of how overwhelmingly loud the place was. But as they moved from store to store, bench to bench, the sound persisted.

Stan sucked in a breath, held it. Something was winding through the vents above, high-pitched, scratchy, scraping into his ears like it had claws. It was like a curse – Apollo's supersonic hearing amplifying every creak, every distant whisper – and nobody else seemed to notice a thing. Great.

Probably just the wind or a cranky air vent, right?

Then – flash. Red. A violent, pomegranate red slicing through his peripheral. It jolted his senses, like he'd fallen down a step, but the second he turned to look, the pomegranate flash had weaved back into the fleshy ocean surrounding them.

"Oh my gods!" Cartman shrieked.

Had he seen it too?

Cartman clapped his hands. "Bingo!"

Nope. Definitely not.

They had stopped in front of the tanning salon, the place dripping with a garish, radioactive glow spilling from its plaster-splattered windows. Dead flies formed a macabre carpet along the windowsill, bodies twisted and caked in webs. Above it all, a massive cartoon sun decorated the window, its grin stretched too wide, teeth gleaming, eyes narrowed like it was in on some twisted joke. The yellow paint was cracked, flaking around the edges, making the sun look almost carnivorous.

It felt pointed.

Unfortunately.

Stan folded his arms, rapidly looking between the tanning place and the hundreds of faces into which the pomegranate red dissolved. "This our spot?"

"Duh!" Cartman's arms flung wide.

But Kyle looked unconvinced. "Why would Apollo ever need a tanning salon?"

"Are you dense? The asshole literally is the sun. He's probably in there giving them pointers on how to run the place."

"Don't call him an asshole." Kyle gave his rucksack strap an agitated tug. "And yeah, exactly. Why would a god of the sun ever need a tanning bed? He could just summon UV rays whenever he felt like it."

"He's so lazy that he can't even find his own goddamn lyre,” Cartman reminded. “Why would he bother doing anything himself?"

Kyle's jaw tightened. "It's not that he's lazy, it's that we owe him. That's why we're finding the lyre."

"I'm gonna skip over whatever loyal dog bullshit you just spewed because what the fuck?"

"Loyal dog?" Kyle scowled. "Really?"

"Yes. Back on topic, screw you: even if Apollo could harness the UV, maybe he just wants to be worshipped and pampered? Gods... attention leeches... same thing, really."

Ironic statement from Eric Cartman but okay.

Kyle tipped his head back, groaning at the ceiling. The crowd swarmed around them, but only Stan really seemed bothered. "Fine, whatever. We'll check it out, but only so you shut up. You guys coming?"

Stan shot a glance at Kenny, then back to the swirling crowd. A kid tripped, yelping as his soda hit the floor with a sticky splat. Somewhere nearby, a man coughed – a deep, rattling noise that seemed to shake the air. A toddler shrieked over the hum of a dozen conversations, the faint sound of a phone buzzing, the snap of a shopping bag, the faint clink of coins dropping into a wishing fountain. It all blended into a dissonant hum, pressing in from all sides.

"Nah," he said, pulling his focus back to Kenny. "We'll keep an eye on things out here."

Kyle raised a brow but didn’t ask questions, silently following Cartman into the tanning salon.

Stan's eyes swept the thinning mall crowd, hyper-focused, hunting for any and all shades of red: each flash made his pulse trip, a split-second jolt, until Kenny leaned in close, his voice low.

"Dude, you look like you're about to go Terminator."

Stan's jaw tensed. "Yeah, just... I dunno, I think I saw him."

Kenny's eyes widened. "You serious?"

"Maybe. Or I'm just losing it. Don't panic yet."

"No offense, but I really hope you are."

"Same." Stan gestured toward a clothing store across the way. "Over there. Not much, just red."

Kenny scanned the area, hands slipping into his pockets. "Should we call back Kyle and Cartman?"

Stan shook his head, still watching. "Not yet. If I start yelling about every red flash, they'll think I'm paranoid."

"Fair point." Kenny huffed, his shoulders slumping. "Could this get any more complicated?"

Stan scoffed. "Apparently it can. Like this wasn't hard enough without a lunatic on our heels."

"Think he knows we took those bikes?"

The realisation hit Stan like a sucker punch. "Oh, hell... where'd we leave them?"

Kenny froze, and they shared a moment of mutual horror.

“The front door," Kenny whispered.

"Shit."

"Yeah. Shit."

Silence thickened between them until Kenny nudged Stan's elbow. "This is starting to feel off, right?"

Stan gave a short, bitter laugh. "You think?"

"No, I mean, really off." Kenny's gaze sharpened. "We're hunting Apollo's lyre in Colorado, and Trent's just... here? Sorry to dwell on it, but like... crazy timing."

"I dunno." Stan bit the inside of his cheek. "Might not be coincidence."

"You think he did it?"

Stan exhaled slowly. "I hate saying this, but... Apollo might not be a complete idiot. If the lyre was stolen, it could've been Trent. I had this dream, y'know? My dad and Dionysus getting hammered... all on the day I was claimed. And the same day the lyre went missing."

Kenny tilted his head, reminding Stan that maybe he should've mentioned this earlier. "Before Henrietta's prophecy?"

"Yeah. And Trent's got motive – to get back at Olympus, like Cartman said. If Apollo was out of it, Trent wouldn't have had much trouble swiping the lyre."

Kenny’s eyes narrowed in thought. "Right, so... if we think Trent stole the lyre, why are we running away from him?"

Stan frowned. "What?"

"Like should we not be tackling the guy? Grabbing it back?”

Stan dragged a hand down his face, not fond of the idea of picking a fight with the guy that had rendered them all as useful as a chocolate teapot. "Why does the world hate us."

Kenny snorted, giving him a look. "We're demigods."

"Not helping."

Kenny chuckled. "Sorry, sorry."

"We'll figure it out." Stan's jaw set, his eyes hardening. "I'm not letting this asshole end the world for some dumb revenge plot. We're getting that lyre back, no matter what."

Kenny broke into a grin, clapping Stan on the back so hard he nearly stumbled. "That's the spirit! C'mon, we've got, what, two whole days? Plenty of time."

"Right."

Two days.

Of the four they'd been given.

Freaking fantastic.

Just then, Kyle and Cartman stumbled out of the tanning salon, Kyle looking smug, Cartman looking... significantly less so. Which told Stan all he needed to know about how useful that trip had been.

"Find anything?" Stan asked.

Kyle shook his head, shooting Cartman a glare. "Nothing.”

Cartman threw his hands up, feigning outrage. "Oh, excuse me for trying to help! Next time, I'll just let you guys destroy everything without my genius."

"Can't wait," Kyle muttered, already turning on his heel.

Their next stop was a camping store, one of those places that seemed to cater exclusively to dads who secretly fantasized about living in the woods. The whole store smelled like leather and cedar, with racks of survivalist gear, sleeping bags, tents, and enough hunting knives to outfit a small army.

Stan barely had a second to eye a folding hatchet before Kenny drifted ahead, quiet and sharp, slipping through the racks like he was born in shadow. It didn't take long to notice that Kenny wasn't exactly window-shopping.

Stan's stomach twisted as he watched Kenny slide a couple of multi-tools and a small survival knife into his pocket. Not that he hadn't expected it, they were incredibly low on cash, after all; it was just that...well, Kenny was literally a son of Hades. The guy could probably summon an entire arsenal of shadow weapons from the Underworld if he'd just get over himself and use his powers.

But no. That would be "too easy."

Instead, they were in the middle of a random camping store in Colorado, and his friend was stealing a pocket knife because he refused to do the one thing that might actually be helpful.

A flashlight nearly clattered off a shelf next to Stan as he fumbled it back into place. "So... Oliver Twist?"

Kenny snorted but didn't stop rifling through the racks. "Sup."

"Didn't realise you were such a criminal."

"I'm not, man," Kenny laughed. "You'll thank me for this later."

"C'mon, you could summon a whole arsenal if you really wanted to."

In seconds of saying that, Stan regretted it. He caught the flicker in Kenny's eyes – the one that said he knew exactly what was implied, even if neither of them was saying it out loud. But then Kenny's face went neutral and he turned his back, shrugging it off and closely inspecting the next shelf.

"No thanks."

"We're in the middle of a camping store, and you're shoving gear into your pockets like we're in an action movie."

Kenny smirked. "At least I'm not wearing a cape."

Stan chuckled, shaking his head. "You'd tell me if something was up, right?"

"Yeah, just..." Kenny hesitated, glancing at the bloodied bandages up his arms. "I don't like the idea of Trent sneaking up on us again."

"He won't. We're prepared."

"You say that, but we still haven't told Kyle and Cartman about what you saw. What if he's here?"

"Hey, I only saw a blur, dude. Don't trust me."

"Just let me have this, alright?" Kenny muttered. "I don't wanna be useless."

"You're not," Stan said. "Seriously, you aren't useless. Just... I dunno, we have your back."

Kenny sadly smiled. "I know you do."

The next store might as well have been a Broncos shrine, plastered head to toe in garish orange and blue. As they wandered through aisles of jerseys, foam fingers, and cheap mugs, Kyle's brows knit together in that intense way that made Stan want to crawl inside of his brain just to see what was going on in there. He picked up a crusty Denver keychain, the faded paint barely clinging to it.

"Alright, so hear me out," Kyle murmured. "It could be here, but like... hidden. Some kind of charm, disguised as–"

"A foam finger?"

Kyle scowled, tossing the keychain back. "You don't know. Maybe it's enchanted. Maybe all of this is enchanted."

Stan crossed his arms, watching as Kyle moved from one display to another, pacing like he had back in the Hades cabin. But there was nothing here. Just junk.

"Kyle, it's all crap," Stan finally said. "If Apollo left anything, it's not going to be in a pile of tourist merch."

Kyle's jaw clenched. "I know, I just – what if we're missing something?"

"I dunno," Stan said quietly. "We'll find the lyre. Just... not here."

Kyle hesitated, glancing back at the shelves before giving a reluctant nod, his shoulders sagging.

The last stop was a jeweller's tucked away in the corner of the mall. Outside, men wearing suits smoked, while the inside was dotted with women looking particularly interested in the more expensive pieces. Chains, rings, watches – the place was a magpie’s wet dream.

Cartman was the first to dive at the displays, his breath fogging up the glass. "Oh yeah, now this is what we're talking about."

But Kyle was already bristling, his fingers drumming impatiently on the counters as he strolled around. "We're not here to window shop, stay focused."

"I know that, Kahl," Cartman hissed, keeping his voice low. "But don't you think it's weird? All this gold, no silver?"

Kyle blinked, thrown for a second. They hadn’t noticed that. Neither had Kenny, who was too busy staring down at some golden skull charm behind the glass with jewels for eyes.

"It's weird," Cartman said again, voice conspiratorial. "Could be a sign."

"Of what?"

Stan's heart pounded, seriously not in the mood for more mythological bullshit.

"Gentrification."

They all stared at Cartman, unamused.

"Oh, for fucks sake, shut up," Kyle groaned, spinning to look deeper into the store.

Stan sighed, casting a glance at Cartman, who was now carefully leaning on the case, his shoulders stiff. "Dude, if you actually want to help, stop talking and start looking."

"Oh, right, like you're all thinking three steps ahead.”

A few minutes later store clerk appeared, glaring at the four boys with narrowed eyes. Around her neck, she wore a shimmering golden necklace with a tiny peacock charm. "If you're not buying anything, you need to leave."

Cartman sneered at the clerk before rolling his eyes at Stan. "Fine. Let's get out of this dump anyway."

The door to the jeweller's shop swung shut with a soft chime, the cool air of the mall brushing over them like a wake-up call.

Cartman was muttering darkly under his breath, hands jammed in his pockets, about the store clerk apparently giving him the stink eye. Kyle checked his watch for what felt like the hundredth time, clearly debating launching the thing at the wall, while Kenny was silently tense, waiting for somebody to jump out at them. And Stan – well, Stan was just done.

"Where now?" Kyle asked.

"Well," Cartman drawled, "obviously we should hit the antique stores. Might be something useful there, unlike the shit show you dragged us through." He gestured wildly in the direction of the Denver tat shop they'd just left.

Kyle's hands flew up in exasperation. "Are you serious right now?"

"Better than wasting time with your nerd shit. How many times have you been wrong now? Three? Four?"

"I've been wrong?!" Kyle's voice spiked, his face flushing. "You've been dead weight since day one! You aren't even meant to be here!"

"Newsflash, asshole, I singlehandedly destroyed the furies for you ungrateful fuckers. And bargained with the Sphinx."

"Cartman, you begged me to think up a riddle."

"Whatever, details." Cartman waved his hand. "Point is, I'm closer to carrying this operation than I am dragging it down, so don't accuse me of being pointless. See – this is why nobody likes you!"

Kyle's eyes widened like Cartman had just physically hit him. "Why nobody likes me?!"

"Alright, cut it out," Stan stepped forward.

Kyle just ignored him. "You literally cannot talk, Cartman!"

"Hear the noise coming out of my mouth? That's talking!"

"Oh my gods, will you two just shut the fuck up?" Stan's voice rang through the mall, loud enough for people to turn their heads. He didn't care. Those people wouldn't get it. They didn't have eight billion lives in the balance. He swallowed, the thought of that making him queasy. "This whole mall's been a waste of time. Anyone here disagree?"

Kyle and Cartman muttered a few half-hearted responses, but no one really argued.

"Yeah, we're all terrified of ending the world, we're all pissed from sleeping on a bus, and we're all still in freakish amounts of pain from the fights we lost, right?"

"This isn't exactly a pep talk," Cartman grunted.

"No shit." Stan's voice hardened. He looked down for a second, rubbing his hand over his face, then let out a breath, his hands open in front of him. "I can't keep doing this."

Kyle's mouth opened, but for once, he had nothing to say. He glanced at Kenny, then back at Stan.

"This is my quest," Stan said, "so here's what we're doing: we're getting something to eat, and actually figuring out what we're doing next. We rushed the Sphinx’s clue and ended up here – at a dead end. No more rushing. Agreed?"

Kyle checked his watch again. "But we only have–"

"I know, Kyle." Stan's voice was firm. "But rushing is just wasting more time fixing our mistakes."

"Yeah... guess you're right."

"Finally." He tilted his head toward the food court. "Come on. We'll give it, like, half an hour, max."

"Sweet," Cartman muttered, already striding ahead like nothing happened. Kenny followed close. Stan fell back to walk beside Kyle.

"You good?" Kyle asked quietly.

"Yeah. Just... two days, dude."

"I know," Kyle said, dragging his hand down his face. "We'll figure it out."

They trudged into the food court, half-lost, half-starving, with Kyle immediately leading Kenny to a table. Quickly, his notebook was on the table, while Kenny settled into his seat like a guard dog. Stan watched them for a second, then gave a sigh and headed toward the counter with Cartman trailing behind.

The KFC cashier barely looked up from his phone, deadpan. "Welcome to KFC. What do you want?"

Stan cleared his throat, polite but flat. "Uh, yeah, one sharing bucket. And four cups of tap water."

The guy nodded, barely acknowledging them. Stan was ready to call it done, but of course, Cartman leaned against the counter with an air of exaggerated suffering.

"Hey, dude, wait up," he called.

The cashier raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What?"

"Think you could, like, throw in some extra chicken? Just, y'know, for free?"

The cashier snorted. "Why would I do that?"

Cartman sighed, pointing a thumb over one shoulder. "See that scrawny little fucker? The ugly one with red hair."

Kyle was leaning over the table, frowning as he scribbled down notes, and the cashier looked back, eyebrows raised.

"He's sick," Cartman continued, looking tragic. "Very sick. This might be what he needs to pull through."

An awkward moment passed; the KFC man looked uncomfortable. "Oh, uh, nice – what's he got?"

Stan shot Cartman a look, like, seriously, dude, what are you doing? Cartman cleared his throat.

"AIDS."

Oh, Stan coughed, shoot me.

"Yeah, life's a real bitch, huh?" 

The cashier swallowed. "And... how old are you guys?"

"Fourteen.”

"God. Just don't tell my manager, alright?"

Cartman flashed a grin. "Good man. Trust me, it'll mean a lot to him. Kid's only got a few weeks left.”

The guy's brow furrowed, glancing at Kyle. "Wait, don't they have treatments for that now?"

Stan's eyes widened. Cartman barely blinked, drumming his fingers with forced nonchalance.

"Uh, yeah – most types. But this one's rare. Real rare."

"What's it called?"

Cartman paused, then leaned in, dropping his voice to a grave whisper.

"Gator-AIDS."

"Oh... okay." The cashier hesitated, looking doubtful, then sighed and handed over their order slip. "We'll call your number."

As he walked off, Stan turned to Cartman, deadpan. "Gatorade?"

"Shut up, Marsh. You weren't exactly helping."

"What was I meant to do? You gave me about two seconds before you started conning the guy."

"Yeah, well, this is why me and Kenny are on improv. Not you and the angry leprechaun."

They settled at a sticky table nearby, waiting for their order to be called. Stan drummed his fingers. Kenny and Kyle looked like tiny action figures from this distance, and relief washed over him at how the pair chatted. Thank fuck they were finally getting along, it made Stan's to-do list less menacing.

"Dude, you're insane.”

Cartman laughed. "A win's a win. And it's not like we're stealing. That guy wanted to help Kyle out of the kindness of his heart. We just guided him in the right direction."

Stan snorted. "Hermes all over.”

"Ha. Ha." Cartman deadpanned. "Hilarious, Marsh."

Stan raised an eyebrow, shooting him a sideways glance. "Who do you think your godly parent actually is?"

Cartman scoffed. "What's it to you?"

"The increased risk of mass extinction thanks to the rule of three, why?"

Cartman shifted in his seat. "Fair point."

"You must have someone in mind."

But Cartman only shrugged, the usual bite in his voice dimmed to something unnervingly normal. "Look, I dunno, but whoever it is... either he's scared or he's got a hell of a lot to lose."

Stan didn't say anything right away – just took a moment to process the weird knot in his gut. The sentiment felt almost... human. But it was gone as fast as it appeared, sharp smirk overshadowing much else.

"Or, he doesn't wanna pay child support. Fuck him."

Sure.

"Order forty-four please!" The KFC guy shouted.

"That's us." Stan pushed himself up, collecting the tray as Cartman grabbed the four cups of water.

When they returned to the table, Kenny's eyes sparkled like it was Christmas morning. Kyle, on the other hand, eyed the food as if it had just insulted his mother.

Stan dropped the tray onto the table with a resounding clunk, leaning in conspiratorially. "What's the journal entry, Einstein?"

"The Sphinx's clue," Kyle replied, tapping his pen against the page with a hint of frustration. "The mall doesn't fit."

"Huh?"

"Remember? We assumed the Sphinx was referring to the mall because of the 'sprawling structure' part of the riddle."

"Right."

"And the 'dreams are packaged' line makes sense with capitalism and all that jazz," Kyle continued, his voice picking up speed. "But the 'where hands toil' bit? That's what's throwing me off. To toil means to work hard, like a Trojan or something. No offence to the mall workers, but..." He bit his lip, searching for the right words. "Malls aren't really places for toiling. Most customers come here for pleasure – we're... outliers. And, no offence to them, but the employees aren't exactly slaving away."

"Careful, dude," Stan warned, leaning in with mock seriousness as he took a bite of chicken. "I work in a toy store. I know retail."

"Excuse me?" Kenny piped up, a grin spreading across his face.

"Yep, with my uncle. But two weeks ago, a harpy attacked the place, so I kinda might be fired."

Kenny winced. "That's rough, buddy."

"Thanks."

"Anyway..." Kyle sighed, letting his forehead meet the notebook. "I dunno."

"Eat, dude." Stan nudged the KFC bucket closer to him. "Brain food."

Finally succumbing to the mouthwatering aroma of fried chicken, Kyle pushed his notebook aside and snagged a piece. But as he chewed, he rummaged through his rucksack and pulled out a pack of small candles.

With a thud, he tossed the tea candles onto the table, followed by a lighter that clattered against the plastic surface.

Cartman raised an eyebrow, speeding through his portion as though at risk of it running away. "The KFC atmosphere not regal enough for you, your Highness?"

"Funny."

He retrieved a candle, striking the lighter with a practiced flick. He held a piece of chicken near the flame, the grease sizzling as it kissed the fire, sending tantalizing tendrils of smoke spiralling into the air.

Cartman's expression morphed into disgust. "What the hell is this?!"

"What does it look like?" Kyle shot back, turning to Kenny. Stan blinked, no offence to Kyle, but doing a sacrifice in public felt... weird. Shit like this is what killed the witches. "You want one?"

"Guess I should," Kenny whispered.

Kyle set a candle in front of him, the flame catching instantly with a soft whoosh.

Kenny hesitated, fingers twitching slightly before he reluctantly offered a piece of chicken.

"Camp stocks them in packs of eighteen for stuff like this," Kyle continued, scraping a candle across the table toward Stan. "It's not exactly a hecatomb, but it keeps the gods happy until we get back to camp."

Stan gave him an awkward smile, silently pushing it back towards Kyle. "No, thanks."

The following silence was quite painful. Kyle was a mix of shocked and offended, but in all honesty, fuck it. Stan had been starving for days. His dad could get screwed. Sure, piety, appeasing the gods, whatever, but in forty-eight hours, he'd been attacked twice, covered in shit, and petrified the entire time.

Was that not considered a sacrifice?

Apparently not, as Kyle seemed opposed to taking the candle back.

"You sure?" He asked.

"Yup."

"Oh... cool."

Fortunately, something would soon take the attention off of Stan. Unfortunately, that thing was an obnoxious lump of a human being with zero shits to give and far too much nerve for his own good.

"You not gonna ask me?" Cartman snorted.

Here we fucking go.

Kyle blinked. "Why on earth would you want a candle?"

Cartman gave an exaggerated shrug, the poker face unable to restrain the maniacal glint in his eyes. "Because I'm a pious demigod."

Awkwardly, Kenny stared at the table. Stan just wanted to ram his head into it.

"Gimme a candle, asshole," Cartman demanded.

"Fine."

For a flimsy, twenty-gram aluminum frame, the bang when Kyle slammed one down in front of Cartman was atrocious. The table shook, and in seconds, it was lit.

Cartman and Kyle eyed each other like two animals. They were opposites in every sense: Kyle's body tensed, coiling like a spring ready to snap, while Cartman lounged back, a smirk tugging at his lips. The wax pooled and dripped in the aluminum pool, each droplet a silent protest.

"You're doing this to piss me off," Kyle muttered, glaring down at the candle.

Cartman snorted. "No shit.”

"I'm serious," Kyle spoke lowly, emerald eyes flashing with intensity. "Either make an offering or give it back so I can use it later."

"Does it really matter?"

"Yup."

"Alright, next question," Cartman said, interweaving his fingers and leaning against the table like a king surveying his domain. "Does the stick up your ass give you a sore throat?"

Kyle's cheeks darkened. "Fuck off!"

"No, I'm serious. It's pathetic."

"Get it through your fat skull, Cartman, that just because you don't care about your own life doesn't mean we don't care about ours. If you wanna kill yourself, fine. Piss off the gods. Don't involve me."

"Who says anything about pissing off the gods?" Cartman laughed. "I'm immune."

"Oh yeah? Explain that."

"Clearly, some of us aren’t on their radar,” Cartman shrugged, “and let’s say Athena really was watching you like some crazy feminist Santa, she's probably too busy fucking social justice warriors to notice you groveling like this."

Kyle's jaw tightened. "Leave her alone."

"Does she give you a shiny gold star every time you kiss her ass like a little sycophant–"

Kyle's breath quickened, anger igniting like a wildfire in his chest. "For fuck's sake – why can't you take this seriously? You're a lunatic!"

"I'm the lunatic?" Cartman's voice cut through the air like a shard of glass, each word sharp and pointed. "What about you?"

"Me?!"

"Burning your candles, making your little prayers. Where I'm from, we call that delusion.”

"You can't just pretend they don't exist!"

"Oh, please, like I'm the one pretending they don't exist."

"The fuck– I'm not!?"

"You aren't even in this equation!"

Stan's foot tapped against the floor, rocking the table. "Guys, seriously, knock it off."

Kyle's breath hitched, helplessness rising within him, mingling with the searing anger. "You–"

But before he could finish, Cartman leaned in, mockery dripping from his voice like venom. "But by all means, keep groveling to Mommy. Let's see how far that gets you."

Kyle clenched his jaw, each tremor in his breath barely contained. "You think this is a joke?" he shot back, anger simmering just beneath the surface. "This is why your dad wants nothing to do with you.”

Stan watched as the glint of malice in Cartman's eyes deepened, his smug facade shifting into something much darker.

"Excuse me?" Cartman hissed.

"You guys treat me like I'm insane for actually respecting the gods!" Kyle's voice rose, his hands gesturing wildly around them. "I'm not the one who's lost touch with reality! I mean, how can you all stand there and laugh while we're facing something so serious?"

Stan blinked, taken aback. "Kyle, chill out–”

"No! Stan! I can't just chill out!" Kyle's frustration erupted, his breath coming in quick gasps. "I'm trying to do what's right! But all you do is mock me for it! This is a quest, for Pete’s sake! Don't you see the stakes? We're not just playing games here! We're talking about the lives of innocent people and the wrath of gods!"

He finished, panting.

Kenny glanced up at him, fear etching his features, while Cartman looked mildly entertained, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

Stan frowned, desperate to interject. "Kyle–”

"No!" Kyle shouted, cutting him off. "No, Stan! You think I'm a joke!"

Stan was seconds away from countering, ready to defend Kyle's efforts the way a fish appreciated water, but another sound interrupted him.

Clapping.

With a blank expression, Cartman offered Kyle a slow, sarcastic applause. "Absolutely. You’re a joke, Broflovski.”

Kyle’s mouth parted, his eyes wide with disbelief, the sting of the words sinking deep. Hurt flashed across his face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by something far colder.

“You know what?” Kyle’s voice was low, furious. He leaned in close, so close their eyes were inches apart, the green of his pupils standing in sharp contrast to Cartman’s beady red. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was you who stole the lyre, Cartman.”

With that, he turned, storming off, his footsteps heavy in the silence that followed.

Around them, the cafeteria buzzed with idle chatter, but Stan could feel the eyes on them, people pretending not to watch, whispering when they thought no one could hear.

Stan let out a breath, his eyes narrowing. “Why’re you such an asshole, dude?”

Cartman didn’t even blink. “Why’re you such an invertebrate?” he sneered. “Don’t pretend his bullshit isn’t pissing you off too, Stan.”

On one hand, he couldn't deny that Cartman had a point – Kyle's devotion to Athena seemed misplaced, bordering on obsessive. But still, there was no need for that.

"A bit of maturity never hurt anyone.”

"Maturity? From you? That’s rich.”

"Just because you think being a jerk makes you strong doesn't mean it's right," Stan said. "Sometimes, it just makes you a jerk."

And with a final huff of defiance, Stan blew out the candle.

Kyle returned to the table a few minutes later, his posture stiff, face closed off like a door slammed shut. He didn't look at any of them directly as he sat down, just dropped his notebook on the table with a thud, flipping it open with a sharp flick of his wrist.

Stan watched him, feeling that gnawing sense of guilt deepen. He wanted to say something, anything, to break the tension, but the words stuck in his throat.

Kyle tapped a pen against the notebook. "We need to hit the factories. Not this mall."

"Factories?" Stan asked, cautiously. He didn't want to trigger another outburst. "Are you sure?"

Kyle gave a curt nod, flipping through the pages of his notebook. “‘Hands toil’ suggests labour intensive work, factories are kind of known for their manual nature, malls? Not so much. And dreams being ‘packaged’ makes more sense literally than figuratively, like products are being packaged up and shifted away to be sold in malls, sure, but the packaging doesn’t happen here. And ‘transformed into treasures?’” Kyle scoffed. “How are we so dumb before? There’s no way in hell that’s referring to the mall. Transformation suggests a change in form, shocker, something that doesn’t happen here. It means a factory, it did the entire time. We were just… morons.”

“Oh, okay.”

"The map Cartman and Kenny picked up only covers Denver,” Kyle continued. “It doesn't show what's outside the city, and we need to stop wasting time. There are factories farther out. Apollo might have been drawn to a specific one."

Stan nodded slowly, absorbing the information, but he couldn't shake the coldness in Kyle's tone. "Alright. That makes sense. So, how do we find out which to go to?"

"We can make a quick search at the Apple Store. Just enough to figure out where we need to go."

"That's risky," Kenny pointed out, his voice quiet. "Technology and demigods don't really mix."

Stan frowned. Mackey had mentioned that on the way to camp, yet explanation evaded him.

"Why?"

"The mix of signal and internet... it ain't good," Kenny said. "Attracts monsters like crazy. Plus it apparently makes magic more spontaneous, so yeah. Not for me.”

Kyle sighed, exasperated. "I know. But we've wasted so much time, Kenny. We don't have a choice. A quick search won't kill us."

"Hopefully," Cartman added, throwing his greasy napkin onto the table. "Or we could just, you know, wander around some more. That's worked so well."

Kyle shot him a sharp glare but still didn't fully engage. "Let's go," he said, abruptly standing up. He wasn't waiting for any more arguments.

Day three was closing in, and they were still no closer to finding Apollo’s lyre.

Balls.

But Kyle kept his eyes forward, Cartman dangerously calm with his hands jammed into his pockets. Every now and then, Stan glanced over at them, trying to gauge how bad things really were, but Kyle's expression didn't budge.

Soon, they stood in front of the gleaming Apple Store.

Inside, air was cold and sharp, too crisp for comfort.

Spotless mirrored walls reflected back at them with a sterile shine, almost surgical. Faux vines and leaves crept across the walls in green stickers, which might've been soothing if they didn't look like they'd been designed by an algorithm trying to mimic "eco-friendly chic."

Directly ahead, in a sparse stretch of the gleaming floor, there was only one display phone resting on a lone pedestal. Stan's heart sank, hoping desperately it was connected to Wi-Fi. They really needed to make it to this factory before sunset.

Behind the counter, three young women – no older than twenty – stood with eyes that seemed to track the boys' every step. Each one was motionless, wearing a smile too smooth, too practiced, like they'd been paused in some uncanny valley animation.

They striking, hair pinned back with thin gold clips that caught the store's harsh light, each one gleaming like a tiny treasure. The faint scent of flowers clung to them.

Their name tags glinted, just a single gold-embossed letter on each: "H," "A," and "E."

"This place gives me a headache," Kenny muttered, glaring down at the price tag displayed for the newest MacBook.

"Tell me about it."

But Kyle wasn't paying attention to prices. His gaze was fixed and purposeful as he stalked toward the single golden display phone, muttering to himself and checking his watch.

"Let's make this quick," he snapped, eyes narrowed as he brushed past the women without a second glance. "We'll do the search, and we're out."

Without a word, H seemed to glide forward, her smile widening with a syrupy sweetness that made Stan's stomach twist. "How can we help you today?"

"Just need to check something quick," Kyle replied, dismissive. "Not shopping."

The boys moved to follow him, but the women closed in, their steps smooth, eerily synchronized, like they were extensions of the same entity. The sweet floral scent grew stronger as they leaned closer.

"Perhaps we can interest you in some tech assistance?" H said. "Our iPhones have even more cameras now–"

Stan didn’t doubt that.

Kyle cut her off with a scowl. "I don't need a sales pitch. I just–"

"Security measures are very strict here," another woman – A – breathed, her voice low but intense, eyes gleaming. "We're very careful with our... prized products."

A cold knot tightened in Stan's stomach.

The lights overhead seemed harsher now, bearing down on them, bright enough to make him squint, almost like they were under a spotlight in an interrogation room.

He felt an electric charge in the air, like a storm building just under the surface. Cartman scowled. "What, they think they're that important?"

Kyle wasn’t listening, wasn’t even trying to listen. He zeroed in on the display iPhone, shoving past one of the women to get there, fingers snatching it up with a kind of fierce impatience.

He held the phone up, eyes narrowing, thumb hovering over the screen as he scrolled, squinting past the glare. Click. Swipe. Pause, like he was looking for something. Click.

And then, just as his thumb jabbed at the screen one last time – a burst of light erupted, blinding.

Too bright, too sudden.

“Kyle!” Stan lunged for him, hand reaching out, but Kyle was already gone, vanished mid-flash, leaving nothing behind.

Not a flicker, not a footprint.

Just… gone.

Stan’s stomach dropped, an icy panic flooding his veins. His fingers dug into H’s arm, tight, probably bruising, but he didn’t care. “Where the hell is he?!”

H stayed silent.

"Where is he!" Stan shouted again.

The woman spoke calmly, straining against Stan's grip. He felt bad, but fuck it, they stole Kyle. They deserved hell.

"Where he agreed to go," she muttered.

“Where he agreed to go? What does that mean?”

Kenny looked equally as stressed as Stan, but Cartman simply strolled over to the display iPhone, lifting it as if it were an ordinary toy.

Fear twisted in Stan's stomach. What if that phone swallowed Cartman too? But as he watched, nothing happened; the device remained innocuous in Cartman's hands.

He clicked the screen. Clicked it again. Again. He let out a low whistle, eyebrow raised. "Oh crap."

"What?!"

Cartman shook his head. "C'mere. Let the slut go."

Stan and Kenny exchanged a glance, and with an unspoken agreement, Stan released the woman. In seconds they were at Cartman's side.

Stan squinted at the screen, trying to make sense of the text. "What does it say?"

Cartman gestured to the screen. "Stupid asshole didn't read the terms and conditions."

Oh, fuck.

"How's that even possible?" Stan asked.

"I know," Cartman agreed. "How can a son of Athena be such a mouth-breathing moron?"

"No, how'd he just go up in smoke like that?" Stan asked. "What do they say?"

"Welcome to the Hesperides garden... blah, blah, blah... see, look!" Cartman said. "By using these products or services, you acknowledge all the risks associated with this experience, including encounters with dragons or other magical creatures– wait, what?"

"Where did they take him?" Stan asked.

"By the sound of it, Hogwarts."

"Fuck off, Cartman."

"Dragon?” Stan repeated. “Dragon... dragon, but there's no dragon here!"

A sudden noise from beneath their feet jolted Stan upright. At first, it was a distant, almost imperceptible rumble, but as it grew louder, the floor beneath them started to rattle. His heart beat in sync with the rhythmic, thunderous roar that seemed to come from deep beneath the mall, and the realisation hit him hard; there was something impossibly large and alive down there.

Kenny coughed. “I think we found our dragon.”

Even worse, so had Kyle.

Chapter Text

It was a shit day.

The moment Kyle hit "Accept" (an option that was, by the way, far too conveniently placed under his thumb), he'd felt it – a lurch, like he'd just been yanked through a wormhole by the back of his collar.

The mall? Gone. Floor polished to an obnoxious sheen? Vanished. Now? Dust clung to his face, clogged up his nose.

Where the fuck was he?

It looked to be some dimly lit cave, but with towering, ancient trees that stretched up and cracked the rocky ceiling. Leaves shimmered faintly royal blue, illuminating the dust that hung in the air.

If he squinted, he could make out white cables twisting around each gnarled branch. Part forest, part machine. The silence was strange. No distant traffic, no buzzing crowds – just the faint rustling of leaves, a soft trickle of water from a stream, and his own steady breaths as he stepped forward.

Nestled at the base of a large tree, lay an iPhone. Golden. Identical to that back in the Apple Store. His fingers stretched out towards it when a quiet thud sounded by his foot, sharp enough to snap his focus.

A golden apple.

Like in Minecraft.

Kyle blinked, taking a step back. As he tilted his head, the colour shifted, warming to a molten orange. His foot snagged on a branch, and suddenly it clicked.

This was Hera's garden. Those women back in the Apple Store were Hesperides – oh, fuck this. He was inside the Apple Store and still didn't make the connection. The name-tags! A, E, and H – Aigle, Erytheis and Hespere, nymphs of the sunset! Oh, he was a dumbass. Hold on, Zeus and Hera got married here? Fuck off, no way.

Before he could dwell on this offensive thought, a noise set him on edge. Imagine the rattling gurgle of a revving car, only much slower, deeper, raspier. From behind the tree: a hiss.

He froze, eyes widening.

In his idiocy, he'd failed to consider a more petrifying element of the Hesperides myth.

The bark of this tree looming over Kyle wasn't just bark. A massive coil, scales shimmering the shade of vomit, was wrapped around the trunk. A ripple ran down the length of its body, a slow, lethal stretch. Wood creaked. Kyle's gaze shot up just as two eyes – the size of plates – flickered open, amber slits glinting through the gloom, narrowing in on him with a venomous, primal intelligence.

Shit.

The muscles in his legs tensed, screaming at him to run, but he held his ground, jaw clenched, watching the creature as it watched him.

Another hiss, louder this time, shot air at Kyle's face. One giant, muscular loop after another, it uncoiled.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered, heart pounding.

Ladon's jaws parted to reveal fangs that gleamed in the dim light. They bubbled with thick venom that smoked when it hit the ground.

The stories he'd read, the legends – the Hesperides, Ladon, the legendary serpent that guarded the garden of Hera. He'd wandered right into the myth, and now there was no way out.

In a blur, Ladon struck. Massive head slamming down. Kyle dodged, Ladon sending grass and dirt where’d he’d been stood in every direction.

He twisted on his heel, slashing upwards with his sword. The dragon hissed, its massive head recoiling: silvery blood spattered across the grass.

But Ladon was fast. Kyle leapt forward to strike again, but a great log of a tail whipped out, barrelling into his already unlucky wrist: the sword flew from his hand. He yelled, scrambling back, face scrunched in pain. His spine met the bark of another tree.

Shit, shit, shit. Weapons, he needed weapons. Think, you idiot! Think!

Kyle grabbed the nearest thing – a shiny apple, ripped it from the branch, and hurled it at Ladon's head, but apparently apples were only good for deterring doctors, not dragons. Pathetically, it bounced off his scales. His eyes narrowed.

All things considered, it hadn’t been his best plan.

Ladon lunged again, and Kyle bolted, diving into the green underbrush and crouching low. He felt like a rabbit being hunted by a dog – no, fuck that, a mouse by a fat, hungry owl.

He could almost see Athena's face with each twig stabbing into his palms, rolling her eyes. "What are you doing? Why aren't you fighting?"

Solid question. Kyle had no fucking clue.

The ground trembled as Ladon grew near, massive coils shifting through the bushes. Twigs snapped beneath his weight, and Kyle could only press against the rough cave wall when he ran out of space to hide. 

Please don't find me, please don't find me.

A hand clutched his mouth. Kyle didn't mean to shake. It wasn't heroic. But he needed help – a plan, a god, anything.

Athena had handed Perseus a reflective shield, saved him from becoming Medusa's next statue. She'd guided Odysseus through every twist, every hardship, simply because he'd earned her favor. Even Heracles, for all his screw-ups, had Athena at his back, sending him aid when he needed it most.

But Kyle? Kyle, who'd spent half his life trying to be worth something in her eyes? Apparently, he hadn't shown her enough respect.

Fucking grand. 

Kyle could still recall the first time his father had taken him to see her.

At seven-years-old, grin marked by a wobbly front tooth, he'd sensed something different the moment his dad came to collect him from his new school.

Gerald had dressed sharply that day. A coffee-coloured trench coat brushed against his knees, shoes gleaming with an unnatural shine. He'd reached out to give Kyle's hair a quick, almost reluctant, tug, as if wanting his son to look just right for the occasion.

Soon, the car was on the road, the blur of city life rumbling beyond the window. On his lap, Kyle played with the small stuffed owl toy that his father had bought him for his last birthday, and seeing the small white bundle of fluff and fabric, Kyle had oh so creatively named him Owlie.

Like all kids have done at some point, Kyle held Owlie up the window, almost as if playing a video game as he moved Owlie up and down to make it look like he was hopping from building to building as the car shot down the road.

When they arrived at the museum, however, Kyle's eyebrows nearly reached his hairline. It was a giant, looming castle of a place, with white columns so tall he could barely see the tops, and statues of old people who looked suspiciously like they'd been caught sneezing.

Gerald parked the car and they made their way inside. The reception went on forever, polished and shiny, echoing with every squeaky step of Kyle's sneakers, and as Gerald paid for two tickets, Kyle found himself and Owlie being given the stink eye by some Egyptian statue.

They walked together down shadowy marble corridors, Kyle asking what can only be described as a tsunami of annoying questions. But Gerald never seemed to tire of answering; if anything, he looked forward to getting to show off. They paused by a statue.

"Why is that guy wearing a bowl?”

Gerald smiled at the seven-year-old. "That's a helmet, Kyle. And 'that guy' is Pericles, great leader of Athens."

"What makes him great?"

Gerald coughed, straightening his tie. "Well... he led Athens during its Golden Age. Art, democracy, philosophy – it all flourished under him."

Kyle squinted. "But he didn't invent those, did he?"

"He laid the groundwork for democracy as we know it, I'd consider that inventive," Gerald answered. "Athens became a place where people could debate ideas freely, even criticise him."

"So... he just liked to argue?"

Gerald chuckled, gently placing a hand on Kyle's shoulder. "There's more to it than that. He also used the navy to expand Athens' influence."

"So, fighting made him... good?"

"His fighting spirit helped to protect Athens from its enemies. He was great in war."

Kyle slowly nodded, the snowy lights starting to hurt his head. "So... we celebrate Pericles for fighting.”

“Yup.”

”But when I do it—?"

Gerald half-groaned. "Kyle."

"It wasn't my fault!” He looked down to the floor, little cheeks red as he tried to defend himself. "They were saying stuff again."

"Pericles protected something greater than himself, Kyle. He fought, but it wasn't for pride, or because of an insult. It was... it was to keep his people safe." He hesitated, sighing. "Fighting can be noble when you're defending others, not yourself."

Kyle's face fell slightly. "But... I didn't want them to just say whatever they wanted."

Gerald nodded, leaning down to meet Kyle at eye level. "There's a line. It's hard to see sometimes, but true strength is knowing when to cross it, and when to walk away. Sometimes, the fight isn't worth it, Kyle. Just... retreat."

"Is that why mom's not here?" Kyle mumbled. "She retreated?"

Gerald looked at his son, his gaze searching, as though hoping an answer lay hidden in Kyle's young face.

"Maybe."

Kyle's eyes dropped to the floor, his grip on Owlie so tight the little owl seemed to wilt. "Did she think it was best?"

"Don't dwell on what you can't control, Kyle. It’s whiny.”

For a moment, as Gerald walked ahead, Kyle stared at the lifeless statue and wondered if Pericles had ever been a dumb kid or if he’d simply appeared in the world fully formed, clung to by history. The thought didn’t last long. Soon, he was chasing after his dad, footsteps echoing down the hall.

Ultimately, they ended up in the Great Hall of the Met. The ceiling soared high above, arching like it wanted to scrape the clouds, while the largest statue Kyle had ever seen stood in the centre. The statues' robes hung in perfect folds, softer than stone had any right to be.

They stood there for a moment, father and son, staring up at the statue's face. There was a flutter in Kyle's chest – a strange excitement, an urge to get closer, as if the marble figure might suddenly look down and notice him.

Kyle gulped, holding Owlie up so that the toy could see her clearly too. "Who is she?"

"Athena."

"How do they know what she looked like to make a statue of her?"

Gerald looked down at Kyle's face – really looked at it, as though each freckle made up constellations rivalling those that distantly twinkled above them. As if drawing comparisons, he glanced back to the statue. 

”I doubt they really did, Kyle.”

He reached into his coat, returned with blue forget-me-nots. He knelt down, right there on the cold floor – the hustle of museum-goers swirling around them – and placed them at her feet. For a moment, he stayed like that, head bowed tight, face oddly blank.

And for the first time, it struck Kyle that his dad, this man who never showed a crack, who never bent or softened, was here – kneeling to a lump of lifeless rock.

When he finally stood tall again, Gerald's expression was something Kyle couldn't quite read. He tugged at his suit, rolled back his shoulders, and checked his wristwatch.

"C'mon, Kyle." Gerald took his hand again. "We have places to be."

The flowers were left unquestioned by Kyle for three years. 

He was only eight-years-old, tucked into bed with Owlie, beside him, when he encountered the goddess again. Sat on the edge of the bed, Gerald read to Kyle from their favourite storybook, totally suitable for a child, and totally not deserving of at least a PG-13 rating: the Iliad.

Tonight, it was book five.

"Then Pallas Athene granted Tydeus' son Diomedes strength and daring – so the fighter would shine forth and tower over the Argives and win himself great glory."

Kyle listened, rapt, a spark of awe in his eyes. He imagined himself in those stories, strong and sure with Athena at his side. He soon drifted off to sleep – no offence to Homer – and Gerald inched the book shut, made sure Kyle was tucked in properly, and crept out of the room.

Hours later, a strange tickle on his ankle dragged Kyle from sleep. He blinked and groggily reached out for his lamp – but his fingers froze as that same itch scratched up his thigh.

He kicked out, panic boiling under his skin. A spider as big as his palm darted across his leg. Kyle slapped it off, heartbeat thundering in his ears. And wasted no time in kicking the blankets off of him until it was just him and Owlie on the mattress.

Except no.

Of course not.

His white mattress was black, fuzzy. Spiders everywhere, swarming across the bedspread, crawling up the walls, spilling from under his pillow in a sickening wave. Legs clicked and skittered. Black dots that scurried and twitched.

"Dad!" he screamed, voice catching as he bolted upright, slapping the things off him. He stumbled off the bed only to find the wooden floor now soft under his bare feet. "Dad!"

Gerald charged in, hair messy from sleep, his face going ashen at the sight of Kyle trembling, a black carpet shifting around him. "Kyle!"

He grabbed his son, hoisting him up over his shoulder, tearing out of the room with Kyle clinging to him, trembling and dry-heaving with revulsion.

He wanted Owlie, but not as she was now.

Contaminated.

They crashed into the bathroom, and Gerald dumped Kyle onto the closed toilet lid with all the grace of a cinderblock. Kyle barely had time to catch his breath before Gerald turned and bolted from the room, his expression so fierce it sent a jolt of fear through Kyle's spine – more than the spiders, more than the silence.

A second later, Gerald reappeared, clutching one of their white backyard chickens, its feathers a wild, ruffled mess, wings flapping with panicked squawks. The bird's alarmed eyes met Kyle's, as if it sensed this wasn't going to end well for either of them.

"Pray, Kyle," Gerald hissed, dousing the chicken in olive oil over the bathtub until it dripped from the bird's feathers like honey. It screeched like the devil. Before Kyle could shut his eyes or cover his ears, Gerald's grip tightened, and with one sickening twist, there was a wet crunch.

The bird went limp.

Pomegranate red poured out in slow, ugly spurts, staining the bath crimson. Feathers floated on the surface like torn bits of paper. Gerald panted, dropping the animal with a heavy thud.

Gerald's hands were stained red up to the wrists. He looked at his son, face set hard, as he wiped the blood onto his pants like it was nothing, like it wasn't seeping into the fabric and staining it dark.

"You're okay, Kyle. She's going to protect you."

Only, Kyle couldn't breathe.

Sacrifice – until that night, it was a word plucked from storybooks, something noble and distant.

Not something his father, a 5'8 lawyer, was supposed to be doing on a school night. But as he sat there trembling before his father's bloody hands, Kyle understood it was something brutal, something real.

It was to protect him.

The next day at school, Kyle sat alone at the library computer, typing 'arachnophobia' into the search bar.

The first part, he knew. It was a fear of spiders. Tick. No more watching Charlotte's Web for Kyle. Or Chicken Little. But what he didn't understand until then was that the fear was named after Arachne, an arrogant woman from ancient times – distrusting of the gods – that Athena had had punished by turning her into a hideous creature, the mother of all spiders.

Kyle blinked at the screen.

It was a childish thought. Really. Like believing in Santa, the Tooth Fairy, or world peace. But he had to wonder.

Had Arachne's children attacked him...?

Don’t dwell on what you can’t control, Kyle.

When Kyle got home, he saw his room scrubbed spotless, his bedspread fresh, Owlie neatly washed and placed on his pillow. Mint plants had sprouted on his windowsill, filling the room with their sharp, clean smell. But the moment Kyle sat on his bed, the image of spiders rushed back, and he didn't dare touch Owlie.

To be fair to Gerald, there wasn't another spider attack after that. Not to the same level, anyway. But it would be foolish to pretend that the weirdness stopped entirely.

A year later, Gerald pressed a small, wrapped box into Kyle's hands.

Only the two of them filled the quiet house, as usual, with a small birthday cake the only real tell of it being Kyle's ninth birthday. The boy stared out of the window, apathetic to the wax melting into the cake.

Gerald's voice trembled as he leaned forward, trying to get a good look at his son's face. But Kyle turned away, clenching his jaw.

"Stop that,” Gerald said.

"Stop what?" Kyle croaked, finally turning to face him. "Lying?"

Gerald leant back against the couch, talking with his hands, like how he would defending criminals in court. "Kyle, it's not–"

Kyle shook his head. "You don't believe me."

"Can you blame me?" Gerald snapped. "You've got good grades. Your teachers love you. You're – we're normal, Kyle."

A laugh, hollow and bitter, clawed its way up Kyle's throat. Normal? His eyes flickered toward the window again, the empty yard stretching out before him. The chicken coop, once overflowing with life, was now barren. They once had nine chickens, but now they only had store-bought eggs.

When the neighbours asked, Gerald would usually blame the foxes that didn't exist. Though, Kyle knew the truth. Their house – while a beautiful lump of stone – had never been monster proof.

"I heard you," Kyle finally admitted.

"What?"

"On the phone, Dad."

Gerald's eyes widened. It was a few days ago. They'd awkwardly been sat watching television, some documentary on the conflict between Henry II of England and his rebellious children, most famous being Richard the Lionheart.

‘Will no one rid me of these turbulent sons?’

Kyle wasn't really paying attention to the documentary – it was all dumb, anyway. Gerald was working on his laptop, fingers clacking over keys, until finally his phone rang with a shrill scream.

Gerald took the phone from his pocket and held it to his ear. "Hello?"

There was a pause. A digital mumble Kyle couldn't make out, and Gerald's eyes flickered to him for a moment before he shot out of the room.

The study door had clicked shut, and Kyle slowly rose to his feet, creeping towards the hallway as he dared to eavesdrop. Through the crack of the door, he heard his father's low, controlled voice.

"It's not that he's violent," Gerald was saying. "It's just... well, he's a smart kid. Overactive imagination, maybe. I'd hate to see him treated like... like there's something wrong with him."

Kyle's hand had gripped the doorframe, knuckles turning white.

"But he's been telling these stories... monsters, shadows following him," Gerald said. "I've tried to tell him it's his mind, but he lies sometimes. No– no! That kid's dad works with me, I know him... no he wouldn't do that to Kyle... Kyle... how do I put this... Kyle likes fiction. He lies."

Lies. Kyle's heart ached, as if nettles were tangled in his veins and cacti were lodged in his aorta. Lies?

"I mean, we're normal, right?" Gerald chuckled, floor creaking as he paced around the room. "He's got good grades. Teachers love him. It's just a phase... yeah... yeah, I hope so too."

Kyle wasn't lying. He wasn't crazy.

"Y'know... it's actually really hard being a single parent," Gerald said, stopping, listening, almost like he could hear Kyle's shallow breathing. "He's a good kid sometimes, but–"

Kyle didn't want to listen anymore. He bolted up the stairs. Even when he slammed the door to his room, Gerald's cool, rational voice clung to him, a painful reminder of how far apart they were. He'd paced, an unfortunate habit to pick up from his dad (beside lying, apparently) and he couldn't help the moisture scratching his eyelids, burning the rims of his eyes, as he did so.

And now it was his birthday.

And Gerald wanted to pretend everything was fine between them? Like Kyle hadn't been suspended for fighting again? Like that wasn't why Gerald had received that call to begin with?

Fuck that.

"Okay," Gerald's voice broke the silence. "I hadn't meant anything by it, Kyle. You're being irrational."

"I'm not a liar."

"Okay, whatever. I believe you. Open the present then."

Kyle held his eye contact for a moment. He didn't believe that for a second, but he unwrapped the green paper and tossed it aside. He clawed open the cardboard box, and Kyle could only stare down at the item inside when it revealed itself.

His mouth opened slightly. The bottom lip trembled.

"Now, you can defend yourself," Gerald said. "Won't need to whine to me. You can do stuff yourself."

At nine-years-old, you could forgive Kyle for crying.

Gerald smiled, patting Kyle on the shoulder. He must have willingly ignored how frozen the child was. "Isn't it good? You won't need to feel useless against it all anymore.”

The sword was weighty in Kyle's hands as he took it from the box.

Won’t need to whine to me.

The weapon wasn’t a gift. No. It was a boundary.

No more tight hugs after claw shaped cuts. No more scrambling to call the police when, in reality, they were blind to it all. No more ranting about security measures, fixing alarm systems that always broke in the night. No more questions. No more check-ups. Clumsy screams. Tear-streaked apologies. Dead chickens. Prayers. Barks. Demands. Hugs. Protection. No more... Kyle bit his cheek, blinking rapidly. No more Dad.

Through it all, Kyle had only wanted his dad.

But this wasn't Gerald's problem. Kyle looked at his father, at how he shrank away seeing balls of water drip down the curve of his son's cheeks. For a man so sure of everything, Kyle had never seen him confused. But still, Gerald – perhaps accidentally, ignorantly – had made his stance clear.

This was Kyle's problem. Kyle's responsibility to deal with it – to control.

Kyle only heard waves crashing down his ear canal. He stood, sword clattering to the floor. Gerald called after him, as he shot up the stairs, but Kyle didn’t slow. It wasn’t Gerald’s problem. 

He just locked his door, packed his bag for school, and crawled into bed. (After checking under the mattress and inside the pillowcase for spiders, of course.)

The next day, with Kyle's suspension over, Gerald drove him to school. For the ten minutes, there were no words between them. Kyle just silently slipped out of the car, making sure to slam the door.

By recess, he stood by the wall, his fingers tight around the straps of his backpack. Voices – sneering, cruel, familiar – crept closer.

"You know, I heard you talkin' to yourself."

Over the years, plenty of kids had taken the piss out of Kyle, but Frederic and his gang were the worst – at least for now. Later, Kyle would laugh at the irony of Frederic was just a longer version of another name he'd come to loathe. But in the moment, Kyle just wanted to knock out his teeth and jam them into his piggish eyes.

"Dunno, man. Maybe he's just makin' it up 'cause he's scared. Guess that's what happens when you're – what was it? Oh yeah – crazy."

Kyle's fists clenched, heart drumming an urgent beat. He couldn't get suspended again... not on his first day back.

The group gathered closer, laughing louder now. "What's it like, huh? Lying all the time? You sure you ain't just some psychopath?"

"You're pathetic," Kyle spat.

"Yeah, you'd say that," Frederic jeered. His breath was salty. "Psycho. Maybe you should get checked in the head. Don't know how your dad lets you go around like this. But hey, whatever, keep talking to your imaginary friends."

The world felt like it was pressing in. Kyle's throat tightened, and something inside him snapped.

He didn't think. Didn't plan. He pulled the sword from his bag, flicking the blade out just enough for it to glint in the light.

The laughter died. The sun caught the steel in a blinding flash, and for a moment, all Kyle could hear was his own breathing.

Frederic's cocky grin faltered, his eyes wide as the cold steel caught the light between them.

"You – what the hell's that?"

"I'm not crazy." Kyle's voice was low, sharp. He didn't even know where the words came from. "But if you don't leave me alone, I'll change my mind."

The energy in the air shifted, the quiet stretching longer than it should have. Then, with a collective breath, they backed off, eyes wide, murmuring between themselves.

"Fine, whatever," Frederic muttered, glancing at something – someone – stood tall behind Kyle. "We're out, pal."

He blinked down at the blade in his hand, the weight of it easing as his shoulders dropped, his chest loosening. A slow grin pulled at his face, something light sparking in his eyes.

A voice behind him broke the stillness.

"Well, that's a first," giggled the new lunch lady. He spun to face her.

The plump woman with bright orange curls stood near the edge of the playground, arms folded. Her red hair, wild and unruly, framed a face that was both warm and formidable, with sharp features on a rounder canvas that looked like they'd been honed by years of dealing with... well, everything. And her eyes – those eyes were like emeralds. Direct, unblinking.

If she snitched to the principle– shit. Kyle was fucked.

He quickly shoved the sword back into his back. Gulping. As though it would make her unsee everything.

Her lips stretched into a pink smile. "Now, Kyle. Don't worry."

Kyle blinked. "You're not gonna tell on me?"

Somehow, this was more important than her knowing his name. Nine-year-olds, man. Fucking idiots.

"Look, I'm not saying you're some kind of hero,” she said. “But you fight for your honour, and that's something no one can take from you."

“Wait... so you're not gonna make me... I dunno... write a statement or something?"

She laughed – a low, knowing sound that seemed to resonate with the wind, with something older. "Kyle, do I look like someone who bothers with that kind of nonsense?"

Something in her tone made the hairs on his arms stand up.

"You mean – like, actually?"

"Keep your courage, Kyle. When you need me, I'll be here."

And before he could even respond, she turned, leaving him standing in the empty playground with a strange feeling swirling in his gut.

He'd endured so much in life because of Athena.

But what did that matter?

Now, fourteen and hiding in the bushes like the most pathetic tiger known to man, Kyle was alone.

“When you need me, I’ll be here.”

She wasn’t.

Ladon's coils tightened again, preparing to strike as though able to sense Kyle hidden within the bushes. He swallowed hard, glancing upward as if he might see his father's face in the cave ceiling, shooting him that same stone look worn by Athena in the museum.

Fight for a noble cause. He'd sacrificed so much already to stay alive, was he seriously about to render that useless?

Ladon lunged. Kyle dodged hard to the side, crashing through low branches and brambles. Splinters dug into his skin. But he wasn't running. There was no exit.

His friends certainly weren't coming to save him. He'd made that clear enough by snapping at them. Hell, they were probably celebrating his disappearance. But if there was one thing Kyle knew, it was that giving up wasn't in his blood.

His hand closed around a broken branch. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the fear aside – willed it into a slow, furious ember. He was done being pathetic, whining because he couldn't assert control.

With a snarl, he lunged.

The jagged wood drove straight into Ladon's side. The branch splintered. Ladon reared back, shrieking, but Kyle held his ground. He locked his gaze on his enemy.

Athena's domain, he thought, wasn't just wisdom – it was war. It was the fierce resolve that steadied his hands, the instincts firing off in rapid succession, each move planned as soon as it happened.

His father had been relatively against Kyle's fighting spirit until now, but he figured saving eight billion people was a noble enough cause. Plus, Gerald wasn't here. And if Kyle ever wanted to see his dad again – he had no choice.

The dragon hissed, coiling to strike again, but Kyle was ready, heart pounding. He jumped, slid, rolled, breathlessness the only evidence of his hard work as the dragon persevered. But then, voices. Kyle blinked.

Stan and the others stumbled into the clearing, distracting Ladon for a moment. But Kyle had only two thoughts.

The first:

Where the hell did they come from...?

And the second:

Are they actually fucking suicidal?

"Kyle!" Stan yelled. "Run, dude!"

Wow. He should have thought of that before. Thanks Stan, brilliant insight as usual.

He knew that if he ran, Ladon would only go for them. No, this had to end here. Kyle's eyes flicked to the iPhone, still glinting near the base of the tree.

That was their golden ticket.

"Cover me!" he shouted as he kicked back, narrowly avoiding Ladon's head ramming into the floor again.

Kenny and Cartman jumped to the side. Stan dove to the other, landing in a bush. "Dude, what the fuck?!"

"Little busy!" Kyle grunted, grabbing a jagged branch. He charged, driving the stick into the dragons side with a howl of splintering wood. Ladon snarled, its head whipping toward him.

"That's right, ugly. Look at me!" Kyle taunted, sidestepping just in time as Ladon lunged.

He rolled out of the way. Out of the corner of his eye, an arrow flew. It buried itself deep into Ladon's neck.

Kyle barely had time to nod his thanks before Stan shot again, this time missing so badly that the arrow splintered against the cave wall.

"Sorry!"

Ladon jerked, snapping at the arrows in frustration, and Kyle seized his chance.

Another stick, jagged and sharp, he threw it this time, but Ladon didn't even flinch, opening his mouth, spitting venom toward Kyle like water from a fountain. Thankfully, he ducked – not much landed on him. But the tiny splatters that had? They burnt. A fleshy sweetness filled his nostrils. He wanted to vomit. A pink rash prickled up his arms, but he knew he could still fight.

"Kenny, flank him!" Cartman's bellow rang through the chaos, and Kyle saw him charging with his blade a blueish flash of metal. Kenny darted in behind Cartman, quick as a shadow, his own blade slashing with a ferocity Kyle hadn't seen in him before.

"We need a plan!" Kyle barked, diving just as Ladon tail sliced the air above him. The impact cracked a tree in half with a bone-rattling crunch, sending splinters and branches flying. The top half teetered, then came crashing down toward Cartman, who just barely sprang clear, cursing under his breath as he stumbled out of the way.

Kyle, Stan, and Kenny waited a beat, hoping the colossal serpent would crush itself in the chaos. But Ladon was quicker than that, already shifting, tails snapping with new, vicious intent.

"Kenny! Look out—!" Kyle shouted. Too late. Ladon's colossal mass caught Kenny in the side, slamming him into a tree with a hollow thud that seemed to echo. He slumped down, dazed, wheezing.

"Shit plan, Ken!" Cartman hollered, his sword swinging wildly as he hacked at Ladon's scales.

Kyle's pulse hammered in his ears as he rolled to his feet, the world tilting on its axis. But then – there. Kenny was back, stumbling towards Ladon, still coughing, hiding behind Cartman. Kenny reached into his rucksack, pulled out a familiar blade.

Kyle's heart skipped.

His dagger! The one he'd lost at the record store! The green handle, the silver sheen!

"Kyle!" Kenny yelled, tossing it to him.

Kyle grinned when it found his hand. “Thanks!”

This Kenny dude was actually kinda cool.

Stan's arrows flew. Not all of them hit, but enough. The beast roared, taking more damage. Its scales glittered with silver blood.

Kenny slashed again. There was something about his speed, the fluidity with which he moved. Kyle couldn't help but wonder just how dangerous he could be if he really let loose.

Cartman was in it for the glory, his sword slashing with unholy enthusiasm. Even Kyle had to admit, the guy had style – when he wasn't being an insufferable pain. But the most absurd part? How they all worked together. It was madness.

The dragon staggered, its massive body faltering. One of Stan's arrows zinged past Cartman's ear. He ducked with a yelp. "Watch it!"

Stan grunted and loaded another arrow.

Kenny leapt onto Ladon, gripping tight as he hacked a shallow but bloody gash into the dragon's scales. His knife flashed, gouging deeper, and Ladon thrashed, trying to shake him off.

Kyle saw his chance. While Ladon was distracted by Kenny's wild ride, he sprinted toward the tree where the iPhone sat, snatching it up and frantically typing, trying to pull up anything that could help. The screen lagged, painfully slow.

Just as the page finally loaded, Ladon whipped his head toward Kyle, jaws wide, breath hot and rank. Kyle barely had time to gasp, bracing for impact, when—

A golden arrow shot through the air, slicing cleanly into the back of Ladon's skull. There was a sickening squelch as the arrow punched through bone and emerged just above the dragon's tongue.

Ladon froze, shuddered, then crumpled, his massive body crashing to the ground. Kenny, undeterred, jumped off the dragon's neck, drove his blade into both of Ladon's eyes for good measure, and let himself slide down the now-motionless corpse, breathing hard.

Stan still stood with his bow drawn. He lowered his bow, his blue eyes meeting Kyle's with an intensity that lingered, like he hadn't just saved Kyle's life – like he'd meant something by it.

Kyle didn't know what to say. His mouth opened, then closed.

Bad shot, my ass.

They’d barely made it, and yet... here they were.

Cartman interrupted his silence with a scoff. "You gonna Google or just stand there like a jackass all day?"

Kyle's throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. "Right."

Stan and Kenny crowded in, their shoulders nudging Kyle as they all stared at the screen. Cartman strolled up last, hands stuffed in his pockets like they had all the time in the world.

According to Google, three factories were close by. The first made construction materials. The next processed food. But the third? The third made musical instruments. Sure, it had apparently closed down a couple weeks ago, but that only made it more suspicious.

"There's an instrument factory fifty minutes away by bus," Kyle said. Fifty minutes. But on foot, if they cut through the forest... anything between thirty and forty?

"Think that's our best shot?" Stan asked.

Kyle hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to seem bossy, to take their help and then just... control everything.

"Well, only if we all agree."

Stan's eyes softened. "Hell yeah, dude. We trust you."

Kenny nodded, flashing a thumbs-up. "I'm in."

And then, finally, Kyle turned to Cartman, steeling himself. Only a week ago, he'd have laughed at himself for even considering his opinion. Hell, an hour ago, he'd have insisted he didn't. But why not try extending an olive branch? Picking your battles and all that noble crap.

Cartman crossed his arms, eyes narrow slits. "I don't give a shit. Fuck you."

That was a win.

"Alright," Kyle said, plugging the iPhone back into the tree. "So...now what? How'd you guys even get here?"

"Same way you did," Stan shrugged. "The Hesperides were annoying about it but yeah..."

Kyle blinked. "Wait... seriously? You went through the phone?"

"Hell yeah."

Kyle frantically looked around. "So... how do we get out?"

Nobody dared speak. They just stared at one another, each letting the pain of that statement sink in.

Cartman sucked air through clenched teeth. "We're fucked."

"Potentially." Kyle crossed his arms.

"Hold on, hold on," Stan raised his palms to tame them. "Let's just... I dunno, let's think. Kyle, what's the myth?"

Kyle felt a strange pride in Stan's question being aimed specifically at him, but the uncomfortable truth stung. "Well... this is Hera's garden. Heracles was supposed to get the sacred golden apples as one of his labours, but he never made it in or out. Only Atlas managed it."

Stan nodded, thankfully not wasting time asking who Atlas – the titan – was. "And how did Atlas make it?"

"We don't know. Heracles was busy holding up the sky at the time, so he never found out."

The look Stan gave him at this comment reminded Kyle of how new Stan was to his world. But Kenny, who was essentially a veteran, and Cartman, who honestly wasn't all mentally there, seemed to have already accepted the insanity.

Kenny hummed. "So… not helpful. And we've already fucked up the dragon."

"Yup."

"The apples?"

Kyle arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Think we can use them?" Kenny asked.

"Not unless you want to become immortal," Kyle said, and Kenny seemed to consider it. "Gaia planted the tree as a gift to Zeus and Hera when they got married here, but I doubt they're useful to us in getting out."

"You think the Hesperides will let us go?" Stan asked. 

"Hell no," Cartman sneered. "Why would they? Look what we did to their oh so precious garden."

He had a point. Trees lay shattered, their trunks splintered like broken bones. Ladon's venom had burned the ground, leaving dark, oily streaks where the floor had been scorched. His massive head had torn through the earth, ripping up clods of dirt and sending them flying in every direction.

Oh, and that's not to mention the literal dragon corpse. Like all dead monsters, he was slowly disintegrating, being transported to Tartarus. Just Ladon was being extra. It took a while.

Except just then, it clicked. They'd done something awful.

"She's going to be so pissed," Kyle said, eyes widening.

"Who?"

They'd messed with her sacred space, the garden she so carefully tended. The Hesperides were minor players compared to her wrath. She would never let them off the hook for this.

"Hera!"

The thought of facing her made his stomach churn. But that wasn't the worst of it.

Hera was married to Zeus... Zeus was already pissed at Apollo... Zeus was Athena's father... they'd pissed off all of Olympus here.

"We need to leave," Kyle's voice trembled.

His breath hitched, but he didn't hesitate. There was no other choice now.

"Athena..." The name tasted like ashes in his mouth as he squeezed his eyes shut, clasping his hands together like a priest. He didn’t care for Cartman rolling his eyes, the car bastard could die for all he cared. “Please. I know the value of independence but just... just help us get out of this one. Please. We’re sorry.”

The air held its breath.

There was no reply.

Stan shifted awkwardly on his feet. Kenny stared down at the floor. But it was Cartman’s look that confused him. It wasn't pity, like Stan and Kenny. It wasn't even smugness at Kyle being ignored by the deity he’d sacrificed so much for.

The look was empty, the only sign of Cartman feeling anything towards the sight being how his brows pressed down, how his eyes narrowed slightly. Maybe it was an understanding of sorts. Kyle wasn't the first to be ignored by the gods, and he certainly wasn't the last.

Except Kyle and Cartman weren't the same. Kyle had made sacrifices... was raised to never whine about them.

Athena was different to other gods. She had to be.

A faint glow began to form above them, yellow and shimmering. It started out as a faint thread of light, winding in on itself like a ribbon pulled through the air. The yellow glow solidified, and Kyle's heart skipped a beat.

A portal. It was opening.

The light intensified, shifting from a soft glow to a gooey gold. Kyle stepped back instinctively, his breath catching in his throat. This was real. This was his aegis.

Kyle had worked seven years for this portal.

Before anyone could move or say anything, something small – tiny – spat out of it. It hit the ground with thud.

Kyle froze, eyes widening.

There, in the middle of the garden, lay a small, white lump of fur. A soft, scraggly little creature that Kyle would recognize anywhere.

"Owlie?" Kyle's whisper cracked. Maybe it was nostalgia, maybe it was the stress of eight billion lives on the balance, but Kyle just wanted to hold Owlie and let himself shatter.

He reached out, fingers trembling as he lifted the tiny owl in his hands. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be the same one. But there it was, in his hands, just like it used to be.

Athena.

Only Athena would know about Owlie.

It was a show that they could trust this.

The portal pulsed again, brighter this time, and a gust of wind rustled the leaves nearby. Kyle's gaze darted between the owl in his hands and the swirling yellow light.

Kyle's foot lifted, instinct urging him toward the light – but before he could take that step, a hand clamped onto his shoulder.

"Are we sure?" Stan's voice was low, almost lost beneath the hum of the portal. "How do we know this isn't some trap from Hera?"

Kyle didn't look back. His gaze was locked on the light, on that impossible glow cutting through the dark. He shook his head, a small, certain motion. "It's Athena. Trust me."

Stan's hand loosened, and together, the four stepped forward, through the pulsing light.

Being transported again made Kyle feel travel sick. It coiled around Kyle's face, a fleeting touch like a curl of hair he couldn't quite catch. The light flashed, then faded, a dizzying drop that left him feeling as though the world had been spun on its axis, everything flipped and fractured.

Then, with a harsh crack, they were spat out on the other side – the ground met them with brutal finality, every impact ringing in Kyle's bones.

The night sky greeted them, stretching in deep indigos and shadows, pierced by stars pricking through the thin veil of dusk. The last traces of daylight lingered on the horizon, a bruised smudge against the darkening expanse, casting a ghostly light over the empty lot.

They were outside Star Mall.

There was pattering around him as the guys shuffled to their feet, groaning, stretching, but Kyle let the refreshing air burn his throat for a second. Let the night breeze cool the venomous rash on his arms. Enjoyed the soft fur tucked beneath his jaw as he held Owlie to his chest.

Kenny, panting, extended a hand down to Kyle, who took it, pulling himself up. He got a good look at the others, all of them battered and bruised. Cartman's face was smudged with grime. Kenny's lip was split, dried blood dark against his skin. Stan's shirt was torn, exposing a line of cuts along his arm, but his hand was steady as he raised it, casting a soft yellow glow.

"Everyone ready to go?" Stan asked, his voice low but steady, his gaze lingering on Kyle. "Kyle, you need a minute?"

Kyle couldn't help a small, wry smile. The moon overhead was a reminder, bold and taunting. One full day left now. They'd scratched out a little progress on day two, but it wasn't enough. They were so close, and he didn't have the luxury of rest.

"Nah, I'm good," Kyle replied. He gave a quick smile. "Let's keep moving."

Kenny nudged him. "Want me to stash Hedwig in your rucksack?"

"Yeah, sure." Kyle nodded, absently scratching at the venom rash on his arm, as he gently passed Owlie over.

Kenny moved behind him, gripping the zipper of Kyle's rucksack as he stood still, feeling the faint jolt of the zipper tugging against him. It rocked him, grounding him in the reality of their strange, tight-knit band, the mess they'd become.

Stan's gaze met his as Kenny finished. There was a warmth there, a silent acknowledgment.

"Good to have you back, dude," Stan murmured.

Kyle managed a dry chuckle. "Thanks for not letting me die."

"It was tempting," Cartman snorted. “Seriously, Kahl, at the music factory, we might just let you go. The rule of three is very important to me.”

"Ha.”

But under the sarcasm, he knew. Whatever tension or grudge had lingered, something told him they'd left it behind.

When four assholes teleport in front of you after a long day of traumatic memories, your first instinct is generally to dive face-first into the nearest thorny bush.

Therefore, Trent Boyett was in the nearest thorny bush.

No shame in tactics; he didn't have to be all hack-and-slash, even if that was his style.

But it had been a productive bush, at least.

They were going to a music factory.

He'd only tracked them this far to make sure they weren't plotting to drag his – very alive – ass back to camp, and when they mysteriously went fully missing, he'd considered himself safe. But now...

The four morons were on a quest?

If he kept on their tail, he could slip in unnoticed, maybe get a shot at the lyre before they even realised they'd been played. He wasn't going to keep it... just use it... teach the gods a lesson... for their own good, more than anything.

It felt fair. He’d return it. Maybe.

Really, he should've turned away. Let the four assholes get themselves killed without him. Return to his semi-peaceful life.

He should have gone home.

But nah.

He'd take the lyre – wherever that moronic sun god had dropped it – and if any of those demigod pests tried to get in his way?

Well... what was another stick to the fire started billions of years ago?

It wasn’t personal.

It was harmless justice.

Chapter Text

The black sky draped across the outskirts of Denver like a quilt, stars scattered like light shining through pin holes. Not like Stan was paying much attention to that. Nah, he was too focused on where he was steering, what might have been hiding within the knee-high grass whipping at his ankles.

He yanked at the handlebars to dodge a rock that threatened to take his front wheel clean off. But rocks weren't the biggest threat out here. In fact, as the four bikes creaked across the field, it was the royal green nothingness that terrified Stan. There was fuck all in this field except from the four of them and sheep shit.

He pictured the furies again – swooping down, claws outstretched with a thirst for the jugular. But here, there was nowhere to hide, to run. Just... grass.

When Stan had to crane his neck to see the treetops, the field ended. Their bikes skidded to a stop at the edge of a jagged embankment. Below, a river churned and foamed, moonlight glinting off its black surface.

"Shit," Stan muttered, running a hand through his hair. "What now?"

There was no way in hell that the bikes were going to make it through that. And even if they did somehow get the bikes across – it took a single squint across the river for Stan to see the exposed roots jutting from the ground. With speed, they'd take the wheels clean off.

Beside him, Kyle stood, gently leaning his bike against a tree as he eyed the water. "We could jump it?"

Stan frowned. "Seriously?"

Kyle didn't answer right away. Just kept staring at the gap like he was trying to measure it with his mind.

"This is insane," Stan said. "Even if we did make it across, what do we do with the bikes–"

Cartman swiftly dismounted, kicking his bike to the floor with a loud clatter. He stretched with a grimace. "Let's just leave them here to rust."

"I mean," Stan continued, crossing his arms. "What if someone steals them?"

Cartman rolled his eyes. "Stanley, who the fuck would wanna steal this junk?"

"Us—”

"I know," Kyle interrupted, jaw tight. He exhaled sharply, finally turning to the others. "Got any better ideas?"

Cartman continued to stretch. "Don't get kidnapped by a dragon and delay the entire quest?"

Kyle shot him a glare but didn't respond. Stan stood with his arms crossed. There was no way in hell Kyle – or anyone, really – was clearing that gap without divine intervention. And if they missed? They'd be soaked, freezing, and sleeping on wet ground. No sleeping bags. No tents. No, thank you.

"I'll go?" Kenny raised a hand.

Stan blinked. "What?"

Kenny shrugged, leaving his own bike in the pile with a clunk. "If it works, it works, what's the worst that could happen?"

"You drown and we use your corpse as a bridge?" Cartman offered.

Kenny snorted, but didn't seem bothered. In fact, it only took a moment for him to tighten his rucksack, wave goodbye to his pink princess bike, and take position a few steps back before sprinting at the river.

The world slowed as Kenny launched himself into the air, arms pumping for balance. For a moment, it looked impossible. Then he hit the far bank hard, feet skidding but holding steady. He brushed off his pants, completely unfazed by the leap that had left Stan holding his breath.

"Well, shit," Cartman muttered, looking impressed despite himself.

Kenny chuckled, performing a bow. "Thank you, thank you."

With Kenny's leap done, Stan glanced at Kyle. "Think you can do it?"

Kyle stretched, rolled his neck from side to side, and hopped in place a few times. "Please," he said. "We got this."

Stan almost wanted to correct him. But he couldn't. Not while Kyle was mentally prepping, dirt crunching as he took position. The determination was admirable.

"Get on with it!" Cartman called from beside Stan, arms crossed.

There was a raspy inhale, a quiet exhale. Kyle took off. Sneakers attacked dirt as he sprinted. He moved like a spring, arms pumping furiously, shoulders tight with focus.

When he hit the edge, his shoes skidded just enough to spray dirt plopping into the churning river below. For a moment, Stan thought he might hesitate, but instead, Kyle planted his feet, bent his knees, and swung his arms back in one fluid motion.

He was in the air.

The leap wasn't as clean as Kenny's – Kyle didn't glide. He powered through, legs kicking midair as if sheer determination alone would carry him further. Fireflies scattered. Stan winced. For a split second, it looked like Kyle might not make it.

Gravity pulled harder now, and oh shit–

Kyle hit the other side with a bone-rattling thud.

"You stuck the landing!" Stan cheered, unusually breathless.

As Kyle straightened up, he shot Kenny a competitive smirk. "Good enough?"

"Like a gazelle, man."

On the other side, Stan shook off his second-hand triumph and glanced at Cartman. Who the hell was going next? The answer seemed obvious, but he wasn't about to volunteer it. He cupped the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders like the act alone could ward off the inevitable.

"So...?"

Cartman's snort came with a sharp shove to Stan's back. "Nice try."

Stan stumbled forward, catching himself just before the edge. He twisted to glare at Cartman, but the smug grin plastered across his face made it clear the bastard was more entertained than apologetic.

This was going to be... interesting.

Stan's gaze dropped to the river below. The roar of rushing water filled his ears, a persistent reminder that missing wasn't an option. He exhaled, shakily, and took a few steps back, his sneakers grinding against loose dirt.

"Don't psych yourself out," Kyle called from across the gap.

"It's just a jump," he told himself. "Just a–"

His feet launched him forward before his brain finished the pep talk. He barely registered the wind ripping past his face or the roar of the river beneath him as he launched. But the landing was where it all went wrong.

His shoes skidded, his weight tilted back, and gravity giggled at his attempts to defy her. Stan flailed, his arms pinwheeling uselessly as he teetered. The river below seemed to rise to meet him, its cold, dark fingers eager to pull him under.

Then, out of nowhere, a hand shot out, gripping his wrist with iron strength.

"I gotcha!"

Kenny's calloused fingers tightened as he hauled Stan forward, his arm straining but steady. The force yanked Stan out of free fall, his feet scrambling to find traction as he collapsed onto solid ground.

"Thanks," he managed, his voice rough.

"Anytime."

"Great teamwork!" Cartman hollered from the far side. He was still firmly on the safe bank, arms crossed like he wasn't in line to try the same stunt.

Kenny cupped his hands around his mouth. "Your turn, man!"

If Stan had had trouble, he couldn't even imagine what it was going to be like for this fat fuck. Did Colorado get earthquakes? Because if not, that was about to change.

Kenny nudged Kyle, lowering his voice. "Bets on him falling in?"

Kyle chuckled, shaking his head. "We don't have money to gamble, Kenny, but if we did? I'd put everything on it."

"Ay! I heard that, you assholes!"

"Hurry the fuck up!"

Cartman's glare could've cut steel. He stomped toward the riverbank and crouched low, his arms folded, scanning the river like it was a chessboard and he was three steps from checkmate.

"What's he doing?" Stan asked, watching as Cartman rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie.

Kyle shrugged. "Being Cartman."

Cartman plunged his hands into the river, waiting for a few seconds before yanking out what was essentially a fossilised watermelon. Grunting, he hoisted the rock up, adjusted his grip, and hurled it into the water with all the grace of a flamboyant caveman.

The splash was spectacular.

Water exploded upward, catching the moonlight like shattered glass, and absolutely drenched the three of them. Kenny blinked, utterly soaked, while Kyle stood frozen, water streaming from his hair and down his face like some tragic, drowned rat.

Stan wiped his face with his sleeve, his expression flat but murderous. "You son of a–"

"God?" Cartman stepped onto the rock, stepping stone glinting under the moonlight. Water gurgled around it, and Stan seriously prayed for Cartman to slip. He didn't.

"Bitch," Stan said.

Kyle spitefully shook his hair, flicking water in Cartman's direction as he safely made it to the other side. "Technically, we don't know for sure that you're a demigod yet."

"Oh, blow me. You're just jealous you didn't think of it first."

"Sure," Kyle said flatly. "Let’s just go."

The forest felt alive, not in the serene, poetic way, but in the unnerving, are-we-in-that-Logan-Paul-video way. A fog curled around the base of the trees, while shafts of moonlight pierced through the canopy, casting long, jagged shadows on the forest floor.

Stan led, his hands casting a faint golden glow just bright enough to keep them from breaking their necks on roots and rocks. Golden light reflected off dew-damp leaves and spiderwebs strung between branches.

Stan's broke the uneasy stillness. "Not saying we're gonna need it, but... what's the plan if we get lost? How're we getting back to the bikes?"

A cricket chirped nearby and Kyle adjusted his bag, frowning. "You still have Cartman's bracelet?"

"Huh?"

Kyle sighed. "The Hermes bracelet. The one Chunky used to find us."

"AY–"

"Ohhh!"

Stan's swung off his rucksack, placing it on the floor to root through it. After a moment, he pulled out a grimy pair of jeans, wrinkling his nose as he fished the bracelet from the pocket.

"Here," he muttered, holding it out like it was cursed. "Still smells like sewer water, though."

Cartman gagged dramatically. "For the love of Cupid, why do you still own those?"

"Sentimental value."

"Weird way to pronounce 'hoarding' but alright."

Stan dismissed him, flinging the bracelet to the forest floor. He nudged it with his shoe, burying it beneath a blanket of leaves. "Good enough?"

Kyle's lips pressed into a thin line as he gave a sharp nod. "Now we need the other one."

Cartman recoiled, clutching his wrist like they'd just asked him to donate a kidney. "Hell no. This is my personal property."

Kenny frowned. "Didn't you steal it to begin with?"

"Shut up, Kinny. Finders keepers."

Kyle turned to him, cheekbones catching light from Stan's palms like polished brass. "If you don't hand it over, I am going to skin you."

"Woah!" Cartman shot back, holding up his palms. "Easy on the hate train, Kahl."

Kyle's face scrunched up at the name but Stan sighed. "Cartman. Please... give me the bracelet."

"No."

"Gimme."

"Nah."

"Eric."

Cartman huffed like the world's most put-upon martyr but finally yanked the bracelet off and lobbed it at Stan's head. Stan caught it and slipped it on.

"Happy now?"

"Fuck yeah.” Stan’s glow flickered brighter for a second as he turned back to the path. Already, the charm pointed to the second bracelet. "Let's go before the Blair Witch comes knocking."

Kyle shot him a sidelong glance. "Don’t worry. If this is anything like a horror movie, the Witch wouldn't bother with you."

To make his point clear, he spun fully to face Cartman, who flushed. "Oh, screw you! If anyone's getting picked off, it's Kenny! He's legit a forbidden kid– he’d be picked off!”

Kenny rolled his eyes. "Let it go, man."

Stan snorted. There was something addictive about how quickly conversation could devolve with these guys. He wasn't sure why – but he felt like just any regular teenager around these freaks.

"Weird to think I met you, like, a week ago," Stan said.

"Yeah," Kyle said, kicking up leaves. "Feels longer."

"That's because it's been hell," Cartman grumbled. "I'm sick of you already."

Stan bumped a fist into Cartman's shoulder, making an effort to force the cheesiest grin he could muster. "Thanks… buddy."

Kyle smirked but kept his gaze on the path. "You've adapted well, though."

"To you guys?"

"More to the monsters, but sure."

Stan snorted, shaking his head. "Please, dude. I'm never gonna get used to those things. Is this my life now?"

"Yup," Kenny popped the p, brushing a low branch aside to step through. It whipped back with a burst of leaves as it smacked Cartman square in the face.

"OW?!"

Kenny chuckled. "Sorry, man."

"I can't believe I left my comfortable life for you assholes," Cartman grunted.

"For us?" Kyle turned just enough to shoot him a dry look. "Don't act like you're here for any reason other than your magic paternity test."

Stan barked out a laugh. He half-expected Cartman to explode – red-faced and shouting – but Cartman only rolled his eyes. "And, as you can see, it's been real fucking lucrative."

"What did you even expect, dude?" Stan asked, crossing a small ditch with a stumble. "You sneak out, and your dad swoops down from the heavens to give you a fist bump? Take you to soccer practice? Like, no offence, but... huh?"

"Oh, fuck off, Stan. I wasn't expecting some goddamn coronation. Just... you know."

"Nope," Kyle said, carefully stepping over a log.

Kenny hummed. "Be happy he isn't on your ass, Cartman."

"Ain't on my– Kenny, just because my dad's too busy doing fuck knows what to at least give me his name doesn't mean I'm exempt from this shit. Difference is, what do I have to show for it? The Hermes cabin?"

"Don't pretend it isn't the safest cabin," Kenny said, tugging at his rucksack.

"Oh?" Cartman recoiled. "Then why'd you live in that crappy shed?"

"Leave his shed alone," Stan said.

Kenny glanced at Stan, looking betrayed. "It's not a shed. It's a cabin."

Cartman laughed. "Little wooden box? Be grateful I'm not calling it a crate."

"It isn't a shed," Kenny hissed. "And you know why I don't stay there."

"You're an antisocial freak?"

"Just be happy you blend in, man."

"What if I don't want to blend in?" Cartman shot back.

"Then you're suicidal," Kyle said. "If the gods knew who you were, you'd have been struck down by Zeus ten times over for disrespect."

"Well shit– what am I supposed to do then?" Cartman threw up his hands. "Walk around with a target on my back and no answers? You guys know what you are! You know what you're supposed to do. The fuck do I do?"

Frustration made the light flicker in Stan's palms like a dying flame. "Fine. How about this: we get back the lyre, I ask my dad who banged your mom fourteen years ago. Deal?"

Cartman narrowed his eyes, his jaw tightening. "What's the catch?"

"There is no catch. You help me out – because, I guess, you're here now anyway – and I'll get Apollo on the case. I'll ask him right as we hand him the lyre. Why not?"

Cartman's gaze sharpened, a flicker of something dangerous passing through his eyes. "You'd do that? Seriously?"

"If it shuts you up. Deal."

Cartman held his hand out, the air around them crackling as if something were being drawn into the space between them.

Stan blinked. "I'm not shaking your hand."

"You're gonna do worse shit in life than shake my hand. C'mon. Seal the deal."

Stan stared at Cartman's outstretched hand. With a groan, he finally relented, grasping Cartman's hand in a firm, reluctant shake.

Cartman grinned. "See? This is why you're my favourite."

"Thanks... I think?"

The group pressed on, the forest around them heavy with shadows. A low, vibrating pulse pressed against Stan's chest, so soft it could have been the wind – if not for the way the leaves trembled in time with it. Stan's hands sparked intermittently, casting brief flashes of light that danced on the dark trunks, but the hum grew stronger, resonating beneath his skin like a heartbeat.

"You alright?"

Stan jumped. Kyle was staring at him, golden light catching on the green zigzags in his iris.

"Totally," Stan lied.

The sound seemed to swell, faint yet distinct, curling through the leaves above him. It wasn't constant – more like fragments of a tune, lilting and uneven, too intentional to be the wind, too scattered to be anything else. When Stan didn't pick up pace, Kyle shot him a funny look.

"I..." Stan shook his head, blinking. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Kyle frowned, glancing toward Kenny and Cartman for backup. Both shrugged, their expressions blank. Stan cursed himself. Of course they weren't hearing it. Thanks Apollo, loving the powers.

"Nothing. Probably just wind."

But as they moved on, the sound didn't fade. It lingered, threading through the trees, dipping and weaving like a phantom just out of reach. The hum didn't feel like wind rushing through the branches – not really – but what else could it be?

"We're going the wrong way," Stan declared.

Kyle frowned. "Seriously? Does the bracelet tell you that?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what?"

"My gut."

Kyle stared at him like he'd sprouted a second dick. "Excuse me?"

"Gut feeling," Stan said firmly, his voice dropping. "I'm telling you; this doesn't feel right."

Kyle rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Stan, we have a plan. I almost died for this plan. Let's follow the plan."

Stan glanced around for backup. "Kenny?"

Kenny squinted into the bushes, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he'd caught a scent on the air. Slowly, he pointed in a third direction. "Nah, man. My gut says that way."

"Oh, great!" Kyle threw up his arms. "Am I the only one still trusting logic?"

A rustle behind them made Stan's head snap around.

The light from his palms flared, throwing long, dramatic shadows over the underbrush. Cartman's silhouette was already several yards away, his shape almost indistinguishable from the trees.

"Dude!" Stan hissed. "Where the hell are you going?!"

Cartman's voice floated back, annoyed. "The right goddamn way."

Stan groaned, the glow from his hands intensifying. Kyle squinted against the glare of it. "Seriously, Stan, dim that!"

Stan ignored him, stepping closer to the trees. "Cartman, get back here!"

No response.

Kenny crouched, grabbing a pebble. He lobbed it into the darkness. The soft clack was immediately followed by a loud yelp.

"OW! The fuck?!" Cartman's indignant voice echoed back through the trees.

Kenny straightened, arms crossed. "We're not splitting up."

Cartman stomped back toward the group, muttering angrily under his breath. He nearly tripped over a log but caught himself at the last second. When he was close enough to catch Stan's light on his cheeks, he jabbed a finger at Kenny's face.
"You're lucky I don't sue."

"Can't sue people without money."

"Christ," Kyle groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "We should be following the directions. Not vibes."

"Guys," Stan said. "I know it sounds stupid, but this is the way. Trust me."

"Stan, last time we trusted your gut, we got chased by a maniac," Kyle reminded.

"This is different."

"How?"

"Gut feeling."

“Great!”

"I don't know, I just... know," Stan promised. "Plus, if it weren't for my gut feeling leading us towards that maniac, we wouldn't have ever got the clue from the Sphinx."

"Stan, please–"

"Just give me this, alright? I can feel it."

"Y'know what? Sure, go ahead. Why the fuck not. If something goes wrong again, it's on you."

"Works with me," Stan shrugged.

"Great."

"Cool."

"Resplendent."

"Totally. That word," Stan nodded, only for Kyle to glare at him.

The leaves rustled when they set off again, their edges flicking in the breeze, as if they were speaking in soft murmurs, a language only the forest understood. Shadows darted ahead – too quick and too quiet to be animals – only to vanish with a faint snap of twigs.

"Hey, Lightbulb," Cartman called after Stan. "Seriously, where are we even going?"

Stan didn't answer. His light flared brighter, casting the path ahead in flickers of molten gold. The trees seemed to move with it, their long, gnarled fingers stretching deeper into the dark.

Kyle jogged forward, grabbing Stan's arm. "Hey! Stop for two seconds and–"

Stan wrenched free, the light in his palms bursting like a camera flash. "Just trust me."

Kyle stumbled back, blinking furiously. His hand clenched tighter around the strap of his rucksack. "Yeah? Well, my gut says you're leading us straight into a trap."

"I say we let Captain Firefly do his thing," Cartman shrugged. "Maybe the forest'll kill him, and we can go back to Kyle almost getting eaten by a dragon."

Stan glared over his shoulder. "We're not splitting up."

"Sweet. In that case, follow me."

For a second time, Cartman took off down his chosen path, snapping branches underfoot like he was being paid for it.

Kyle threw his arms up. "We're not splitting up!"

But it seemed they were. Stan, Kyle, and Kenny weren't following the guy, and Cartman's silhouette faded more and more with each step until it disappeared with one last audible crunch of the leaves.

Stan groaned. "Oh my gods. Fine. Let him go."

"Dumbass," Kyle scowled.

"I know, right? Crazy."

But when Stan and Kyle trudged on, Kenny lingered.

A hum filled the air – low and resonant. Kenny tilted his head, glancing up at the trees. It vibrated against his ribs as if the earth itself was singing a forgotten tune.

He ducked beneath a low-hanging branch and followed it further into the forest, boots squelching over moss and dead leaves with each step further away from Stan and Kyle.

When he unknowingly reached the source of this odd song, he froze.

A pond stretched before him, its surface as black as obsidian, swallowing the starlight and reflecting only distorted fragments of the night sky. The air here was colder, a biting chill that stung his cheeks, and the mist hung thick, curling around the edges of the water like an uninvited ghost.

He stepped closer. Wind wailed, but water lapped gently at the edge of the pond – crashing like the rasp of a violent lullaby.

Kenny's head snapped up when a sharp crack split the air.

Across the pond, something shifted in the mist. He squinted. Then, a figure. With a clumsy gait, it crept forward. Kenny pulled the sword from his rucksack, expecting a wild animal – or something worse. What he saw instead stopped him cold.

Kenny muttered under his breath, “Cartman?”

Cartman halted at the other side of the pond, directly opposite Kenny, who frowned. Hadn't they gone in separate directions?

A rustle to his left broke his thoughts. Kenny turned sharply, finding Stan staggering into the clearing, as forceful as he had been when redirecting them. Another sound came from the right. Kyle.

Kenny wanted answers, but before he could open his mouth, a sharp throb clawed at his fingers. He glanced down, breath catching as black tendrils crept across his skin.

Kenny's breath caught, his powers were back, but it was different this time.

The wind whispered through the trees, the water at his feet barely a murmur, blending together into a quiet hum that made the tightness in his chest feel... far away. He could almost laugh. Is this what peace felt like?

But then, his gaze flicked up.

At first, it was just the surface of the water, the ripples like dark fingers running across the pond. But then something slipped up through the surface.

The top half of a head. A woman's face, framed by dark hair that spread beneath the water like ink spilled over a page.

Her pale eyes bore into him with an intensity that seemed to search his soul, as if weighing his deepest vulnerabilities.

The tension in Kenny's muscles was unbearable, but his feet felt glued to the ground. A deep, gnawing discomfort coiled in his gut, the air thick and heavy, like something rotten was seeping through it.

The scent hit him like a slap. Sweet and familiar. It brought him back to his first foster home, to the day he found Mr. Fluffles. The cat had been there for days, his body bloated and stiff, hidden beneath the couch. The stench had stayed with Kenny for days, clinging to him like a stain, impossible to wash away. And now, it was here again – smothering the very air, choking the life out of everything around him.

Kenny's gaze snapped to his friends. Stan and Kyle had already waded into the water, their movements stiff and wrong. Cartman was further in, up to his shins, his eyes full of something disturbingly intoxicated.

A tremor ran through him, a warning so deep, so primal that it settled into his bones. Don't go in the water.

The head in the pond vanished, dissolving into the mist with unnatural speed. But what replaced it was far worse.

A face.

Kenny’s face.

Across the pond, standing in the moonlight, grinning with a smooth, practiced ease. The smile was perfect. The posture flawless. Kenny saw himself in the stranger's features – his uneven teeth, the bags under his eyes – but without the weight of doubt, without the awkwardness. This wasn't Kenny. This was... him, but better. Improved.

Kenny's feet dragged, and he found himself unable to move any closer or further away. The silence between them stretched out, heavy and thick.

Then, the birds began chirping, their songs bright and clear, a gentle melody that cut through the eerie quiet with unexpected warmth. The perfect version of him waved. Kenny blinked, hesitated, then gave a half-hearted wave back.

What else could he do?

The silence stretched on until the other Kenny spoke. "You're not going to ask why I'm here?"

Kenny rubbed the back of his neck. "Not really. It's kinda... yeah."

Other Kenny – or whatever it was – laughed robotically. "Gosh, you're so right."

Kenny blinked. "Gosh?" he muttered, incredulous. Was this guy for real? He wasn't even using the word ironically, or in a way aimed at gently teasing Butters' lexicon?

"Why're you here?" Kenny asked, narrowing his eyes.

"To show you what you could be."

Kenny didn't move. The figure across the pond didn't seem to notice the growing unease, though. He only smiled wider.

"Come into the water, Kenny. You belong here. Like me. Wanna be like me?”

Kenny's stomach twisted. He could feel it in the air, the pull of something darker, the shadows gathering around his legs. The black tendrils of his power – his inheritance from Hades – began to stir and tighten, coiling around him like ropes, holding him in place. For once, he was grateful for their presence. They were the only thing stopping him from walking straight into whatever this was.

"Sorry, man." Kenny crossed his arms, jaw set. "Can't."

Improved Kenny's gaze flicked to the swirling shadows binding Kenny's legs. His expression hardened, lips pressing together in frustration. The cheerful bird songs in the distance faded, replaced by a heavy, slithering sound. A shiver shot up his spine.

Before he could blink, Improved Kenny was gone.

In his place, a new tactic.

Her pale, freckled skin glowed faintly, and crimson hair spilt over her shoulders in messy waves. Her lips were cracked, chapped, as though she hadn't spoken in years. But it was her eyes – wide and glassy – that made Kenny's breath hitch. Like she never thought she'd see him again.

Kenny's heart clenched like a fist. "Mom?"

Her silence cut sharper than words, her gaze heavy with the weight of seven lost years. She looked exactly as he remembered.

The shadows surged around Kenny. They rose higher, swirling faster, chaotic. The movement made his mom flinch, her body jerking back like she'd been startled. Confusion flickered across her face, then something softer. Concern.

"Calm down, Ken," she slurred slightly.

He tried. Gods, he tried. His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum. He'd missed her so much it hurt. The ache in his chest threatened to break him, but he forced himself to breathe. To focus. To settle.

Her lips twitched into a faint smile. "Get in the water.”

The shadows squeezed tighter, the cold tendrils wrapping around his legs, pulling him downward. Kenny grimaced, his throat tightening as his mom stared at him, her gaze heavy. He couldn't hold it. He had to look away.

His friends, oblivious, trickled deeper into the pond.

Kenny clenched his fists. They weren't stupid – in a fucked up way, they were some of the smartest people he knew. And yet, here they were, falling into whatever trap this was without hesitation.

A flick in his peripheral forced his eyes back to the centre of the pond. His breath hitched.

A little girl.

She stood at the water's edge, her tiny frame glowing with a soft, ethereal light. Dirty blonde hair was caught in two messy pigtails, the strands loose and falling around her face, while her pyjamas – pink, faded, and worn, with crusted flowers that had seen better days – contrasted with the black bows that Kenny had bought for her and placed in her hair exactly seven years ago. She waved at him, toothy grin framed by round cheeks.

Hades would have been intimidated by how alive she looked. Before he could think, Kenny's foot hit the water. He should have stopped there. He knew better.

But it was Karen.

He took another step.

The shadows jerked violently, surging outward, wrapping around his legs and flinging themselves toward his friends like whips. Their faces twisted with each step deeper into the pond, pale and hollow, like they were drowning from the inside out.

Kyle's green eyes were the colour of phlegm.

Stan's chapped lips were moving, but no sound came out.

And Cartman's face – usually so full of bravado – was slack.

Kenny's heart clenched as his eyes flicked between them and Karen. But Karen wasn't Karen anymore.

Her light dimmed, fading to a sickly black. Her face stretched unnaturally, her eyes widening, too large, too wrong. Her giggle pierced the air, but it was distorted, twisted into something that made Kenny's skin crawl.

The shadows around him roared back to life, churning with more force, more fury. Kenny couldn't tell if they were feeding off his fear or amplifying it.

He stared between Karen and his friends, his heartbeat thundering in his chest, each thump a violent reminder of how helpless he felt.

"Stop it," Karen said suddenly, her voice soft and pleading, breaking through the noise in his head. She sounded exactly as she had the day she cried in his arms, begging him to bring him back, screeching at the claw marks.

The door kicked in.

Corpse in the kitchen.

Mom on the couch.

“Kenny!"

Kenny stumbled forward, the cold water soaking his jeans as he fell to his knees. His lungs ached, as he gagged. None of what he was seeing was real. It couldn't be.

But the ache in his chest was real. The fear clawing at his throat was real. And the part of him that wanted to believe – desperately, stupidly believe that somehow he could still save them all – was the realest of all.

The shadows wrapped tighter around him, forcibly tugging him back from the pond water, up to his feet. The black ropes stung as they dug into his ribs and stomach, so much so that Kenny stopped resisting their pull and let himself be dragged away by their desperation.

He looked back at Karen. Her face flickered, shifted. A woman with bird wings, dripping with dark water.

Of course.

It was a siren luring them in.

Her wings stretched wide, grotesque, twisted. Then, Karen was back, terrified, pleading. The black coils around her twisted faster, rising like a storm.

Another flicker. Kevin. His older brother, smiling, his laugh soft and warm, just like it used to be.

The siren was weaving fear and hope together, pushing Kenny to the brink, her ploy a cruel blend of temptation and terror. Kenny knew this, he'd seen the way she'd looked terrified of his shadows, the same shadows trying to preserve him now with all the courage of a parasite – if she convinced him not to use them, she’d be able to take him, too.

Unfortunately, she was very persuasive.

Cartman's mop of hair floated above the surface of the pond, while Stan and Kyle – stood opposite one another, water lapping at their shoulders – were but two floating heads.

That familiar sweet scent drifted towards him. The cat.

The siren was luring them to their deaths.

Kenny's breath came in short, ragged bursts.

He had always seen the shadows as his curse – ailments that lashed out at the world and shackled him to them in turn. Seven years spent fighting against them, restraining them like a lion on a fraying leash. But now, they moved with a sentience all of their own, no longer clawing blindly but reaching, searching. For what? If he let them go now, what would happen? Would they destroy the siren? Would they turn on his friends?

Was this it?

His gaze flicked to Stan, swaying unsteadily, his glassy eyes locked on the siren's glowing form like he was looking at liquid gold. Kenny's chest tightened.

Either the siren definitely drowned his friends, luring them deeper and deeper into the pond, or Kenny made a gamble.

He knew controlling the shadows was impossible. But just this once, he could stop wrangling them. Let them fight.

And with a sharp gasp, Kenny finally let go, praying to every doomed god on Olympus that he was right.

Chapter Text

The tendrils hesitated. Shocked.

For seven years, they lay dormant. Suppressed. Now, they stirred – like wolves shaking off sedation.

Stan and Kyle waded deeper, the cold water biting at their legs, rising fast. Cartman’s shadow flickered beneath them, gone before they could reach out.

Kenny’s stomach dropped, a cold wave of dread crashing through him. The shadows blurred, moving faster, frenzied, ravenous. His legs gave out, knees crashing to the ground with a sickening thud.

A tendril slashed past his face, close enough to stir his hair. Another cut overhead, sharper, faster. Kenny's breath stilled.

Why couldn’t he control them?

A third struck for his hand – he flinched back.

Seven years ago, he swore this would never happen again.

And yet, here it was.

He needed to move. To shout. To pull his friends from the water before it was too late. But his throat locked. No sound came out.

The siren lunged forward, water churning violently around her, waves slapping against her skin. Her obsidian eyes fixed on Kenny’s, a fleeting flash of recognition flickering through the raw fear as she screamed. Hades.

Kenny’s hands shot to his ears, teeth gritted as he pushed through the awful noise. 

If this bitch wanted a fight, he’d give her a fucking fight.

The black streaks curled at his sides, as he stood. His chest burned cold. She’d mocked his desires. His sister. His mother. Kevin.

Whether it was the shadows demanding it – or something buried deeper in him – Kenny didn't know.

Didn't care.

She deserved death.

The tendrils struck. The siren was lifted from the pond like a rag doll, wings dripping, the illusion of beauty shattering in an instant.

A single tendril rose above her, sharp as a blade.

Her face twisted, grotesque, mouth stretching in wail so loud it became a silent hiss.

Kenny didn't blink.

Then – wet impact. A sick squelch as it drove through her chest, lullaby echoing through the trees for the final time.

Stan's eyes snapped open, and for a wild moment, he thought may have been hit by a truck.

But then cold water slapped him awake, soaking into every inch of him, dragging him down into some sort of watery grave. He gasped, thrashing as his arms broke the surface, only to realize he wasn't drowning – just standing jaw-deep in a pond. A really gross pond.

Opposite him, Kyle's pale skin glowed faintly in the dim light, orange hair floating like a halo – or maybe like seaweed, as Stan wasn't feeling particularly holy right now – around his head. Water droplets clung to the strands, shimmering as they caught the faint light. His shirt clung to his collarbones; the orange fabric translucent against the water's surface.

Their breaths came sharp and uneven, misting in the cold. For a moment, neither spoke. Then their eyes met. Stan let out a laugh – raw, unhinged, incredibly unhelpful.

"Hey."

"Don't fucking hey me! Why are we in a pond?!"

Before Stan could even attempt an answer, something shifted at the water's edge. He whipped around, splashing Kyle in the face.

Kenny stood there, shock still. Shadows coiled around his feet like living things, writhing in and out of the gloom. Stan's stomach twisted. Kyle sucked in a sharp breath.

Since when could Kenny do that without, like, hyperventilating?

Maybe staring at the boy like he was a ghost wasn't the best move, because Kenny's expression flickered – somewhere between panicked and something worse. Then, he bolted, disappearing into the inky dark between the trees.

Stan lurched forward, pond water splashing up his chest, his waist, his knees. "Kenny! Dude!"

No response. His soaked sneakers hit the mud with a squelch, legs shaking in the cold.

Behind him, Kyle choked out a noise – sharp, panicked. "Stan–"

A splash.

Stan turned just in time to see a third figure beneath in the pond.

"I'll get Kenny!" Stan shouted, gesturing vaguely at the dark shadow beneath the surface. "You fish out Cartman!"

Kyle made a sound of protest that Stan chose to ignore. He had bigger problems. Namely, Kenny's freaky shadow possession and the fact that his legs were still half numb from the cold as he sprinted into the forest.

The trees closed in fast. Branches scraped past his soaked hoodie, karate-chopping his arms like they had a personal vendetta. Every breath burned, white puffs of air vanishing into the dark.

"Kenny!"

Nothing.

Then, up ahead – movement. A shape hunched against the base of a tree.

Stan skidded to a breathless stop. "Kenny?"

Kenny flinched. Hard. His head snapped up, and for a second – just a second – Stan wasn't looking at his best friend. His eyes were too wide, bloodshot, like he'd seen something he wasn't supposed to. Shadows twisted at his feet, slithering up his arms, tightening with each raspy breath.

Stan raised his hands, palms out. "Dude. It's me."

Kenny's breath hitched in a sort of growl. "Don't– don't come closer!"

Stan froze. His clothes dripped, pulse thundering in his ears.

"You won't hurt me," he said, stepping forward anyway.

Kenny's whole body tensed. "I will!"

"Nah." Another step. Another. He could still feel the cold in his bones, but it wasn't important. "I know you, man. You're okay."

"I'll do it again," Kenny muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. His hands flew to his head like he wanted to rip himself apart. The shadows writhed. For a moment, Stan wondered what he meant. He'd do what again?

"You're scared," he said. "I get it. Just– breathe, alright? I'm not going anywhere."

The darkness stilled. The air throbbed with something heavy, something alive. Stan wasn't sure if it was Kenny's magic or own heartbeat trying to beat out of his chest.

Then, slowly, the shadows receded. Kenny wiped a hand across his face, leaving behind streaks of dirt and something too close to tears.

Stan gave him a long moment before he spoke again. "Dude. What happened?"

Kenny swallowed. "Siren."

"What?"

"Siren. She– her song, she split us up. We all went to the pond."

Shit. Stan thought back as far as he could. To a whistling lullaby cutting through the trees. To him and the guys bickering over which way was right. Made sense with what Kenny just told him. It had been a trick.

"How come you were fine?" Stan frowned. "You're bone dry."

No insensitive pun intended.

Kenny shrugged, breath slowing. "It smelt... gross. We were dying. I sensed it."

The silence stretched, heavy and loaded. Kenny still looked shaken, his body coiled tight, like a trap. Stan hesitated, then fully crouched down, resting his forearms on his knees, mirroring Kenny's posture but leaving space between them. Just enough.

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"Thanks, seriously."

Kenny exhaled sharply, but he nodded, rubbing his hands over his face again. His movement were jerky, slow, like he was piecing himself back together moment by moment.

"Alright," Stan mumbled. "We ready to head back? I'm getting the creeps."

"Sorry."

"No, not from you. Dude. Chill."

Stan rose, holding out a hand to pull Kenny to his feet. When Kenny took it, Stan pulled him into a hug.

"You did well, Kenny."

But, for whatever reason, Kenny couldn't agree.

Their return to the pond was slow, the forest unnervingly quiet in the night. Soon, a golden burst of light pierced through the jagged silhouettes of the trees, casting long shadows across the damp forest floor. Kyle hunched beside the fire, his fingers fumbling desperately with soggy twigs, struggling to get the flames to rise.

"We miss anything?" Stan asked, crouching opposite Kyle near the fire.

Cartman sighed. "Kyle, here, thinks the pond gave us chlamydia."

"Cholera!"

"Same difference."

Stan didn't mean to smirk. Glancing down at the forest floor, he noticed Kyle's rucksack, drenched straight through, collapsing in on itself. Maybe the pond hadn't given them chlamydia, but it certainly had fucked them over. Kyle's notes were wrecked.

"Why?" Kyle sighed, holding his destroyed journal up to the flames. "Why couldn't you have drowned?"

Cartman snorted. Then, shivering like the rest of them, he too sat up and shuffled closer to the fire. Now, the only boy left standing was Kenny.

"Dude," Stan said, patting the ground beside him. "Sit.”

Kenny hesitated, like he was unwelcome.

Cartman only scoffed. "What's up with him?"

Kyle glared. "Don't."

"No, seriously. What did I miss? Sit down, Retard."

At that, Kenny did. But not in any mood to catch Cartman up on what he'd missed while half-drowning, he looked away, knees drawn to his chest.

This left Stan and Kyle to fill Cartman in. There was a sort of staring competition between them then, with a whoever-loses-has-to-try-get-the-sociopath-to-feel-empathy vibe. It took Cartman impatiently throwing a stick at Kyle for Stan to blink first, leaving Kyle to triumphantly dust the dirt off.

"Well," Stan started, crossing his arms. "Kenny... saved us."

Cartman blinked. "Kenny saved us?"

"Yup."

"And how did that occur?"

Stan pressed his lips together. The fire crackled louder. Kyle stared down Cartman, waiting to jump on the fat bastard if he followed up the reveal with so much as a joke.

"Kenny used his powers."

Cartman's jaw fell slack. "Fuck off."

"Yeah..." Stan nodded, monitoring Kenny in his peripheral. "Me and Kyle were in that trance for most of it, but... I don't know."

Cartman frantically looked from Stan to Kenny, as if doing GigaMites of mental mathematics. "So. You? Kenny. He? I missed it?" His face scrunched up. "A guy drowns one time–"

"You didn't miss much," Kyle added, going back to drying off his journal. "Seriously, me and Stan didn't really get to see it either."

"That's not the point!"

"You're lucky," Kenny muttered. "To have not seen it, I mean."

"You think?"

"I know."

Cartman bit the inside of his cheek, staring at him over the fire. Golden highlights danced across his cheeks. "What made you do that, then?"

Kenny frowned. "What made me snap on you?"

"Yeah, the siren must have shown you some creepy shit."

"Not really."

Stan's stomach twisted. He hadn't expected Cartman to ask so bluntly. Judging by the way Kenny stiffened, neither had he.

Cartman tilted his head. "Then why'd you lose your shit?"

Kyle gritted his teeth. "Cartman."

But Cartman continued to stare him down. "It must've been something."

"Dude," Stan warned.

Kenny was quiet for a long moment. Then, voice low, almost to himself. "My mom."

Cartman's stare softened. "Was she... normal?"

"She was alright."

"Was she a bitch?"

Kyle kicked him.

Again, Kenny shrugged. "No. It just– yeah."

"She on something?"

"No?" Kenny drew back, offended. "Not a lot. She– she was busy. Working. I never really knew her."

"So, it was family shit?" Cartman confirmed, earning a jolty nod. "Did it relate at all to your lack of it?"

The fire popped. Kenny ran a hand down his face. "A little."

Cartman studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he snorted, leaning back again. "Wow. That's fucking depressing."

Kyle shot him a glare. Stan opened his mouth, but Kenny – unexpectedly – let himself heave a sigh of relief.

"Yeah." His voice was light. "Guess it is."

And then, like that, the conversation was over.

Not solved. Not dismissed. Just... left.

"What did you guys see?" Kenny asked.

Stan cleared his throat, poking absently at the fire with a stick. "I saw myself."

"Common theme," Kyle hummed, squeezing water from his sleeve. "Like, current you?"

"Nah." Stan frowned, trying to piece it together in a way that didn't make him sound like a total dumbass. "Older. Just a little."

Cartman snorted. "What, like, twenty-five? Mid-life crisis mode?"

Stan rolled his eyes. "No, just– some regular teenager. Like, I looked safe."

That earned a pause.

"Safe?" Kenny repeated.

"Like, I had this bright-ass smile. My teeth were whiter. My skin wasn't, like... this." He gestured vaguely to himself, and the others got it – less grey, less tired, less worn. "It was, like, an actual tan."

Kyle considered him for a moment, then nodded approvingly. "Not bad."

"Right?" Stan sighed. "I mean, I guess it makes sense. Just looking like I have my shit together."

The others gave small nods, and the fire crackled between them. It was, for once, a surprisingly chill moment of reflection.

Then Stan grimaced. "Except my mom was there."

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "...So?"

Stan groaned. "No, dude, like – she was fine, but some guy had his arm around her. Like, in a family photo. Like a dad."

That got a reaction.

Cartman's face twisted in horror. "You're telling me your deepest fucking desire is Apollo?"

"NO," Stan snapped. "But, like... apparently? I don't want that, but I guess – fuck, I dunno. It was just a flash; I didn't have time to psychoanalyze it."

"Jesus," Kyle muttered, shaking his head.

Kenny huffed out a quiet laugh, rubbing at his arms for warmth. "You catch any features?"

Stan hesitated, then sighed. "Moustache."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Cartman wheeze-laughed.

Kyle groaned, tipping his head back. Kenny muffled his chuckle in his sleeve. Stan buried his face in his hands.

"Oh, my gods," Cartman cackled. "That's so fucking sad."

"I know," Stan groaned. "Trust me, I know."

Kyle rubbed at his temple. "Your deepest desire is your mom and Apollo raising you like normal parents."

"Shut up."

Cartman wiped a fake tear from his eye, still grinning. "Holy shit, dude. The siren basically showed you an Instagram influencer version of yourself and went, 'Look, your dad's back from the store.'"

Kenny laughed against his knee. Kyle snorted.

Stan flipped them all off, but he was grinning too. "Fine, what did you see?"

Cartman snorted. "Fuck off with that."

"Alright, fine– Kyle, dude, how about you?"

Kyle's giggling ended. His face, barely illuminated by the fire, turned a little red.

Stan narrowed his eyes. "Dude?"

Kyle exhaled sharply. "I saw myself."

"Well, yeah," Cartman muttered. "So far, we're three for three."

Kyle shot him a glare but didn't take the bait. "I was blindfolded."

That caught their attention.

"Hot," Cartman deadpanned.

Stan ignored him. "Like, in a cool way or in a help, I've been kidnapped way?"

"Cool," Kyle said, which felt humiliating to admit. "I had, like, way better posture, too. And I was holding..." He hesitated. "Justice scales."

Kenny blinked. "Like... like the Athena kind?"

Kyle sighed, dragging his hands down his face. "Yes, obviously the Athena kind."

Cartman howled. "You're such a fucking mommy's boy."

Kyle whipped around. "You're literally the last person here who can talk, Fatass."

"Excuse you," Cartman gasped, hand over his chest. "My mom has zero influence on me."

"That's actually worse."

Kenny, still chuckling, tilted his head. "Did it mean anything to you?"

Kyle hesitated, rolling his lips together. "...Yeah."

"And?" Stan prompted.

Kyle sighed. "I had wired headphones in."

Stan frowned, trying to connect the dots. "Wait, so–" He sat up a little. "You want better posture, blindfolds, and justice scales and wired headphones?"

"Yes," Kyle said defensively. "Do you know how fucking annoying it is not being able to use technology as a demigod? I'm missing out on so many informative podcasts."

Kenny outright laughed.

Cartman snorted. "Holy Hera.”

Kyle turned to Stan, hoping for backup. "You get it, right?"

Stan raised an eyebrow. "I mean... I guess?"

"I hate this," Kyle muttered, tucking his hands into his sleeves.

"Please," Cartman grinned. "We're loving this."

Kyle scowled, ears burning. "You cannot say shit until you tell us what you saw."

That shut Cartman up real quick.

Kenny grinned, leaning forward. "Yeah, man. Spill."

Cartman crossed his arms and turned away, suddenly very interested in the dark forest behind them. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Stan smirked. "Bullshit."

Kyle, taking his chance, shoved Cartman's shoulder. "Come on, Fatass. Out with it."

"Yeah, man," Kenny said with a smirk. "What did you see?"

Cartman's jaw clenched.

The fire crackled.

Cartman groaned, rubbing at his temples like they had just asked him to do long division. "Fine," he gritted out. "You wanna know what I saw?"

Kyle, Stan, and Kenny all leaned in slightly, eyes glinting in the firelight.

Cartman exhaled through his nose. "I was a king."

There was a beat of silence.

Then, all at once–

Kyle snorted. "Of course you fucking were."

Stan shook his head, half-smiling. "Checks out."

Kenny just hummed knowingly, like he'd expected nothing less.

Cartman scowled. "Oh, fuck off. Like I'm the crazy one here." He jabbed a finger toward Kyle. "You wanna be blind and listen to a nerdcast." Then at Stan. "You want Apollo to play catch with you." Then, finally, at Kenny. "And you–" He hesitated, squinting at him. "I don't actually know what the fuck you want."

Kenny smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Cartman huffed, turning back to the fire. "Anyway. Yeah. I was a king."

"What kind?" Kyle asked, poking the flames. "Like, medieval? Imperial? Did you have a crown?"

Cartman sniffed. "Obviously."

Kyle narrowed his eyes. "Gold?"

Cartman hesitated. "...Yes."

Kyle let out a small, thoughtful hum.

"And I had a robe," Cartman continued, ignoring the way Kyle was analysing him. "Velvet. Red." He gestured vaguely over his shoulders. "Lined with white ermine."

Stan whistled low. "That's some old-school European monarchy shit."

Kenny smirked, leaning forward. "So, you want to rule the world."

Cartman scoffed. "No, dumbass. It was just–" He frowned, searching for the right words. "It was respect."

Kyle blinked.

Stan stopped poking at the fire.

Kenny's smirk faded.

Cartman shrugged, looking away. "I had people. They bowed to me. Listened to me. Feared me, sure, but–" He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "They respected me."

The air around the fire shifted. Not tense, but heavier. The night stretched around them, the wind whispering through the trees, the fire casting shadows against their faces.

Kyle studied Cartman carefully, then glanced at the others. "Huh."

"What?" Cartman muttered.

Kyle shrugged. "Nothing. Just... not as bad as I thought."

Cartman turned, squinting at him. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Kyle smirked. "Oh, I thought you'd be full-blown megalomaniac. Ruling over a wasteland. Spires of skulls. That kind of thing."

Cartman scoffed. "I'm not a fucking cartoon villain."

"Debatable."

Stan, still watching him, tilted his head. "So, what? You just want to be taken seriously?"

Cartman scowled. "Oh, fuck off."

"No, really," Stan admitted. "I thought your deepest desire was, like, unlimited KFC."

Cartman rolled his eyes.

Kyle smirked. "Or world domination."

Cartman threw a stick at him. "Still might be."

Kenny just smiled.

Stan clapped his hands together. "Alright, well. Today was sufficiently fucked up."

Kyle stretched, finally wringing the last drops of water from his sleeve. "Yeah. And now that we've all psychoanalysed each other, can we go to bed?"

Kenny yawned, rubbing his eyes. "Seconded."

Cartman sighed dramatically, standing up and dusting himself off. "Fine. But if anyone calls me 'Your Majesty' tomorrow, I'm kicking their ass."

Kyle smirked. "Long live the king."

Kenny chuckled, pulling his hood over his head. "Your Grace."

Cartman groaned. "I hate you all."

And, with that, the fire crackled on, and the boys settled in for the night.

Stan wasn't sure when he fell asleep. One moment, he was listening to the fire crackle, the next, he was sinking.

The world around him twisted. The air grew thick, pressing in on his lungs like water. The fire was gone. The trees, too. In their place stretched a vast, open plain – endless and green, but somehow wrong. The grass moved like it was breathing. The sky burned red.

And then came the screech.

A piercing, bloodcurdling shriek that split the sky in two. Stan's stomach lurched. The sound was huge, vibrating in his bones, shaking the earth beneath his feet.

He turned.

And there it was.

A giant eagle, wings spanning the horizon, feathers like molten gold. Its eyes – burning, twin suns – locked onto him with a hunger that turned his blood to ice.

Stan ran.

His feet pounded against the earth, the ground sucking at his shoes like wet sand. The eagle's shadow swallowed him whole. The wind from its wings hit him like a truck, sending him sprawling. He barely caught himself before scrambling back up, legs screaming.

He ran harder. Faster. But it wasn't enough.

The eagle dove, its massive talons slicing through the air. Stan ducked just in time. The wind howled past his ears, deafening, and he knew – knew – it was toying with him.

It could've killed him already.

The thought sent a bolt of terror through him. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body burning with effort. But no matter how fast he ran, no matter how hard he pushed, the landscape stretched on forever. The eagle shrieked again, the sound digging into his skull.

Then – the ground vanished.

Stan fell.

The sky above twisted into a cyclone of red and gold, the eagle's screech wrapping around him like a noose. He was weightless, tumbling through nothing, limbs flailing, the wind roaring in his ears.

And then–

Talons.

Pain erupted in his chest as the eagle's grip tightened. His breath came in short, panicked bursts. His arms were pinned, legs kicking uselessly. The world blurred past in streaks of fire and sky. The eagle lifted him higher – higher – so high the air turned razor-sharp in his lungs.

The ground below shrank. He couldn't even see it anymore. There was nothing beneath him.

Just open air.

Just the fall.

Stan gasped, struggling against the vice grip around his ribs, but it was like fighting against steel. His vision darkened at the edges. The eagle's burning eyes stared through him, its beak parting–

It's going to eat me.

Stan thrashed, heart slamming against his ribs, mind screaming wake up, wake up, wake up–

And then–

It let go.

Stan plunged.

The sky swallowed him whole, the eagle's screech echoing in his ears as he plummeted, faster and faster, his stomach lurching into his throat, his arms useless against the rushing wind—

He hit the ground.

Hard.

Stan's eyes shot open.

He gasped, chest heaving, drenched in sweat.

He sat up, running a trembling hand through his hair. His breath was still ragged, his pulse hammering like it wanted out of his body.

Not real.

Just a dream.

But the feeling of those talons, the weightlessness, the fall–

Stan swallowed, hard. His hands curled into fists.

The trees bristled around him. Kyle shifted in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. Kenny was curled up on his side, hood pulled tight, rising and falling with steady breaths. Cartman snored softly; arms still folded across his chest.

They were fine.

Stan was fine.

And yet, when he looked up, staring into the dark morning sky, he couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere – somehow – something was still watching him.

He rolled over, rubbing his temples, and let out a low groan. The fire had gone out. Shit. The others were still asleep, sprawled around the remnants of the fire pit. Kyle's bag was closest, and Stan knew what he had to do.

He rummaged through Kyle's stuff, searching for the lighter he always carried. His hands shook – not just from the cold, but from the knowledge these people were trained warriors, demigods who'd snap awake at any hint of danger. One wrong move, and he'd have a blade at his throat before he could explain himself.

Finally, his fingers brushed something metal. The lighter. He pulled it free, glancing at Kyle, who was still blissfully unconscious. Stan exhaled a quiet sigh of relief and crouched by the lifeless fire pit. He flicked the lighter.

Nothing.

He flicked it again. Still nothing.

"Come on," he muttered through chattering teeth. He tried again. Waterlogged, it did not cooperate.

Stan scowled and chucked the lighter aside. Fine. If movies had taught him anything, it was that people could start fires the old-fashioned way. He grabbed two sticks and rubbed them together with the determination of a guy who had definitely seen this work in survival shows.

Sparks, right? Sparks were supposed to happen.

Absolutely nothing happened.

"Gods damn it," he grumbled, tossing the sticks like they were the problem.

He glared at the dead embers, shivering violently. He hated everything. The gods. His immortal father. The stupid freezing pond. Whoever invented sticks. But his body was quickly turning into an ice cube, so instead of giving up, he forced himself to try again.

This time, a wisp of smoke curled up from the pit.

Stan froze, eyes widening. His heart slammed against his ribs as he leaned closer, blowing carefully on the ember.

It caught.

Flames licked at the dry kindling. Warmth flickered back into his frozen limbs.

"Yes!" he whispered, punching the air in victory.

For a moment, everything was peaceful. The moon was sinking, and the first streaks of dawn touched the horizon.

And then – two hands clamped down on his shoulders.

Stan's heart jumped into his throat. A muffled scream escaped him as one hand clamped over his mouth, and he kicked wildly, struggling against the iron grip dragging him backward. Panic clawed at him as he thrashed, trying to twist free, but the stranger was too strong.

He was dragged into the forest, away from his friends.

He was thrown hard against a tree, the rough bark scraping his back. Stars burst in his vision as he tried to focus on his attacker.

A tall, moustached figure came into view, his features sharp and annoyingly familiar.

"Dad?!"

Apollo grinned wide enough to rival the sunrise. "Stan!" He spread his arms like he expected a hug.

Stan blinked at Apollo, his mouth hanging open for a moment too long. He wasn't sure if it was the shock of being dragged into the woods or the absolute audacity of his dad greeting him like he'd just walked into a family BBQ.

"What do you want?"

"How's it going?"

Stan hesitated. Did Apollo really want an answer? Because if he was being honest, it wasn't going. Like, at all. But the last thing he wanted was to give his immortal father another reason to deck him. "Uh... it's... yeah."

Apollo tilted his head. "Good yeah? Or bad yeah?"

"Yeah."

Apollo's grin faltered for a fraction of a second before snapping back into place. "Okay, great! You understand how big of a deal this is, right?"

Oh, Stan understood. He understood too well. It had driven him insane how much responsibility was riding on his shoulders. Every step of this stupid quest felt like a ticking clock tied to his back. The worst part? It wasn't even his fault. He hadn't gotten drunk and misplaced a world-altering artefact – Apollo had. Stan folded his arms and stared at his dad, the weight of unspoken resentment settling between them.

Apollo's grin didn't falter. "Got far?"

Stan exhaled, kicking a small rock under his boot. "Yeah? A couple hiccups."

Apollo laughed loudly, too loud in the quiet of the forest, drawing Stan's attention back with an almost manic energy. "Like at the Garden of the Hesperides!"

Shit.

"You know about that?"

"Of course!" Apollo's eyes flickered with something sharp. "You trashed the place."

"Define trashed–"

"All of Olympus knows about it!" Apollo went on, his voice practically bubbling over. "Hera knows about it. Zeus knows about it. Athena won't stop fucking going on about it!"

Stan froze. "Athena? Yeah, she helped us out?"

"I know," Apollo hissed, his jaw tightening, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "I know she helped out. Zeus knows she helped you out! And now? Now she's got you looking like a damn fool, Stan! Can't let Apollo be the father of a hero – nooooo, Athena's gotta take a fucking shot! Christ, was Odysseus not enough for her? Why does she need another pet hero? Why the Hades does she have to make me look like the father of a screw-up?"

"You are the father of a screw-up," Stan muttered under his breath.

"But Zeus isn't supposed to know that!"

Stan's pulse quickened, and the pit in his stomach only grew deeper. "So, Athena helping us... it was to make you look worse? Why'd she do that?"

"Please!" Apollo threw his hands in the air. "It's all a play, Stan! Athena's playing you like a fiddle. She helped because it hurt me. She's got her claws in Zeus now, making her fucking move. Ready to be his fucking saviour! Do you get that, Stan? She doesn't care about you; she doesn't care about me – all she's done is bitch about me to Hermes!"

"So?"

"So?" Apollo's eyes darkened. "Don't let Kyle outshine you, Stan. Zeus has been in a weird mood. Something big is coming. You're my chance to get back in his good books before it all erupts."

Stan gave him the most deadpan stare of his life. "I hate you."

"Just get me the lyre."

"Wait– dude? How are you gonna know we’ve got it? Where are we meeting at the deadline?”

Apollo tapped his chin, eyes glittering with a manic gleam. "Red Rocks. In Colorado. Perfect spot. Good music venue. Real cinematic. You know, the whole vibe."

Stan squinted. "And what if we leave Colorado?"

Apollo waved a hand dismissively, like the thought was beneath him. "You won't. Me and Dionysus never did. It's fine."

Stan wasn't sure how much he could trust the memory of a fool who'd misplaced one of the most powerful objects in the universe. "You sure about that?"

Apollo simply shrugged.

And in a flash of white light, he'd vanished.

What a fucking asshole.

By the time Stan had strolled back to the pond, cussing out his father with every step, Kenny was awake. He sat by the fire, knees drawn up to his chest, his gaze lost somewhere beyond the water. Cartman and Kyle were still asleep – Cartman sprawled out like a corpse; Kyle curled up with Owlie clutched tight.

Stan didn't mean to, but his eyes lingered on Kyle for a moment too long as he clambered out of the under-bush. Apollo's words still echoed in his head.

"Don't let Kyle outshine you."

Apollo had disappeared before Stan had the chance to ask why it mattered. Why, if this was a quest only to retrieve the lyre, would Apollo need Stan to save his reputation? Why would Athena need to compete – and what did Apollo mean by Zeus needing a saviour?

It made no sense.

Stan stepped over a splintered branch and sat down next to Kenny, forcing himself to act casual, to not give away the storm brewing inside him.

Kenny turned to look at him, brow furrowed. "Where'd you go?"

Stan hesitated for half a second, the lie slipping out without thought. "Heard a noise. Checked it out."

Kenny's gaze lingered, but he didn't press. Still, there was something in the way he looked at Stan that told him he wasn't buying it.

The embers crackled softly. Kenny exhaled a slow, rasping sigh, turning his hands over in his lap like he was trying to find something in them.

Stan watched him. "You alright?"

Kenny shook his head. "Sorry. For yesterday."

Stan frowned. "Dude, shut up. It's fine."

Kenny didn't argue, but his expression said otherwise. His gaze stayed locked on the pond, eyes dark and unreadable. "I've not been... I dunno. Reliable? Freaking out."

"You did what you had to do," Stan said, shrugging. "And, Kenny, it wasn't you slowing us down, alright? We all fell for the Siren. You were the only one not dumb enough to actually follow it into the water."

"Yeah, but–"

"No buts, Kenny."

Kenny didn't respond, just went back to staring at the water. The sun crept higher. The light shifted. Eventually, Kyle stirred.

He groaned, sitting up with Owlie still in his grasp, curls a mess. His ruined notebook lay beside him, pages warped beyond repair. Kyle stared at it for a moment before scoffing and rubbing his face. "This is useless."

Stan just watched him, annoyed at how effortlessly Kyle caught the light. His smooth, golden skin glowed in the fading fire; cheekbones softened by sleep. Too late, Apollo. This guy had already outshined him.

"How long was I out?" Kyle asked.

Stan shrugged. "What time is it?"

Kyle reached for his watch instinctively. The second his fingers brushed the screen, he froze, eyes widening. "Oh, fuck."

Kenny sat up straighter. "What?"

Kyle ripped the watch off and held it up. "It's apparently two o'clock."

Stan's heart lurched. "In the afternoon?"

"No. Two AM."

"Shit, dude."

Kyle, now furious at the broken watch, threw it down like it had personally betrayed him, then pressed his palms into his eyes, taking a slow, deliberate breath. "This cannot get worse."

From behind him, Cartman groggily groaned, peeling a leaf off his cheek.

Kyle sighed, slumping. "It just got worse."

Cartman grunted, dragging himself to his feet. He stumbled toward the pond, still half-asleep.

Stan frowned. "What's he doing?"

Kenny shrugged.

And then came the unmistakable sound of a zipper.

Kyle had his back to the pond, oblivious. But Stan and Kenny immediately covered their eyes, recoiling as if they'd been slapped.

Kyle frowned. "What?"

Then, the trickling noise.

"Fucking gross!" Kyle yelled, sitting up straight.

Stan gagged. "You're pissing in her house, Cartman."

"Good," he said. "Karma."

Cartman stumbled back to the campfire, still wiping his hands on his pants like it was the most normal thing in the world. The guys didn't say anything as he sat down with a grunt, clearly not fazed by the mess he'd just made in the pond. They were all too tired, too irritable to really care anymore.

Stan stood up first, brushing the dirt off his pants and glancing at the others. "Alright, let's get moving."

Kyle muttered something under his breath, glancing down at his soggy shoes. "This is seriously getting old."

"Yeah," Kenny agreed, his voice muffled through his hoodie, but they all shared the same look of resignation. At least they were leaving the damn pond behind.

They all stood, stretching sore limbs, still feeling the aches from the past couple of days. The forest was eerily quiet now, the kind of silence that made their footsteps seem louder than usual. A bird chirped in the distance, adding some peace to the otherwise tense air.

Kyle flinched suddenly, eyes widening as a spider crawled down his sleeve. He yelped, swatting it away.

Stan shook his head, smirking. "We've got bigger problems, dude."

The forest was waking up as the sun stretched its arms over the horizon. The air smelled of fresh earth, damp moss, and a lot less like death than it had last night.

Stan's converse, still slightly soggy, pressed into the underbrush as he led the way, ground spongy beneath him, but his mind was elsewhere.

"We're definitely going the right way, this time?" Asked Kyle, nervous.

Stan glanced down at his bracelet; the makeshift compass. "I'm sure."

Overhead, the green canopy shifted with the wind, branches rustling. Stan was just excited to get out of this forest. It had been a traumatic stay, thank you very much.

And then, there it was.

The factory loomed ahead, half-swallowed by tangled vines, a crumbling shadow against the forest's vibrancy. It barely looked real – more like a memory, something forgotten until the earth decided to reclaim it.

Stan hesitated at the edge of the cracked parking lot. Weeds coiled up the metal fences, bent and crooked like rusty claws. It had clearly once been a bustling hub of industry, but now the factory has been incredibly abandoned. That much was clear from the patches of graffiti dribbling down the walls, the smashed in windows, the wooden planks barricaded across the doors.

"Well," Kyle muttered, cocking his head. "The gods have lower standards than I thought."

Stan hummed. Apparently, Apollo and Dionysus had been here? Felt like a bad joke. "Let's just get inside."

They ducked through a sharp gap in the fence, clambering through overgrown grass. Then, made their way to the metal door, thick with rust, its surface rough under their hands as they pushed it open. A creak groaned out, hinges stretching after years of being cramped.

The air hit Stan like a punch – stale, thick with dust. He coughed, chest tightening. You'd think being the son of a healing god would fix asthma, but nope.

Sunlight slanted in through cracks in the walls, beams highlighting the scraps of wood and debris strewn across the floor. A row of old machines lines the walls, their massive forms still and hulking, like the bones of long-dead giants. Somewhere half-buried under layers of rust and dust, others mangled and broken, gears half-exposed. Stan wondered what that asshole, Craig, would think of all this abandoned tech.

Kenny wondered off, running his fingers over a conveyer belt, feeling the rough, rusted surface under his touch.

"Look at this place," Kyle muttered, like he was afraid to disturb any ghosts hanging about the place. He nudged a few metal files with the tip of his boot. Papers fluttered to the ground; corners yellowed with age.

Stan's eyes were scanning every inch of the room, but he didn't answer, didn't even glance back. He was focused on one thing: the lyre.

And then, Kenny's voice cut through the dust. "Hey... look at this."

Stan looked up just as Kenny pointed to the wall, a flash of cyan catching his eye. It was just regular graffiti, like the mess splattering the outside of the building, but the more Stan stared, the more he wondered what it meant.

HE BUZZES LIKE A FRIDGE

Cartman scoffed. "Hippy poetry."

If it were any other time, Stan would have rolled his eyes — justice for hippies 2025. But no. His eyes stayed locked on the graffiti, frown pressing down. The words felt... familiar. Not like they had time to dwell on that.

Stan moved further into the factory, into a smaller room off the side of the main production chamber. It was a sort of office, ceiling pitifully low. Slowly, he slid open a drawer with a screech.

His heart stopped.

"Guys!"

"What?" Kyle shuffled inside, followed by Cartman and Kenny. When he glimpsed the contents of the drawer, his own jaw dropped. "Oh shit."

Inside, nestled among old papers and rusted objects, was an instrument.

Its body was made of smooth, curved wood – like an arched shell. Stan could tell it had once been a brilliant gold. What stood out most were the long, vertical strings – not only because they seemed to twinkle in the sunlight, but because something was very, very wrong.

Three strings stretched intact. The other four dangled, useless. A jagged split ran through the frame, the wood splintered like broken bone. Scorch marks blackened the edges – it had been struck, burned from the inside out.

If this really was Apollo's lyre, half of it was missing.

Stan's breath hitched. His fingers tightened on the edge of the drawer. They'd come so far. They'd fought so hard. And now... this.

"It's broken," he whispered.

For a moment, no one spoke. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken questions and the weight of what they'd just found.

Kenny shook his head. "Shit."

Stan couldn't speak. His eyes lingered on the faint scorch marks, on the jagged tear. The clues were there, but the truth felt impossible to grasp.

And yet, deep down, he knew.

This wasn't just an accident. It just Apollo's stupidity. Someone – something – had destroyed it.

"I mean," Cartman squinted at the broken instrument. "Technically, we've done our bit."

Stan's head snapped toward him. "Half of it's gone."

"Did Apollo ever specify needing the whole thing back?"

"It was pretty fucking implied!" 

"What now?" Kyle asked, his voice trembling. "We can't take it back broken. Olympus'll kill us. The point was to prove Apollo's maturity to Zeus."

"No." Stan's fists clenched at his sides, his voice hard as steel. "I'm not leaving without the entire thing. Spread out. Look for anything."

The four of them scrambled into motion, tearing through boxes, yanking open drawers, shoving aside broken furniture. Dust swirled in the slanted light, thick and suffocating. The room was a graveyard of forgotten relics – but nowhere, fucking nowhere, was the rest of the lyre.

Stan's pulse pounded in his ears. The longer they searched, the heavier the air became, like the walls were closing in. His hands curled into fists, rage bubbling under his skin. If they had come all this way for nothing–

"Uh," Kenny's voice cut in, uncertain. "So... you know yesterday when you told me not to pay attention to graffiti?"

Kyle straightened, furiously shaking cobwebs off his sleeves. "Yeah?"

"Well," Kenny said, pointing to the ceiling. "I think this might mean something."

Stan craned his neck, following Kenny's finger and froze. Scrawled on the ceiling was a patch of cyan blue graffiti.

THANK AIDONEUS

Stan frowned, even more confused. He faced the others. "Who's Aidoneus?"

"Aidoneus is a more formal way to refer to... well," Kyle started, voice trembling. "Hades."

Huh.

Stan's eyes darted back to the broken lyre. The scorch marks, the jagged tear... and now this.

"Think he did it?"

Kyle frowned. "I mean, Hades isn’t super loved, no offence Ken, but beef with Apollo? Makes no sense.”

"Doesn't it?" Cartman muttered, hands in his pockets. "Apollo, Hermes, Dionysus – they're all sons of Zeus. What if Hades is just sick of his nephews?"

"To be fair," Kyle hummed. "Henrietta's prophecy doesn't help. Four days to reclaim or else the black rose flowers, something something and darkness devours."

“And aesthetically they don’t exactly get on,” Cartman said. “God of light versus the god of darkness. How… cliche, actually.”

Stan scrunched up his nose. “But why graffiti his name above it?”

“Maybe Hades didn’t graffiti it,” Kyle suggested. “Maybe an eye-witness–”

“Eye-witness?” Cartman echoed.

“What if someone saw it but couldn’t come forward? This is a third party giving us a clue.”

Stan let his eyes close, releasing a slow breath. “I don’t like this.”

Stan wanted to ask Kenny – silent as usual Kenny – so many questions. About his father mostly, as if the boy would be willing to bring up that whole trauma willingly. Every day, they were getting painstakingly close to Henrietta’s prophecy. What if it was Hades? What if this was how Kenny connected to the whole mess? But no. He couldn’t interrogate the trembling boy, as noises rang out. 

From the main atrium of the factory, footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Heavy.

Stan whispered, “hide!” 

The four exploded into action.

He took the lyre from the drawer – stray energy zapping through him – and lunged toward the desk in the corner. Kyle followed close behind, both scooting beneath.

Across the room, Kenny scrambled into a rusted supply cabinet, the metal scraping so loudly it could have been a scream. Cartman grunted, wedging himself into another cabinet with a stream of curses barely muffled by the door.

The footsteps were closer now.

Beneath the desk, Stan's pulse hammered in his throat, each beat growing louder, more frantic. The lyre, still cracked and broken, buzzed against his chest like it was alive, its damaged magic prickling under his skin. He could feel Kyle's breath, shallow and too close, but his friend was deathly still – except for his fingers. They gripped his dagger, knuckles gone white, trembling like a coiled spring.

The factory was a graveyard of silence, the air thick and heavy, except for those slow, deliberate footsteps.

The door to the factory office squealed open.

The sound made Stan's skin crawl. He swore he could hear the dust shift beneath the intruder's weight. He felt his breath was too loud, it was going to give them away.

Soon, the footsteps paused.

Right in front of the desk.

Stan's stomach turned to stone, a cold sweat creeping up his neck. His eyes met Kyle's, but his body refused to move, locked in place like a deer frozen in headlights. Through the dim light, he saw them – dirty black boots.

Don't look under. Don't look under. Don't look under.

The seconds stretched into eternity; a taut wire ready to snap. Kyle screwed his eyes shut.

The intruder crouched.

Stan's heart stopped. Everything outside this room ceased to exist.

Inches away from him, from Kyle, and – most importantly – from the lyre, was Trent Boyett.

Chapter Text

If you’ve ever seen a deer freeze in headlights, you’ll know the feeling isn’t fear — it’s something weirder.

Stan remembered Jimbo’s old pickup and the night they drove just to burn off steam. Being six was very stressful, thank you very much. The backseat flashed red as he kicked rhythm into the passenger seat, sneakers lighting up from the soles. The moon had sucked colour from the sky, its glow dripping through fog, sliced clean by the beams. Eventually, Stan leaned his head against the cold window, lulled by the rattle of loose gravel beneath the tires, and drifted off.

Loudly, Jimbo had gasped.

Brakes had slammed. Tires had screeched. 

And the truck finally jerked to a stop, Jimbo twisted around, wide-eyed. His nephew was fine — just annoyed to have his nap ruined, but when Stan looked at the windshield, he tilted his head.

A fawn stood in the middle of the road.

Spindly, trembling — like it had just learnt how to stand. Ribs pressed up against patchy amber fur. Glassy black eyes locked onto Stan’s. One ear twitched. Mist steamed from its nose. 

Very clearly, at six-years-old, Stan remembered thinking: What the fuck?

And now, curled beneath a desk, knees to his chest, that same stillness gripped him. Trent stared at the lyre like a vegan dog would stare at meat. His pupils blew wide. He inched forward, raising a hand to take it. 

Stan didn’t move. He couldn’t. 

But Kyle? Kyle fucking launched. 

He cracked into Trent like a coiled spring. The two hit the floor hard — elbows, knees, weight. Kyle was on top instantly, fists piston-pounding Trent’s middle with terrifying musicality. Trent twisted, but Kyle kept pressing as blood smudged Trent’s lip, arms flailing.

“Okay!”

“Drop — really?”

Something metallic whipped through the air. It cracked against Trent’s shoulder. Distracted by whatever the fuck happened, he let Stan go. Stan ducked fast, sliding behind Kyle like a cover — who stared at the storage cupboard in shock. 

In its frame stood Cartman — breathless, pale. In his hand, he raised a glinting metal file, not unlike the one that had just found Trent’s shoulder. “Go away!”

With a scowl, Trent lunged for the first file. He hurled it. Cartman flinched. But when it clanked against the doorframe, he blinked. Stan shared his shock. He was expecting a beheading.

Not wanting one, Cartman charged forward. 

Trent spun to meet him — but Cartman slammed into him first. A full-body crash. Shoulder to chest. It knocked them both sideways. 

They hit the floor in a chaotic tangle, limbs locked, grunting. Cartman landed on top, heavy and unbalanced. He didn’t fight so much as cling — grabbing at Trent’s jacket, his arm, his hair. He latched on like dead weight. 

Trent bucked beneath him. “Get the hell off!”

“No!”

An elbow jammed into Cartman’s ribs. He grunted but held on, yanking on his hair, dragging him down by force. Trent twisted, surged, nearly threw him. But Cartman was a stubborn asshole. Trent was going nowhere.  

“Marsh!” 

Yup. 

Stan sprang forward. The lyre came down hard on Trent’s shoulder, right where Cartman had a grip. A clean hit. 

Cartman yelped. “Jesus!”

“Sorry!”

Stan didn’t stop. He swung again. Wood met flesh with a splintering crunch — the lyre flexing in his hands like it might snap in two. His eyes went wide. Already cracked, it bent like plywood in a storm.

Cartman clung. “Don’t stop now!”

“It's falling apart!”

“Bitch same!”

Stan raised the shattered lyre, breath loud in his ears. “It’s fragile!”

Cartman looked up just in time to see Trent thrash. His grip slipped. Trent roared and shoved upward, tossing Cartman off like a sack of bricks. 

Cartman skidded uselessly to the side. Trent shot to his feet. 

Stan was too busy turning over the delicate artefact he’d just used as a baseball bat. The lyre pulsed hot in his hands. A fresh crack branched across the frame like lightning in glass.

“Stan!”

Too late. 

The fist came from nowhere. It smashed into his jaw and snapped his head sideways with a sharp click. Stars exploded. He reeled back, spine hammering the wall. 

The lyre — well, their half of it — dropped from his grip. It clattered to the floor, its jagged cavity glowing. Orange light oozed from its broken core, thick and steady, like syrup over stone. 

Cartman yelled something again. Muffled. Warped. Like shouting underwater. There was a second voice now, sharper. Stan frowned. Kyle? That was his twang, right?  

Stan shook his head, breathing deep. 

From the floor, everything looked different. The ceiling was miles away. A sag in the plaster curved like a smiling face. The vibrant blue of graffiti mocked him, then, as he glanced to where three bodies clashed beneath it. For a second, he couldn’t tell who was who. Blond, brunet, crimson: the three colours merged together, a tangled mass of fists and flesh. Was that Kenny or Trent? And who the fuck just barked?

The red splotch slingshotted to the side. 

Kyle. 

Kyle was down.

Again.

Ahead, Cartman and Trent struggled. It wasn’t a fair fight. While Trent had Cartman’s mass, he also had Kyle’s speed. Thus, the tank that he was, Cartman received a plethora of hits that — at some point Stan failed to see — he’d stopped blocking entirely. 

Stan stumbled forward, fist raised, and hit Trent so pathetically that his eyes blurred wet from shame. Teeth gritted, he tried again. Rib. Shoulder. Elbow. He mightn’t have been hitting Trent. Something flung Stan backwards. 

He met Kyle’s eye. The swollen one, coincidentally. His lip had split. Curls clung to his temples, wet with sweat. 

Stan wondered if they were talking without words — or if that was something he needed to believe so losing didn’t feel like failing. The longer he let himself stare at Kyle, the more his chest stung. 

He snapped his face away. Black dots peppered his vision. 

They clustered along the skirting boards, fractured up the walls. Stan frowned. Cold brushed over the backs of his hands, skin wet where it had scraped off. Something inside him flickered — dimming. 

It certainly wasn’t a trick of light. Actual strips of black, like paint dumped into the corners, dragged out by invisible fingers, slid down to the floor, thick and wet-looking. 

Kyle flinched back when a vine of it shot out toward him. Stan gripped his neck. 

Cartman yelled. Trent had him by the collar now, slamming him against the wall. For a second, Trent didn’t notice the shadows swarming around Cartman’s silhouette. When he did, he flinched backwards, dropping him. 

Stan watched it click in real time — the math in Trent’s head. Because Trent had been fighting three people. Three idiots. Three boys that cried and bled and flailed and missed half of their punches. 

But that wasn’t the fight, was it?

Stan’s gaze snapped to the silver filing cabinet by the door, from which shadows poured — liquid black, bubbling like tar. They coated the wood panelling. Crawled around the desk legs. Slid up the far wall. 

Stan’s throat dried to sand.

“Holy shit.”

Kenny McCormick, you brilliant little bastard.

Trent spun around, eyes wide, just as the shadows surged.

The first lashed around his ankle like a whip.

He gasped, flinched back — too slow. The coil yanked. He stumbled. A second wrapped his thigh and jerked. He crashed to the floor, knees cracking hard against wood.  

He scrambled backward.

Fingertips scraped the floor. He clawed for grip, heels kicking, until his spine slammed into the wall. Two tendrils slammed down from behind, sizing Trent’s shoulders. His torso lurched forward — and that motion gave the first coil enough slack to wrench his legs skyward. 

He yelled.

Then more came.

From the ceiling. The baseboards. The overhead light. From cracks in the floorboards. They hissed like live wires, flicking past Stan’s cheeks, cold as steel. One brushed his jaw — his skin prickled like it had been scraped raw.

Kyle ducked,  shielding his face. Cartman just stared at Trent, eyes wide.

The shadows surged again. They ripped Trent off the ground and slammed him flat across the desk. The wood groaned. The whole desk shifted half an inch.

Black cords snapped around his wrists, ankles, chest — dozens of them.

More wrapped his torso.

His chest hitched when they tightened, then rose in only short, shallow breaths. 

Finally, they settled.

And from the dark of the filing cabinet, Kenny crawled out.

Stan hadn’t realised he was holding his breath until his ribs shuddered into rhythm.

His legs trembled. His skull pounded. His jaw? Somehow more fucked than yesterday, which seemed mathematically impossible.

Kyle hugged himself, his chest rising in slow, uneven intervals.

Cartman looked suspiciously casual for someone who’d just been in a deathmatch.

Stan’s eyes widened. 

It hit him all at once.

How the fuck did they just survive Trent Boyett?

No one said it. They didn’t have to. The silence did by filling the room, heavier now there was no panic to fill it. 

Where he’d crawled from the filing cabinet, Kenny swayed slightly. No offence to dead people, but he looked like a corpse — skin grey, eyes hollow, purple crescents beneath them. His hair, usually tousled in a lazy way, now hung limp and matted, dusted with what looked like ash… or shadow… or fallout from whatever the fuck just happened.

Cartman stepped forward and clapped Kenny on the back — one sharp, performatic smack. Probably to snap him out of it. 

It didn’t. 

And yet, despite how dead on his feet Kenny looked, Trent stayed pinned. The desk beneath him creaked, as if the wood itself was resisting the cords keeping him locked down. His arms were crushed to his sides. The shadows bunched around his limbs like knotted tar. His veins bulged — dark and swollen — under the pressure of shadowstuff choking circulation. His skin looked bruised. 

Stan glanced at the lyre. 

Still, it leaked light like a cut that wouldn’t clot. He couldn’t quite believe it. This is what they risked their lives for. 

This stupid, glowing… thing. 

He knelt to pick it up. Behind him, Cartman cleared his throat. 

“Who’s doing it?”

Stan turned. “Doing what?”

“C’mon. Don’t make me say it.”

Stan stared.

Cartman sighed, as if he were the victim. “Who’s gonna kill him?” 

Stan blinked. “Dude.”

“Killing. Him.”  Cartman pointed at the desk like he was placing an order. “Who’s taking one for the team?”

“No one’s killing anyone.” 

“Why?”

Stan gestured wildly, not sure how to explain:  “Murder.”

“Justifiable, though—”

“Cartman, no.”

“So what?” Cartman  gestured to Trent. “Do we keep him as a pet? Strap him to Kenny like a haunted BabyBjörn?”

“He’s tied up,” Stan said, slower.

“He’ll get free.”

“He won’t.”

Cartman raised a brow. “Stanley. If this week has taught us anything, it’s that you are not the prophet you think you are.”

“What does that even—”

Kyle groaned, pushing off the floor, one hand pressed to his side. “We’re not killing anyone.”

Cartman stared, somehow more shocked by Kyle than he was Stan. “Are you serious?”

Kyle shrugged. “I’m not crossing that line.”

“Is it that you think he won’t kill us… like…?”

“I think it’s worth hearing his side.”

Cartman laughed — sharp and humourless — then looked past them to Kenny. Shadows writhed faintly around Kenny’s ankles. Stan hadn’t seen him blink in three minutes, orange hoodie draped over him like a tent.

Cartman stepped forward, eyes gleaming. “Kenny—”

Stan moved fast, pivoting between them. If he’d learnt anything about Cartman, it was that the guy was a verbal tactician. If he could convince the Sphinx to give them an extra clue, he could just as easily convince Kenny to do something regrettable. “We’re not doing that, dude.”

Cartman clenched his jaw, one brow raised. Stan waited for the verbal assault. When he shifted his weight, it felt like a trigger cocking.

Yet, nothing came.

Trent jerked again, shadows pulling him back. One wrist bent at an awkward angle. He groaned through clenched teeth.

“You’re all cowards.”

Stan frowned. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

“Protecting them. Like dogs.”

“So it is about the lyre,” Stan said.

“It ain’t.”

Bullshit. Stan had seen him mid-fight — pupils wide, practically drooling. But sure. Not about the lyre.

“Then what, dude?”

Trent didn’t reply.

Cartman scoffed, shaking his head. “Informative. So glad we’re keeping him alive.”

“Shut up,” Kyle muttered.

“No, really.” Cartman bitterly laughed. “Let’s grab a drink with him. He seems super chill.”

“Thanks,” Trent rasped.

Cartman turned, eyes flat. “Don’t think he won’t tighten them around your neck.”

The shadows didn’t move.

Not instantly.

But something shifted — a ripple of pressure. Kenny’s breathing hitched.

Stan realised that stepping between Kenny and Cartman had done fuck all. Cartman didn’t need to convince Kenny to hurt Trent. They were already synced. Had been for years. And as Kenny tightened his shadows, Stan wondered if they were both thinking of the same kid back at Camp. 

Finally, Trent talked.

“It was normal until you four waltzed into the record store,” he said, eyes half-lidded as he shifted. “What was I gonna think? You wanted mythomagic cards? You were obviously after me.”

“We weren’t—”

“It made sense!” He barked. “You were whispering about a liar.”

Stan blinked. “Yeah, the lyre.”

“I didn’t know you meant the instrument at first,” he snapped, cheeks flushing red.  “I thought— shit —  I thought you were gonna drag me back.”

Cartman snorted. “So you stalked us because of a homophone?”

Trent surged upward. The shadows yanked him back. “I was going home. After you ran off, I went to the bus stop. And then — then I see you four assholes on bikes tearing down the street like Stranger Things on meth. What was I gonna do? Let you follow me home?”  

Stan dragged a hand down his face. “You followed us, dude.”

“To get ahead of you!” Trent fired back. “I kept an eye out all day!”

Stan’s stomach twisted. “So it was you I saw at the mall yesterday.”

Kyle and Cartman spun to face Stan, wearing identical looks of huh? 

Heat flushed Stan’s ears. “Forgot to mention that.”

Kyle blinked. 

“You guys were in the tanning salon… so…”

“Oh great,” Kyle scoffed. “That’s fine then.”

Stan turned back to Trent. “Still doesn’t explain how you knew we’d be here.”

“I didn’t at first. I lost you after the Apple Store. Walked around, figured you’d left. Then, outside — I swear, I was heading home — boom. You four fall from the sky. Right in front of me. Talking about a music factory. I realised what you were actually looking for and thought I’d wait here to interrogate you.” 

Kenny hummed. “How’s that going?”

Trent flushed. Stan cut in before he could cuss Kenny out. “You’re talking through your ass, Trent. Seriously, don’t act like that just happened. You want the lyre.”

“I’m just trying to stay free. If that means grabbing the lyre, sure.”

Cartman closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose. It had been less than five minutes since his murder thing. Stan suspected it was still on the table.

Stan scowled. “What does that mean?”

Trent tried to shrug. “We aren’t all cock suckers. I’ve been mostly free from the gods for years. Now they wanna send a SWAT team after me? Y’know, maybe I do want the fucking lyre.”

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. “They didn’t send us after you.”

Trent raised a brow. “You have me strapped to a table.”

“Because you’re crazy.” 

“You started it!”

Kenny crossed his arms. “Don’t go there.”

Trent’s mouth curled. “Still cursed, McCormick?” 

Stan glanced over at Kenny, bracing for the usual signs — the shallow breath, the clenched jaw, the hundred-yard stare that always followed any mention of that fucking prophecy. 

But Kenny just looked bored.

“Butters and Bradley are doing fine, by the way.”

Trent narrowed his eyes. “Okay.”

“Just thought you’d wanna know. If it kept you awake at night or anything.”

“It doesn’t.”

Kenny tilted his head — a strange mix of pity and disgust. “Why’d you fake it, man?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

Trent’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know shit about that quest, Grin Reaper.”

Another shadow spawned from nowhere just to slap Trent across the face. From the shock on Kenny’s face, Stan wasn’t super sure he’d summoned that one. 

“Trent.” Kyle stepped forward, tone calm. “We don’t need to be enemies.”

Kenny shot Kyle a sharp look, as if disagreeing. When he turned back to Trent, he sighed. “You are a dick for faking your death, though.”

Trent exhaled hard through his nose. “Let me have the lyre.”

Stan raised a brow. “You know we can’t give you the lyre.”

“Save me the great Olympus speech, kid.”

“I’m not a huge fan either,” Stan said. “I wasn’t gonna give one.”

Kyle glanced sideways, but Stan didn’t meet his eyes. It really wasn’t the time for a theological debate. 

Trent leaned forward as much as the bindings would allow. “Then why are you helping them?”

Stan hesitated. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s not, though,” Trent said. “Whatever myths you’ve been fed about Zeus and his incest circus — garbage. All of it. You don’t know what you’re playing with. Give me the lyre.”  

“You know we can’t.”

In the corner of his eye, Stan saw Kyle freeze. His shoulders tensed, lips parting slightly — as if a puzzle piece had clicked into place. 

“He doesn’t,” Kyle said.

Stan frowned. “What are you—”

Kyle’s wide eyes didn’t leave Trent. “He left camp six years ago, Stan.”

Stan turned slowly to look at Trent again. Only now did he see it. The raised brow. The wide eyed confusion. A frayed edge where understanding should be.

His breath hitched. “Oh gods.”

“What?”

“Oh gods. Oh fuck.”

He cupped the back of his neck, swallowing extra saliva.

Trent raised a brow. 

“You have no clue,” Stan said. “About any of this.”

Trent scoffed. “Usual loyalty crap, I’m sure.” 

“You don’t know,” Stan repeated. “You seriously think this is just an Olympus drama.”

Trent clenched his jaw. “I think you’re waving a nuclear artefact around like a fidget toy and acting like I’m the problem for wanting it myself.”

Stan didn’t respond immediately. His gaze dropped to the lyre in his hands — still glowing faintly, its light leaking between his fingers like blood through gauze. He could tell him. Everything. The prophecy. The world-ending consequences. The real reason they hadn’t gone home yet.

Kyle was right.

Trent didn’t have to be their enemy. 

Stan exhaled. “Listen, dude… we have kinda been dicks.”

“You shot arrows at me.”

“I’m a shit shot anyway, shut up.” Stan held up the lyre. “This isn’t what you think. I know it looks like a bargaining tool. Or a weapon. Or a really funny way of pissing off the gods. But the gods… they’re bigger dicks than us.”

Trent’s voice was dry. “No way.”

“Earth is doomed, basically.”

Trent squinted. “What?”

Stan looked at Kyle.

Only when Kyle nodded did Stan take a breath, open his mouth, and tell Trent everything.

All in one tirade. Enough to paint the scale. The countdown. Apollo’s incompetence. The pressure. The consequences. The fact that if Trent wanted revenge, Stan could understand. Just not at the cost of the world.

For a beat afterwards, Trent didn’t speak. But his expression shifted. Something flickered there — confusion, maybe.

Stan leaned in slightly, hope bubbling beneath his ribs.  “You believe us?”

Trent didn’t answer.

But his shoulders had relaxed, just a little beneath the black coils. His gaze dropped to the lyre. 

“Dude?” Stan asked, gently.

Still no answer. 

Then Kenny said, “Something’s wrong.”

Everyone turned. 

Kenny was staring at the floor. The shadows had begun to pull inward again. Not in spindles. These were dense smudges sliding toward the centre of the room. Stan’s. Kyle’s. Cartman’s. Kenny’s. All of them. 

Stan’s fingers curled around the lyre. 

And the window behind them detonated. 

Glass exploded through the air in a lethal spray. Wind and shadow slammed into the room. Something massive tore through the window. Shards skidded across the floor, embedding into wood, fabric, flesh. 

Stan twisted — just in time to see it: a raptor-like creature, all sinew and malice, wrenching itself through the frame. Black wings snapped open, launching splinters and plaster. Talons screeched against the floorboards. Its red eyes blazed through the haze. 

Glass crunched under Stan’s heel as he stumbled back. “Fuck.”

A second Fury crashed in. Then a third — teeth bared, claws slicing through the floor.

They didn’t have time to think.

The first Fury lunged at Kyle. He dropped low — just in time — and slashed upward. His dagger scraped its chest. It shrieked. 

The second Fury blitzed. Stan pivoted hard, still gripping the lyre. Cartman swung a chair leg at the third and missed completely. 

“Fuck off!”

Shadows surged up like snakes, coiling around the first Fury’s wings. It shrieked and thrashed midair. Kenny’s hands shook, face stark with effort. His focus didn’t break. 

Stan ducked a swipe. Palms slick with sweat, the lyre slipped. He scrambled to catch it.

The Fury slammed into him.

The lyre was ripped from his hands.

Impact knocked him flat. His eyes blew wide. A thousand needles jabbed into his lower back. Was that glass? He rolled over with a gasp, scanning— 

The lyre. Near the table.

He crawled for it — but talons sliced through the air where he’d just been. He flinched back. 

Around him, the room blurred into chaos. Kyle’s blade flashed in arcs. Cartman screamed, swinging wide. Something was wrong.

Stan’s eyes locked onto the table. 

Trent was still there — but only barely. The shadows binding him trembled. The threads snapped, popping one by one. 

Stan’s gut twisted. “No, no, no—”

Kenny was crumbling. Sweat glossed his neck. His shoulders hunched like gravity had tripled just for him. Beneath his skin, veins darkened — shadows filling him up like tar in cracks. One coil slipped from Trent. Then another. 

Stan’s Fury charged.

He dove sideways. Pain burst up his arm as he crashed to the ground. The Fury drove its skull down — nearly catching his temple. He gasped. It took him a minute to process it was his own fist that punched it in the face. The Fury reeled back. 

Stan glanced around again. 

Trent was gone.

“Fuck!”

His heart stopped.

So was the lyre.

For a horrible second, Stan locked eyes with the Fury above him. It was gonna kill him. Maybe that wasn’t bad. He wouldn’t see his mom again — she’d forgive him. No Olympus. No prophecy. Just—

No.

His whole body rejected the thought. He roared, fist raised, light sparking white-hot from his palms.

“Trent’s gone!”

A burst of searing gold blasted outward — blinding, jagged. All three Furies shrieked, wincing backwards.

Kyle spun, wide-eyed. “Motherfucker!”

Oh gods. Stan staggered upright, hands burning, shaking. A scream gathered in his throat. Naive asshole. He forced it down. Raised both arms again. 

Light exploded. Kenny’s shadows retreated. 

“Go!” He shouted. “Fucking GO!”

The office door slammed open. Wind howled through the frame. Lights flickered overhead.

Furies screamed as they charged. Claws scraped metal. Wings thundered. The factory groaned as if the whole place could collapse.

They bolted through rusted hallways — ducking pipes, leaping debris. Stan’s shoes skidded on oil-slick concrete. Something monstrous crashed behind him, massive and fast.

Then — a rectangle of light. 

The factory doors yawned wide. 

They burst into the open air. 

Summer heat slammed into them like a wall. Gravel shredded their shoes. Four silhouettes broke for the woods.

Asphalt became dirt. Trees blurred past. Roots reached for their ankles like saboteurs. Stan tripped — Kyle caught him.

Behind them, screams tore through the canopy. Birds erupted into the sky. 

Stan looked back once — a shadow tore overhead, vast and winged.

The world tilted. 

Kyle yanked Stan sideways — and as the pair stumbled into a narrow cave, splitting from Kenny and Cartman, one word echoed in Stan’s mind. 

Shit.