Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Your vision blurred, and the last thing you saw before the world went black was Kenny’s face, bloodied and broken, his lips still moving as he tried to speak. Then, the darkness swallowed you whole, leaving nothing but the faint echoes of his voice and the relentless, suffocating scent of blood.

You wake in a blank white void, floating in midair. The pain in your chest and head fades, and you blink groggily. “Hello, my child.” You stiffen. Cthulhu. Its voice surrounds you, but you cannot see its form. “What do you want?” Your voice is raspy, tinged with defiance and a hint of fear. “Hush, my child. I am merely giving you a…second chance. A chance to make things right.” Before you can ask what it means, your vision goes dark, and you lose all sensation. The only feeling left is the lonely ache of falling into darkness.

Wood below your back. The faint smell of dust and motor oil in the air. Voices surrounding you.
“Fuck. Fuck, okay. Butters, go get a blanket and some water, okay?” Stan. But that’s not right. It can’t be right. You shouldn’t be hearing his panicked voice. You were dead, dying with blood spilling from the runes carved into your chest.
Kenny was already gone, his purple-tinged eyes staring blankly at the stone ceiling.

“Are they okay?” Cartman, his voice panicked and uncharacteristically soft, like he doesn’t want to hurt you. “I hope so.” Kenny, his voice calm, but betraying a hint of fear in his tone. No. No. No, it can’t be Kenny. He was dead, he was dead, he was dead and lifeless on the cold, unforgiving stone floor—

Your eyes snap open and you sit up abruptly, your body convulsing in on itself as you heave for air, your head spinning with the coppery scent of blood, the utter pain and despair you felt as they carved symbols into you to summon something you didn’t even understand, the flash of light as your head hit the floor, everything going dark—“Y/N! Holy shit, are you okay?” Kyle. His grip too tight on your shoulders, even though he’s trying to comfort you.

The whole scene is too loud, all the voices blending in as they frantically ask if you’re okay—You double over, retching onto the rough wooden floor of the barn. The group falls silent, quiet falling over them as they watch your body tremble with nausea. The barn door bangs open. “Stan! I got the-“ Butters stops abruptly as he notices you. “Goddamnit,” Kenny sighs, his voice quiet and movements slow as he crouches beside you, hands hovering over your body like he isn’t sure whether he should touch you or not. “Y/N. Can you look at me?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears beginning to fall. He’s dead. He’s dead. This is just some sick fantasy that your dying mind is conjuring up in your final moments. “I-I…” Your voice cracks as you try to speak, your panic mounting with each failed attempt. You lean back against the barn wall, hands trembling in your lap as you fall silent. Stan quietly takes the blanket and water from Butters, sliding down the wall next to you.

Silently, he begins tucking the blanket around your shoulders, his hands brushing your jacket as he works. The tightness in your chest begins to ease, and your panicked breaths fall silent as you lean into the soft fabric. He hands you the water bottle, his touch lingering for a few moments before he leans back.

You look down at it for a few seconds, your hands toying with the plastic cap. “What…what happened?” Your voice is weak and raspy. Stan hesitates, looking back at the others for support. Kyle crouches down in front of you, gently putting a hand on your shoulder. “You just…collapsed. Fell to the floor.”

“Scared the shit out of us,” Kenny adds, his voice soft, something in his eyes as he looks at you that makes your chest ache. You clutch the water bottle harder in your hands. “I-I’m sorry,” you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper. “I messed up your practice.” Stan frowns, something you can’t name in his gaze as he tucks the blanket a little tighter around you. “Don’t be. You’re more important than some stupid band practice.” You shake your head, panic bubbling up in you again. “B-but the festival—your performance is in five days—something bad is gonna happen—“

“Y/N.” Kenny’s worried tone stops you, heat burning in your cheeks as you return to staring at your hands. “C’mon. What’s wrong?” You can’t tell him. He would think you’re insane. Oh, nothing much. In five days, you and me are gonna die painfully as sacrifices to Cthulhu. But other than that, everything is just peachy.

Before you can conjure up some pitiful lie, the barn door bangs open once more. Shelly, her glare faltering as she takes in the scene before her. “What’s going on? Are they okay?” Stan scrambles to his feet, stepping in front of you protectively. “Yep! They just got, uh, a little dizzy, that’s all,” he says, his voice a little too high. Shelly narrows her eyes but doesn’t question it. “Whatever. None of my business. Mom said to tell you dinner’s ready.” Stan’s protective stance falters. “What? Nobody said they were staying for dinner.” Shelly shrugs. “She figured you would bring your friends over. Guess she was right.”

You flinch at her words, your stomach twisting once more. Food? You can’t handle sitting at a table, pretending to be okay while on the inside, you feel like you’re going insane. “I-I don’t-“ you stammer, but Shelly’s glare cuts you off. “What? You don’t eat?” she snaps, her voice sharp. Kyle gives you a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. It’s just food.” Kenny slings an arm around you, and you stiffen at his touch. He’s dead. How is he real and tangible, touching you? Why isn’t his skin cold and grey? “It’s okay. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.” You hesitate a moment longer but finally nod. “Okay,” you say quietly. “I’ll come.”

Chapter Text

Your breath is shaky as you walk up the worn dirt road to Stan’s house, arms wrapped around your shoulders as if trying to protect yourself from your thoughts. You don’t remember what happened before you woke up in the barn. Just flashes of memory. The white space around you so bright it was nearly blinding, the pain fading from your body, and the awful rumble of Cthulhu’s voice. You shudder, fingers digging into your jacket, pain flickering up your arm from how hard you’re pressing. Maybe…maybe it would be better if you stayed dead. Then you wouldn’t feel this hollow, empty ache inside of you that you can’t get rid of. “Hey.”

You flinch. Cartman, it’s just Cartman, you remind yourself. But you can’t shake the feeling of fear that still lingers in your mind. “Hi,” you rasp out, shaking your head to clear the last of the fog that clings to you. He scoffs, but there’s a trace of worry in his eyes that he can’t completely hide. “Why are you so mopey all of a sudden?” You stiffen. Why does he care so much? “I’m just tired,” you mumble, staring at the dirt path like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Bullshit,” he snaps, fists clenching the fabric of his jacket.

“You’re not fine, and it’s gonna get worse if you keep pretending you are.” Anger burns in your chest. He’s been an asshole since you moved here, and all of a sudden he cares about you? “Don’t act like you care,” you retort, clenching your jaw. He stops suddenly, grabbing your shoulders. “You’re my friend, Y/N. I care about you, even if it seems like I don’t.” You try to shrug out of his grip, but his fingers only tighten, desperate, like he doesn’t want you to brush him off. “Then why do you act like such an asshole all the time?” His grip loosens, and he looks to the side, ashamed. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m trying to be better. When I saw you today, you looked exhausted. And then you just—“ His voice breaks, and he drags a hand across his face. “I’m just trying to say that I care about you, okay?”

You sigh, the fight leaving your body. You gently knock his arms off your shoulders, your grip lingering. “Okay.” He just stands there for a few seconds, relief and something more raw crossing his expression before his familiar smirk appears on his face. “Knew you would come around.” You scoff, but you can’t stop the small smile that creeps onto your face. “Yeah, well, don’t let it inflate your ego.” The two of you fall silent as you reach Stan’s house, and you stuff your hands in your pockets to block out the sudden chill that’s settled over you. Talking with Cartman distracted you, but you can’t ignore the truth. Something is wrong. And you need to figure out what’s happening before it’s too late.

The scene at the dinner table is loud. Too loud. Kenny and Cartman are arguing about something—you don’t even know what—and Jimmy’s laughing, occasionally adding a jab or comment of his own. Butters is the only one who’s quiet, his hands shaking as he nervously butters his roll. You stare down at your plate, your mind racing. You need to remember what happened, what Cthulhu said to you. It’s your only clue for figuring this out. Something red catches your eye. The cranberry sauce. It looks like blood. Your hands tremble, and you tear your eyes away. But you can’t stop the memories from coming.

Blood everywhere. In your clothes, your hair. Spilling out of the wounds on your chest. The coppery smell is ingrained into your mind. Your fingers twitch weakly, your sobs filling the air as the High Priest finishes carving the last rune into you. They grab your face roughly, forcing you to look at Kenny’s slumped form. “Look at him, child,” they purr, chuckling as you try to twist, to escape out of their bruising grip. “With your blood, and his…abilities, we will finally be able to accomplish what we’ve been trying to for so many years.”

Without warning, they kick your body off the altar, and lightning flashes across your vision as your head connects with the stone floor. Pain explodes in your head. Your body screams in protest as your blood-crusted wounds open once more, and you curl into yourself, sobs wracking your body as your vision dims. The High Priest only laughs darkly, crouching down and grabbing your face again. Their claw-like hands dig into your skin. “Cry, child. It will only aid in Cthulhu’s summoning.” They slam your head against the stone, and everything goes dark.

“Y/N?” You jolt out of your thoughts, and you realize everyone is staring at you. There’s a faint clinking sound from your fork trembling in your hands. You swipe at your face hastily. Your hands come away wet. “I-I need air.” You toss out the excuse and stand up, stumbling away before anyone can stop you. The tears pour more freely once you’re outside. You lean against the side of the house, hands digging into your scalp. Your breath is too loud in your ears, and tears trail down your cheeks as your chest tightens with panic. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” you mumble, hands tightening harder into your hair. This is ridiculous. You need to figure out what’s going on instead of panicking like someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing. You freeze. You can hear the slight crunch of twigs snapping under boots. “Y/N? Can I talk to you?”

You stifle the sob that threatens to tear its way out of your throat and swipe a hand across your face. “Y-yeah.” Kyle walks towards you, his steps hesitant. “Are you okay? I know back there was loud.” You look away from him. You know he cares, but this is something he can fix. “I’m fine. Just…tired.” Kyle frowns, but doesn’t question you. “Alright. I just… I want you to know that I’m here for you.” You give him a nod. He holds his hand out to you, and hesitantly, you take it. “I’ll make sure they stop acting like idiots, okay?” Despite yourself, you smile, and he gives you one in return. His hand is warm and strong inside yours as he leads you back to Stan’s house. He’s reaching towards the door handle when you stop him. You pull him into a hug, hands clutching at his jacket for support. “Th-thank you. For checking on me.” There’s a flicker of something warm in his eyes as he smiles at you. “Anytime.”

Kyle’s heart twists as you stumble out of the room, your hands trembling. He can clearly see the panic and the fear on your face, and it kills him. “Wait here,” he announces, standing up before he can second-guess himself. “Wait, where—“ Stan starts, but Kyle cuts him off. “I’m just going to talk to them.” Cartman scoffs, glaring at his plate like it personally offended him. “Yeah, sure. You’re just gonna make it worse.” Kyle glares at him, his hands curling into fists. “They trusted me enough to call me on Friday. I didn’t see you super stoked to make sure they were okay.” With that, he turns and walks away, ignoring the chaos that he leaves behind.

He shuts the front door behind him and looks around for you. You’re nowhere in sight. Ignoring the twist of unease he feels, he starts looking around the side of Stan’s house. He stops in his tracks. You’re leaning against the side of Stan’s house, hands digging into your hair. You’re crying. He’s seen you cry before, but this is different. You look like you’re having a panic attack. He tries to be cautious, to not scare you, but he accidentally steps on a twig. You stiffen, swiping at your face like you don’t want him to see what happened. “Y/N? Can I talk to you?” The words slip out of him unbidden. You hesitate. He can see the gears turning in your head before you hesitantly nod. “Y-yeah.” He steps a little bit closer, but stops. He doesn’t want to scare you. “Are you okay? I know back there was loud.” You cast your gaze away from him, staring at the ground. “I’m fine. Just…tired. From earlier.”

He frowns. The words sound practiced, like every other time you’ve said that to him. He searches for words that will comfort you, but also show you that he cares. That he’s here for you. “Alright. I just…I want you to know that I’m here for you.” You nod, but it feels forced. He offers his hand to you, palm up. “I’ll make sure they stop acting like idiots, okay?” You give a reluctant smile, but you take his hand. It feels like victory. The short walk is silent. He’s about to pull open the screen door before you stop him. Your eyes flick from his to the ground, but you give him a hug, clutching his jacket like it’s the only thing that grounds you. “Th-thank you. For checking on me.” It twists something in his chest, to see you look so worn out. He gives you a small smile. “Anytime.”

Chapter Text

You lean against the cold, slightly rusted metal of Kenny’s truck. The sting clears your head a little, but your thoughts are still swirling inside of you. After what had happened, you had gone inside, coming back to an eerily quiet scene. You almost preferred the loudness compared to what you had seen. Cartman was glaring down at his plate, angrily stabbing his mashed potatoes. Butters’ hands were shaking, and he couldn’t quite mask the expression of fear he had on his face.

Kenny and Stan were quiet, giving each a look you couldn’t quite decipher as soon as you walked into the room. It was unnerving. You had forced yourself to choke down a few bites of food, wanting to be done as soon as possible. You had said a hasty, rushed goodbye to Stan, avoiding his worried gaze, and isolated yourself by Kenny’s truck. You appreciated their efforts, but you weren’t in the mood right now. “Hey, babe.” You spin around.

Kenny’s leaning against the hood of his truck, worry warring with the familiar smirk on his face. “You sure you’re okay?” You hesitate, shifting your gaze away from him. “Can—can I talk to you in your truck?” Something soft flickers in his eyes. He gives you a nod. Relief and nervousness clashes in your chest, a strange nausea washing over you. You open the truck door, quietly sliding into the passenger seat and slinging the seatbelt across your chest. Kenny starts the truck, pulling out of Stan’s driveway. There’s a strange silence for a few minutes before Kenny breaks it. “You gonna talk, or just sit there like a statue?”

His words are blunt, but they’re enough to knock your hesitation away. “Okay. Just…don’t make fun of me, okay?” You don’t look at him to see if he nods or not. “I feel like this is just a dream, or—or an alternate reality, or something. But it doesn’t feel right.” Kenny’s quiet for a few minutes. You would be too, if somebody you knew said something as weird as that. “Like…the world around you doesn’t exist?” He’s closer than you like to the truth, but you can’t tell him that. Can’t tell him that the area around him is most likely a flickering conjurement of your dying mind. Because he’s dead. Or maybe he’s not.

But there’s no way to know, because you’re trapped in this reality for the time being. It would have been easier to die. “Sort’ve. It’s like…” You pause for a second, unsure how to word it. “Nothing feels real. This,” you gesture to the space around you, “doesn’t feel real.” You sound fucking insane. There’s no way he’s gonna understand what you’re saying. And this isn’t even all of it. You can’t tell him that he died, that you died.

That somewhere, in some alternate universe, there are versions of you and him that are bleeding out on the floor of a bleak, oppressive cave because they dared to try and figure out the mystery. At best, he would think you’re just a little tired, a little loopy. But if you don’t play your cards right, him and the others are going to be watching you 24/7. And you need to get them off your back so you can figure out what’s going on. You realize you’re digging your fingernails into your legs. “Nevermind,” you backtrack hurriedly, stumbling over your words. “I—I’m just tired. I didn’t mean that.” Kenny frowns, something in his expression that you can’t quite decipher.

You can tell he doesn’t believe you, but maybe he doesn’t want to pry and make the tension worse. “You know you can come to me—us for anything, right?” Guilt twists in you. You know him and the others care. You know you’re lucky for that. But this isn’t something he can fix. It isn’t something Kenny can analyze the fuck out of. “I know. I… I think I just need time to process some stuff.” He sighs reluctantly, worry still in his tone. “Just know that I care, okay? And I’m not gonna be like Cartman and bitch about my own problems instead of listening to you.”

You give him a reluctant smile, and he returns it, his familiar smirk slipping through. “There’s that smile.” He stops his truck, and a pang of anxiety settles in your chest as you realize he’s parked in front of your house. The silence is loud—too loud—as you stare at your tightly clasped hands. “I don’t want to go inside,” you mumble, refusing to look at Kenny. He leans back, his tone casual but his gaze sharp as it lingers on you. “You grounded or something?” You shake your head, still refusing to meet his eyes. “No. I’m…nervous, I guess.” He tilts his head, his expression thoughtful as he thinks.

His mouth curls up into a small smile, and he leans back again, one hand still on the steering wheel. “Truck’s comfy. If you want to, we can park here all night.” Despite yourself, you laugh, and the knot of unease in your chest loosens a bit. “You’d do that?” He takes his hand off the steering wheel, pointing it at you. “You are my friend. Friends look out for each other.” Your grin shifts, fading into something a bit softer as you look away from him. “I didn’t know I was your friend.” Kenny’s gaze softens, and he hesitates before putting a hand on your shoulder.

“Of course you’re my friend. I care about you.” Heat burns behind your eyes, and you have to will yourself to not cry. “Thanks.” Your voice comes out as barely a whisper, but you hope he heard it. Before Kenny can respond, the thunk of boots on wood interrupts you. Your dad. Anxiety claws at your throat, and you bury your head in your hands. “Fuck,” you mutter. “My dad’s coming.” You can see his silhouette coming closer, and you squeeze your eyes shut, a bout of nausea wracking through you.

Kenny glances over at you, an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he says, his voice soft. “I’ll handle it.” Your breathing is fast, your heart hammering in your chest. “Kenny,” you hiss nervously. “You don’t handle my dad.” A tap on the window makes you jolt. Refusing to meet his eyes, you roll down the window. “Y/N,” your dad says calmly, his voice betraying nothing except authority. “Inside. Now.”

You hesitate, glancing at Kenny. He gives you a small nod. Hands shaking, you unbuckle your seatbelt and slide out of the truck. “I’m sorry,” you mumble. “Don’t worry about it,” Kenny replies, giving you a small smile. The walk towards your house feels too long, the heaviness of the day weighing on you. You push open your door and step inside. The house is warm, yet the air around you feels too cold. Your breath is shaky as you trudge upstairs to your room. You push aside your blinds, intently watching your dad and Kenny. Your dad’s posture is stiff, and he’s clearly agitated.

He finally steps back to the curb, and your chest tightens as Kenny starts his truck, pulling away from your house. Your dad stands there for a few more moments before he turns and starts walking back to your house, his expression unreadable from this distance. You force yourself to grab your notebook and sit down on your bed, your hands trembling as you flip to a blank page. You need to make a plan for what you’re going to do. To fix what happened, to turn back time as if it never happened.

Act normal, you scrawl at the top of the page. If you’re going to pull this off, you need to keep appearances up. You can’t have anybody getting suspicious. Try to figure out what’s going on. You need to know what Cthulhu said to you. What it did to send you back in time, giving you a second chance. You need to figure out what mistakes you made last time, and make sure you don’t make them again. And finally…Buy a gun. The words are foreboding and foreign on the page, but not unwelcome. You need protection.

And if it takes a gun to do it, well. You’re not opposed to the prospect. You circle the words with your pencil. Last time, you had thought about it, but you hadn’t had time to. This time, you’re not taking any chances. You glance at your clock. It’s late, and if you want to start your plan tomorrow, you need rest. As you go through the motions of your nightly routine—brushing your teeth, changing into pajamas—you make one promise to yourself. Even if anything goes wrong, even if you die yourself, even if the entire plan is fucked up, you’re not going to let them kill Kenny again. You can’t let him down. Not again.

Chapter Text

Plink.

Plink.

Your eyes open. And immediately, you know that the place you’re in is one of a dangerous air. It belongs to a creature. One that’s intelligent, but won’t listen to reason or logic. The room you’re in is made of concrete. But that’s not the detail that sets off your warning systems. No, it’s the rusted, dried smears of crimson on the walls, and the dark red liquid pooling on the floor. Blood. Your blood.

The air is tinged with a metallic scent. One you know very well. Before you can do anything, a distant sound—an inhuman screeching that raises the hair on your arms—resounds from behind you. You don’t think, you run. You run because it’s the only thing you know how to do. And you’re not sure if you can do anything else by this point. Your boots slam on the concrete, the sound loud and jarring—until the noise turns to splashing.

The scene flips, a dizzying, blurred rush that has you doubling over, floundering for air in the sudden sea of blood that you’ve been spun into. It’s everywhere—your hair, your clothes, your skin. A mistimed attempt for air just forces you deeper, the awful taste of your own blood flooding your mouth. It’s so dark. The sky—if you could even call it that—flashes with lightning every time you manage to make it to the surface, illuminating the space around you.

An unshakable sense of fear envelopes you, feeding off of your despair until your heart is pounding with panic and adrenaline. Eventually, your struggles go weak. You stop trying to swim for air, just letting the waves sink you deeper. Something wraps around your ankle. Your eyes shoot open, and you desperately try to escape, to get away from whatever nightmarish monster has grabbed you.

It’s a futile attempt. Two other tentacles immobilize your arms, and you’re helpless to do anything else but welcome the approaching darkness. The awful shriek starts up again. It invades your mind again and again, until the only thing you see is blood and gore and horrors you can’t even comprehend and Kenny, bleeding out on the unforgiving concrete of that godforsaken chamber—

You’re alive. You’re fine. But you can’t quite convince yourself that everything is perfectly fine as you shed your tangled bedsheets, stumbling to the bathroom to catch a glimpse of what your nightmares granted you. The bags under your eyes and the look of panic you can’t quite shake tells you everything you need to know. In an attempt to shake off your lingering fear, you splash some cold water on your face, hoping to shock your system enough to wake up.

It works well enough to stop you from going back to sleep. Lucky for you, you’re not going to school today. You don’t think you would be able to focus anyway. The writing haphazardly scribbled into the notebook on your desk tells you your plan. It’s risky, and if you get caught you’re screwed. But you’re buying a gun. After last time, you don’t want to take any chances. And if you need to hurt somebody to do it, well. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to enact some revenge.

You pull on your clothes in a tired haze, mind still stuck somewhere between reality and your dreams. Your phone buzzes, and you clench your jaw, closing your eyes for a moment before you do something stupid. No, you can’t text whoever it is back. It’s just going to leave more loopholes that are going to be hard to clean up, and you don’t want that.

So you force yourself to put your phone on Do Not Disturb mode and stuff it in your pocket. You don’t need distractions, especially right now. The house seems empty and lifeless as you step cautiously into the kitchen. Fitting for the mood you’re in. A small yellow Sticky-Note is the only splash of color in the space around you. You pick it up, fingers brushing over the hurriedly scrawled words.

Got called into work for something urgent. Breakfast’s in the pantry. Love you.

It’s blunt, and you feel a small twinge of abandonment, but you force it down. Hey—it’s one less person to pry into your business. You open the aforementioned pantry, revealing a plate of muffins. You pause, fingers just barely brushing the glass plate. It’s a small gesture—probably barely an afterthought for your dad—but it makes your chest tighten with a feeling you can’t quite name. Your fingers tighten on the plate, and you run a hand over your face, sighing.

Now isn’t the time to get all caught up in small details. You need to eat and start your plan as soon as possible. Snagging a muffin from the plate, you lean against the counter to eat it. It’s blueberry—one of your favorite flavors. You distinctly remember making them with your dad before—well, before everything. Another lost memory. Brushing the crumbs off your fingers, you double-check you have everything you need before beginning to lace up your boots.

The lock makes a tiny clicking sound as you turn the key, effectively locking the house. A cold gust of wind makes you shiver, tucking your coat closer to your body. You don’t know what will happen in the next few days. But whatever the cost, you need to succeed. Even if it kills you.

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Stan’s leg bounces nervously as he checks his phone for your texts. Still no answer. The bus jolts, pulling away from your street’s bus stop. “You’re worrying me, Y/N,” he mutters under his breath, slouching against the bus seat. He sighs, carding a hand through his hair. Sure, you had been off at band practice yesterday, but disappearing entirely? It wasn’t like you. He hasn’t known you for years like his other friends, but he can tell when you’re acting off.

“Hey, Kenny? Did anything weird happen last night when you dropped Y/N off?” Kenny frowns, something Stan can’t quite place in his expression as he leans back. “They were acting weird. They said something about how ‘nothing seems real’ and ‘this just feels like a dream.’ And their dad yelled at me. But everything seemed fine when I left.”

That worries Stan. Because if you’re not in a good place to listen to them, it’s going to be hard to tell you about everything that you’ve been investigating for the past two weeks. Kyle chimes in from where he’s sitting behind Stan, his expression worried. “Are you sure they’re fine? That sounds like they’re struggling with something and they’re not telling us.”

Kenny sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. But we need to tell them something before something seriously goes wrong.” The three of them fall quiet, each pondering the meaning of Kenny’s words. They don’t know why you’re acting like this. But they’re not going to let you shut them out. The bus jolts to a stop, and kids start to file off, jostling each other and laughing at their friend’s jokes. Before following suit, Stan sends one last text.

Stan: We’re coming to check on you if you don’t answer. Just tell us that you’re okay.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Your phone buzzes again in your pocket, and you clench your jaw, resisting the urge to text whoever it is to stop. You know that they care about you—and you appreciate it, as much as it can be annoying sometimes. But this is overkill. You don’t need them knowing your every move, especially not right now. The traffic light overhead flickers to green, signaling that you can cross the street. A burst of cold wind makes you shudder as you slowly pick your way down the sidewalk, avoiding the ice patches from the recent snowfall.

Your precarious movements lead you to a small, dingy building—an inconspicuous shop with the name of Ned’s. You glance around nervously, ensuring that no one is following you before making your way into the dark, musty interior of the building. From the meticulously labeled guns on the walls and the way everything is ordered in neat rows, you can tell that whoever owns this place is serious about the stuff they’re selling. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

You yelp, spinning around to see the man who’s popped up behind you—Ned, you assume. His gaze is unreadable through the pair of glasses that sits on the bridge of his nose. His voice sounds staticky, and you realize he’s speaking from a voice box. You straighten up, attempting to compose yourself. “I need to buy something from you.” Ned makes no move, only stares at you with that same blank expression before turning around and beginning to carefully pick his way around the glass cases.

“What are you planning to do with a gun?” Fuck. You haven’t thought much past this stage of your plan, and you don’t want him asking questions. You cough nervously into your fist, glancing to the side. “Hunting, probably. I need something with a close range and a lot of power.” You definitely do not sound like you know what you’re talking about. But Ned doesn’t question it—he only flips open a case, muttering something you can’t quite make out. He pulls out a pistol and a cartridge of what you assume to be bullets.

“This one does pretty good with a close range distance and has a lot of power.” He shoves it towards you, stepping back. You touch it, flinching slightly at the coolness of the metal. Suddenly, the prospect of using this to hurt someone seems impossible. But then you remember what happened. How they held you down and ignored your pleas to stop. How they carved into your skin and twisted the knife ever so cruelly. And you can’t fail. Not this time.

So, a few minutes later, you walk out of Ned’s with a gun and a plan. You’re gonna learn how to shoot it—having a faulty aim could screw everything up, and you don’t need that to happen. And you’re going to seem calm and composed, at least on the outside. You don’t need anyone getting suspicious. You’re so absorbed in your thoughts, you don’t notice the small security camera hidden just above the alcove between Ned’s and the adjacent alley. But you can’t worry about that now. Not with more pressing issues.

Chapter Text

Kenny swears under his breath as he checks his phone again. Still no answer. “Fuck,” he mutters, slumping against the worn bus seat and running a hand through his hair. What you said, what you described—it sounded like what he goes through, a little bit. Every time he wakes up, after dying, it never seems real.

Really, it’s none of his business.

Even he doesn’t come to school sometimes. But you’re his friend. And friends look after each other. Especially after last night. He’s worried, and for a good reason. He can recognize when people aren’t in a good spot. And sure, you may brush it off and say you’re fine, but you’re clearly not. That’s what makes this absence all the more scary. If something happens to you, him—or the others—can’t be there to help you.

“Still no answer?” Kenny shakes his head at Stan’s question. Cartman rolls his eyes, a sneer in his voice. “If they don’t want to talk, then it’s basically a ‘fuck off.’” Kyle glares at Cartman from across the aisle, a look of frustration clear on his face. “They’re unstable right now. We need to keep an eye on them.” Stan sighs, running a hand over his face. “Can we just stop fighting? There’s more important stuff to worry about.”

The bus shudders to a stop—yours. The four of them slowly begin to make their way down the aisle, ignoring the look the bus driver gives them when their bus tag shows this isn’t their stop. Kenny shakes out his hands as he steps onto the sidewalk, breathing deeply and exhaling. Kyle nudges him, his voice unusually quiet. “You okay?” He nods, steeling himself for what lies ahead.

The short walk to your house is quiet, the mood subdued by the prospect of what they’re about to do. Kenny’s thoughts are muddled, chest tight with a mixture of apprehension and fear. They need to figure out what’s going on with you. Before it’s too late. “What are we going to do about the cameras?” Kyle’s voice is quiet, a touch of nerves entering his tone as he stares up at the cameras. Kenny can see why he’s nervous—the red lights on them are blinking, clearly indicating that they’re active.

He remembers you telling him about them, frustration in your voice. It feels like forever ago. “We could try going around. It doesn’t look like there’s any on the side of the house.” Stan takes a few steps forward, dissipating some of the apprehension around the plan. The four of them cut across the lawn, being careful to stay out of the camera’s line of sight. Almost immediately, they’re met with a problem. The door’s locked, and the only way is up, to the roof.

Cartman’s the first person to break the silence. “Okay, new plan. We go to my house and check the camera system. We can find Y/N faster.” Kyle shakes his head, a note of annoyance entering his tone. “No. We already made the plan.” Kenny steps forward, waving his hands in a placating motion. “We can do both. Do more work in a smaller amount of time.” Kyle frowns, but backs off. “Fine. Just don’t fuck it up.”

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Stan’s grip is steady, but his heart pounds with nerves as he scrambles onto the roof, feet slipping on the tiles. He moves over a few feet, managing to make it to a spot where he can maneuver himself enough to drop into your room. It feels like an invasion of your privacy, but he can’t help but look around. Your room is tidy, the only visible mess being a windstorm of papers strewn across your desk.

Stan hesitates, but moves forward a few feet, standing over your desk. Just a few seconds, he promises himself. Just to look for clues. The first paper he grabs is a list of something, the handwriting messy and rushed. He squints at the paper, one sentence standing out very clear. Buy a gun. His hands shake, making the paper crinkle a little bit. This is bad. Why would you need a gun? Stan takes a shaky breath, forcing himself to keep looking.

He can’t get distracted, especially right now. The second paper he grabs is a drawing, and what he sees makes his blood run cold. The first half of the page is a scribbled, hastily drawn outline of an animal vaguely resembling an octopus. The second is a rough sketch of a body lying on the ground, blood pooling around it. There’s a few sentences written under the drawings.

I can’t stop seeing it in my nightmares. It’s like it got into my brain somehow, wormed its way into my thoughts. And Kenny…fuck. I can still feel the weight of the knife in my hands. I can’t get his screams out of my head. It’s tormenting me.

I can’t tell them. They wouldn’t believe me.

Before he can stop himself, Stan’s folding the paper in half, tucking it into his jacket. He needs to show the others this. A strange feeling is twisting around in his chest. Why wouldn’t you tell them if you were going through something as serious as this? They might not have known you for years, but they’re your friends. They care about you. And that drawing of the octopus…Stan doesn’t like it. It feels foreboding, ominous.

It feels like something to be afraid of.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Cartman turns on his computer, the device making a small beeping sound as it boots up. He’s proud of his skills, the way he’s managed to set up a network of cameras. But his mind isn’t on that. It’s on you. Admittedly, it’s a bit annoying. Ever since the band practice, you’ve been cold and distance. Even Cartman’s a little bit worried. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, he cares about you, and his chest aches at the thought of something bad happening to you.

He types a command, pulling up a map of cameras. For a few moments, he scrolls around aimlessly, trying to pinpoint your location. His radio beeps, Kenny’s voice crackling through the speakers. “Do you have a view of them?” Cartman clicks to another camera, and there you are, looking around like you’re scared someone might see you. “Found them. They’re near the downtown area.”

He can hear Kenny swear lowly on the other end, worry in his tone. “What the fuck are they doing there?” He rolls his eyes, even though Kenny can’t see him. “I don’t know, okay? But they look…scared.” He toggles to another camera, the recording dated only three hours ago. The camera footage is grainy, and he can’t see your face. But your posture is stiff and guarded. You’re on edge.

Kenny’s voice crackles through the radio, his voice betraying nothing except authority. “Keep watching them. We’ll figure out something later.” Cartman mutters an assent, switching to another camera, this one closer to the downtown area. It’s dated an hour ago. He pauses, squinting at his monitor screen. That’s the back alley of Ned’s. You’re walking out of Ned’s with a box in your hand.

A gun, his mind supplies. They’re holding a gun.

“Oh, shit.”

There’s a sinking feeling in his chest, something that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. Before he can radio the others, or get a closer look, something upstairs falls. The sound of shattering glass is clear. Cartman pauses. He doesn’t know if that’s just Mr Kitty knocking down something, or an intruder. He slides out of his chair, crossing the room and peering up the stairs. From his vantage point, he can see a limited view of the kitchen, but not enough to gauge what’s going on.

A dulled thumping noise makes him stiffen, hands curling in an imitation of his claws even though he doesn’t have his costume on right now. “Alright,” he mutters to himself, taking a few tentative steps up the stairs. “It’s just Mr Kitty being a little shithead. You’re fine.” Cartman steps fully into the kitchen, and what he sees makes his blood go cold. The kitchen window’s shattered, little glass shards scattered across the floor.

A floorboard creaks, the sound deafening in the quiet of the house. His mind only has time to register that there’s someone behind him before pain explodes in his head, static whiting out his vision as he collides with the edge of the kitchen counter. A vice clamps around his neck, cutting off his air supply. The cultist’s grip tightens as his hands scrabble weakly at theirs, what he can see of their eyes showing only a flicker of annoyance as he struggles.

His vision is fading in and out, choked off wheezing sounds escaping his mouth as his tortured movements grow slower with the lack of air. Just as he’s about to pass out, a blurred object swims into his vision. The artifact. Cartman tries to struggle out of the bruising grip of the cultist, tries to fight back, but it’s no use.

He drifts into darkness, his vision winking out with a last burst of otherworldly green.