Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It is an unusually warm autumn morning, and the playground buzzes with the restless chatter in South Park Middle School. 

The air carries that distinct, crisp smell of fallen leaves crushed under sneakers, mixed with the faint sweetness of whatever is being prepared from the cafeteria’s lunch hour.

Groups of kids have scattered across the yard, spilling over the benches, the swings, and the patchy field, each pocket of conversation pulsing with talk about Halloween plans, class gossip, or the quiet dread of how quickly the year is slipping by.

Sixth grade isn’t dramatic yet, but it’s close enough to taste the weirdness. They’re taller, louder, more curious and bold, with hormones running wild. Old enough to feel important, young enough to still circle the same spots out of habit. 

The girls have claimed their usual corner near the merry-go-round, where the sunlight hits just enough to keep the cold away. Wendy sits cross-legged on the concrete, half-listening as Bebe scrolls through her phone, reading some post out loud with exaggerated disbelief. Annie laughs between sips of her juice box, while Red tries to braid her own hair, fumbling each time the wind picks up. It is an ordinary moment that passes easily, laughter carries over the noise of the playground, the sound of the swings squeaking from being too rusty, the hum of something just waiting to happen.

Wendy leans back on her hands, squinting up at the sky as a leaf flutters past her face. “So… ” She says, her voice cutting through the easy hum of chatter. “ …does anyone actually know what they’re doing for Halloween this year?”

Bebe glances up from her phone, the screen’s glow fading as she locks it and slips it into her pocket. “Isn’t the town throwing a fair this year? One that actually seems interesting for once?” She says, a grin tugging at her lips. “I’m thinking of going as a vampire, not like those weird kids pretending to be one, hiding in the gym, obviously.” 

Annie perks up. “Didn’t you go like that last year?”

“Yeah, but this time it’s a different vampire.” Bebe says, flicking her hair back with exaggerated annoyance. “Last year my mom got me some sparkly nonsense with ruffles. I looked like I was going to a Nosferatu themed ballet recital. This year it’s actually cute.”

Red, still tangled in her own hair, mutters something about not knowing yet. “I don’t know, at this point? A clown. Every costume I find interesting is, like, sold out or too expensive.”

Wendy hums, thoughtful, tracing the edge of a crack in the concrete with her finger. “I haven’t decided either.” She admits after a moment. “I kind of want to do something classic this year. Nothing too over-the-top.”

Wendy hums under her breath, lost in thought for a moment as the conversation drifts back into easy laughter. Her gaze shifts toward the other side of their little circle, where Heidi, Nicole, and you are huddled close together, elbows almost touching. The three of you look completely absorbed in whatever’s playing on the screen between you, a new trailer, judging by the flickering colors reflecting off your faces. From where Wendy sits, she can just barely hear the faint sound of orchestral music and something similar to a monster screeching, like the ones that only play in overdramatic sci-fi previews.

Heidi’s eyes are wide, like she’s trying to absorb every frame, while Nicole keeps muttering something about the special effects looking “way better than last season”. You don’t say much, just watching quietly, the corner of your mouth curving up each time the trailer cuts to a familiar character of your liking. It’s obvious you’ve all been waiting for this, maybe the new Stranger Things season, or whatever show had half the class arguing over plot theories last month.

When the trailer ends, the three of you let out a collective sigh, clearly sharing a mutual obsessions. Heidi immediately starts talking about costume ideas inspired by the series, already halfway through a sentence about her favorite character and how she plans on making the hairstyle before Wendy finally calls out to you.

“So, do you guys have any plans for Halloween yet?” She asks, her tone casual but curious.

Heidi is the first to answer, her face lighting up as she sits up straighter. “Actually, yeah! I was just talking.” She says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Nancy Wheeler. From the first season of Stranger Things. I’ve been rewatching it with my mom, and she said she’ll help me figure out how to do the hairstyle, though, honestly, I have no idea how she got that much volume.”

Nicole snorts softly, nudging her shoulder. “You could just sleep in curlers like an old lady.” She teases, earning a playful shove from Heidi. “Anyway, I’m going as Bumble Bee. The one from Teen Titans, not the robot. I already have the yellow jacket, and my hair’s basically perfect for it.”

“You’ve been waiting all year to use that jacket.” Heidi says, pretending to roll her eyes.

“Because it’s perfect for it!” Nicole replies, grinning.

Wendy smiles at the two of them before her attention shifts toward you. “What about you, Misha? Got any ideas yet?”

You pause for a second, thinking and just shrug and admit. “My mom and I usually match costumes and she mentioned going as a witch. I’ll probably end up being her black cat or something. It’s… basic, but it sounds nice.”

“That’s actually so cute.” Bebe chimes in from her spot near the merry-go-round, half-distracted by her phone again. “Matching costumes always get the best reactions. Way better than group ones that fall apart halfway through the night to eat candies.”

“Hey!” Heidi protests. “We’re totally committing this time!”

“Sure you are.” Wendy says with a sweet smile, the conversation melting into easy chuckles that echoes across the playground and fades into the sound of someone jumping on a pile of dry leaves and shoes scraping the concrete on the basketball court.

Heidi tugs at the hem of her own sweater, still laughing from the teasing. “You know what?” She says suddenly, glancing around at the group. “Why don’t we all just make our costumes at my place this weekend? My mom’s already on this whole ‘Halloween craft’ spree, she literally bought enough fake cobwebs to cover the entire house. I’m pretty sure she’d love the excuse to use them. We can help you decide what you want to wear!”

“Ooh, that actually sounds fun.” Bebe says, lowering her phone again. “I could help with the makeup stuff. My cousin showed me this eyeliner trick that would look perfect for the vampire thing.”

Nicole perks up immediately. “Wait, can I use your cousin’s trick too? Bumble Bee definitely wears eyeliner. Probably waterproof, though.”

“You mean because you’ll end up sweating it off after walking four blocks?” Red jokes, dodging a half-hearted nudge from Nicole.

Wendy laughs softly, brushing a leaf off her knee. “Count me in. It’s probably better than waiting until the last minute like last year. I still remember Bebe fixing her costume ten minutes before we went out.”

“That was pure dedication.” Bebe insists, pointing at her chest in mock pride. “Besides, I was doing miracles!”

Heidi grins, clearly pleased that her idea is catching on. “Perfect. Saturday afternoon then? My mom can make snacks, and we’ll just… figure everything out there.”

You nod along with the others, the thought of it already painting an easy picture in your mind, the clutter of fabric and paint, the low hum of music playing from someone’s phone, everyone talking over one another in that familiar, comfortable chaos.

“Sounds good.” You say, smiling.

“Then it’s a deal.” Wendy adds, stretching her legs out in front of her. “We’ll make it a whole thing.”

The girls fall into a rhythm again, voices overlapping with bursts of eagerness that rise and fade like waves. The playground feels energetic, wrapped in the warmth of shared plans and the slow drifting of the morning sun. 

The wind carries the smell of dust and possible snow, and somewhere, faintly, the creak of the merry-go-round turns steady, a reminder that, for now at least, everything is still calm.

For mere three seconds.

The sound of the girls’ conversation drifts easily across the playground, carried by excitement until it blends with the rougher noise from the other side of the yard, where most of the boys have gathered near the basketball court. Their voices come in louder tones, crude and less steady than the girls’ easy rhythm, like the noise itself can’t decide whether it’s friendly or about to turn into an argument.

Stan’s sitting on the edge of the court, his jacket tossed beside him, watching Kyle and Kenny argue over whether the ball was out of bounds. The two keep circling each other, gestures wild, their voices rising higher each time one of them swears they’re right. Butters lingers nearby, clutching a juice box like it’s a shield, his eyes darting between them with the kind of nervous energy that makes it clear he’s expecting things to explode any second.

However, there’s a current under everyone's mood, something that is being anticipated. Every now and then, someone glances toward the main building, where the principal’s office windows glint in the sunlight. A few of the kids whisper, like they’re waiting for something to happen, and it hangs in the air, the way the weather changes right before a storm rolls in.

Then the door slams open.

The noise cuts through the chatter, making everyone stop for a second, heads turn almost instantly. Out steps Cartman, red-faced, furious, his voice already rising before the door’s even fully shut behind him. Whatever happened in there clearly didn’t go his way.

Every head on the court rotates. The basketball bounces once against the asphalt, then rolls away, forgotten. Cartman storms out across the yard like a small thundercloud in motion, fists clenched at his sides, muttering curses under his breath that grow louder with each step.

“What the hell’s his problem this time?” Kyle asks, pushing a hand through his now messy curly hair, but he doesn’t sound particularly surprised.

Stan sighs, already looking tired. “He was in the office for like fifty minutes. That’s a new record.”

Kenny laughs, something muffled but definitely amused, and Butters takes a nervous half-step back just as Cartman reaches them. His face is still flushed, his hat slightly askew, like even the air around him decided it didn’t want to cooperate.

“They… Those cock juggling thunder fucks! Are they out of their God damn minds?!” Cartman shouts, pointing back toward the school like it personally offended him. “You know what they said? They said I can’t run the Halloween booth this year because of ‘last year’s incident!’” He throws his hands up, his voice pitching higher with every word. “It wasn’t even my fault Kyle set the haunted house decorations on fire!”

“What?! I didn’t set shit on fire!” Kyle snaps immediately.

“You were holding the candle, you fucking ginger terrorist!”

“Oh my god.” Stan mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s literally November in a week, can we please not do this right now?”

But Cartman’s not listening. He paces in front of them like a dictator general with a personal vendetta, his words spilling faster now, fueled by his own indignation. “It’s a conspiracy, that’s what it must be. They’re trying to censor my space for creativity. My booth was a masterpiece! Kids loved it! You remember, Kenny! There were lines!” He put his arms around his friend’s shoulder, raising his other hand in the air dramatically.

Kenny nods vaguely, though it’s hard to tell if he’s agreeing or just trying to keep the peace. Butters mumbles something about how maybe the fake blood “was a little much” and Cartman whirls on him with a glare that could burn through snow that only generational hate could explain.

“A little much? It was art, Butters!”

The argument ripples outward, catching the attention of a few kids nearby, a small crowd starting to form, drawn in by the noise. From the other side of the playground, the girls’ talk begins to fade, curiosity pulling their eyes toward the commotion.

The sound of Cartman’s voice carries across the playground like a siren, impossible to ignore. One by one, the kids get more and more invested. Some near the swings slow to a stop, their feet scraping against the dirt as they try to catch what’s going on. Even Craig’s group, usually content to sit on the low wall near the fence, away from everyone else, starts to drift closer, their curiosity outweighing their boredom.

“Dude, what’s he even talking about?” Tolkien mutters, tugging at the sleeve of his pullover as he follows the others.

Clyde shrugs, already smirking. “Probably whining about him not getting his balls twisted.”

Back by the merry-go-round, the girls look up from their conversation. “Uh-oh.” Bebe says, spotting Cartman pacing like a furious penguin in the middle of the court. “Looks like he’s at it again.”

“Should we go see?” Annie asks, already half-standing.

Wendy sighs, brushing crumbs of sandwich from her skirt as she gets up. “Might as well. If he’s yelling this much, it’s because he deserved it.”

By the time they cross halfway the yard, Cartman’s still in full dramatic mode. He’s gesturing wildly, his voice booming with the conviction of someone who truly believes the world’s conspiring against him.

“ …and they said it was dangerous! Dangerous!” He bellows, stamping a foot. “Like it’s my fault a few decorations decided to catch fire and the janitor had to call a priest!”

Kyle folds his arms. “You literally summoned spirits, Cartman. You told everyone you were making a ‘real haunted experience extravaganza’.”

“Yeah, because that’s what Halloween’s about, Kyle!” Cartman snaps. “Atmosphere! Immersion! I was trying to make the best horror booth this ass town’s ever seen, and those low IQ losers couldn’t handle a true artistic vision!”

Stan almost responds in the same tone. “Your artistic vision almost got the whole school shut down!”

Cartman spins toward him. “That’s because of the ritual! It was supposed to be controlled, okay? I followed this totally legit tutorial on YouTube.”

Kenny muffles something that sounds like he is supporting the other thoughts, and Butters, looking worried, pipes up. “Didn’t ya say you… Uh, didn’t finish watchin’ it all the way, Eric?”

Cartman hesitates, his eyes darting to the boy. “That’s not the point, Butters. That is completely irrelevant.”

Clyde snorts. “So you summoned ghosts and it went wrong.”

“Wrong?” Cartman’s voice jumps an octave. “No! They were full-on spirits of vengeance! I may have gotten a few pronunciation details wrong, but everything was in perfect control!”

At this point, nearly half the kids had gathered around, forming a loose circle. The girls join the outer edge, exchanging amused glances as Cartman keeps going, his voice bouncing between outrage and unnecessary self-defense.

Wendy folds her arms, shaking her head with a quiet mocking laugh. “Only Cartman would brag about summoning ghosts like it’s some science fair project gone right.”

Nicole leans toward you, whispering. “Do you think he’s lying?”

You glance at Cartman, who’s now describing “renegators” and “cock suckers” with way too much confidence. “I hope he is.” You say. 

The group bursts into laughter again. 

Cartman keeps pacing in tight circles, his boots crunching over the gravel, already forming a pattern in the ground. The crowd that’s formed around him is eating it up, some whispering, others just waiting for whatever comes next. The more people watch, the louder he gets, like attention fuels him.

“And you know what the worst part is?” He says suddenly, stabbing a finger toward the sky as if addressing some invisible jury. “They already picked someone else to run the booth this year! I thought that after finally going to Middle School, they would forget that insignificant mistake.”

That gets a murmur out of the crowd. Stan raises a brow. “Wait, seriously? Who?” Completely ignoring the fact that his friend is banned from taking charge of the event.

“I don’t know!” Cartman barks back. “They wouldn’t tell me! Just said, ‘Oh, Eric, we’ve already assigned it to someone more responsible this time. We can’t take risks.’ More responsible. Like I’m not the most reliable and trustworthy person in this godforsaken school!”

Kyle throws his arms in the air, in imminent wrath. “You burned down half the gym, Cartman!”

“That was the candles’ fault, Kyle! Not mine!”

Kenny muffles something again that makes Clyde laugh out loud, and Tweek fidgets awkwardly with the hem of his clothes. “W… well, you can still help whoever’s doin’ it, right?”

“Help?” Cartman cuts him off with a horrified gasp, like Tweek just suggested treason. “No, dude. I don’t help stupid traitors.” He starts gesturing wildly again, voice climbing higher. “Whoever they are, they stole my rightful position, my legacy! The Cartman Haunted Experience Extravaganza was supposed to return this year, bigger and more popular than ever!”

He turns toward the school building. “Whoever you are…” He declares dramatically. “I hope your booth fails miserably! I hope your props fall apart, your lights short-circuit, and your stupid candy gets stolen by rabid dogs! May your entire Halloween crumble into ashes!”

The kids around him giggle and whisper. Craig groans, running a hand through his head. “Dude, he’s lost it.”

“He was lost like five minutes ago.” Tolkien mutters, crossing his arms and tilting his head a little. 

Kyle’s frows. “You’re seriously cursing them now? That’s your big plan?”

“Yes, Kyle!” Cartman snaps, pointing straight at him. “Because curses are actually real, unlike your jewish little sense of reasoning!”

Stan doesn’t say much, only watching in disbelief his friend playing fool in front of everyone and even so, he doesn’t notice the other kids laughing at him, he is too focused on shouting profanities about someone else.

Cartman doesn’t calm down, if anything, he gets louder. He’s standing dead center in the basketball court, practically performing, arms raised like he’s invoking some ancient power only he understands. A few kids have already lost interest and wandered off, but enough stay to egg him on, giggling under their breath each time he adds another dramatic insult to the mix.

“Whoever you are… ” He continues to yell, his voice cracking halfway through, needing to gasp a little for air. “I hope your grandma dies from shiting so hard, that her asshole rips apart and your entire family line feels the shame of you being a pillow biter bitch!”

“Holy crap.” Stan mutters, watching with wide eyes. “He’s actually gone medieval with it.”

“Yeah.” Kyle adds. “Next thing we know, he’s gonna start talking in Latin.”

Before Cartman can finish whatever curse he’s cooking up, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“What’s he crying about this time?” Wendy asks, leading the girls closer. The group slows as they approach, half curious, half amused.

“He’s mad about the Halloween booth.” Stan explains, turning slightly toward her. “Apparently the school didn’t let him run it again.”

“Thank God.” Bebe says, hand on her hip. “Forbidding is not enough, he needs a whole restriction order against him.”

Cartman ignores them completely, still pacing, mumbling under his breath about revenge porn and cock suckers. The word "treachery" makes a dramatic appearance.

“ …May their toilet paper run out in the middle of a diarrhea! May their shoes have Legos inside that will break their skin open!” He continues, shaking a fist toward the air.

“Wow.” Annie whispers. “Whoever this person is, I’m already feeling sorry for them.”

It’s then that you, standing just behind the other girls, finally speak, your voice cutting clean through the noise. “Oh.” You say. “Sorry… That’d be me.”

The reaction is immediate. 

Cartman stops mid-rant like someone hit pause on him. His mouth is still hanging open, one hand raised in dramatic flourish, eyes blinking in disbelief as the meaning of your words sinks in.

“What?” He says flatly.

You shift a little under the weight of everyone’s stares, locking your eyes with Wendy for support to keep talking. “Mm. Yeah.” Your voice comes out quiet, more of a confirmation than an explanation.

The girls turn toward you almost at the same time. “Wait, you are?” Heidi asks, eyes wide. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

You shrug, cheeks warming slightly. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

Bebe lets out a low whistle. “Well, surprise achieved.”

Kyle starts laughing before he can help himself, while Stan tries, and fails, to keep a straight face. Cartman, meanwhile, looks personally betrayed, pointing an accusing finger in your direction.

“You?!” He sputters. “You’re the one who stole my booth?!”

“I didn’t.” You say calmly. “The principal just asked me to.”

Cartman gasps like the words themselves have physically wounded him. “Unbelievable! First they take away my genius opportunities, and now they give it to you?!”

“Relax, dude.” Craig calls from somewhere near the back of the crowd. “Maybe it will be better than last year.”

Cartman lets out a strangled sound somewhere between a growl and a whine, throwing his hands up. “That’s it! You’re all jealous of my creative mind! Every single one of you!”

Cartman’s face is still a picture of outrage. His cheeks have gone redder, his hat slightly askew from all the dramatic gesturing. “What could possibly be better than my haunted house?” He demands, his voice rising again. “Nothing! Nothing’s scarier than what I came up with last year. I had a whole organization! All my effort! There was preparation!”

“You mean that time the fire alarm was set off?” Kyle cuts in, unimpressed.

“It was your fault, Kyle, you were supposed to take care of the fucking candles! Learn the difference!” Cartman snaps back, jabbing a finger toward him. Then he swivels dramatically to face you, before the other boy could protest. “So what’s your big, fancy idea, huh? What’s so great that the school decided to pick you over me?”

You blink, caught slightly off guard by how personal he’s making this. “It’s… nothing special.” You start. “I was thinking about a pumpkin carving booth.”

Cartman stares like you just told him the most offensive thing imaginable. “A pumpkin carving booth? That’s the lamest…” He stops and starts laughing immediately. “That's the gayest shit I have ever heard before!”

“It’s actually kinda cute.” Bebe says, folding her arms. “You could make a contest out of it. The best design wins something.”

“Yeah.” Stan adds, nodding thoughtfully. “It sounds fun. We could even put candles in them after, to make it look cool.” He says, sounding almost like he wants to piss Cartman even more.

Heidi smiles and whispers. “It’s way more in the Halloween spirit than… whatever mess last year was.”

“Mess?!” Cartman’s voice jumps an octave. “You people have no taste! Pumpkin carving is boring! It’s like Halloween for pussies!”

Wendy raises an eyebrow. “Maybe not everything needs to involve "accidentals" fires and spirits of screaming children.”

Cartman scoffs loudly. “You’re all just jealous you didn’t think of it first.”

“Dude.” Kyle says flatly. “No one is jealous and no one wants your stupid haunted house back.”

That earns a few laughs from the crowd that’s still hanging around. You can feel the tension starting to ebb, but Cartman’s clearly not done. He points a stubby finger right at you, his eyes narrowed.

“You better stay outta my plans, you got that? I don’t need your… your stupid little crafts ruining my Halloween! And tell your mom to… ”

He doesn’t even finish before you slap his hand away. The sound snaps through the air, sharp and quick. “Don’t touch me.” You say, steady but firm. “And stop talking about people’s moms for once.”

Cartman recoils, clutching his hand like you’d hit him harder than you did. “Ow! What the hell was that for?!”

“For being a jerk.” You shoot back. “It’s not my fault your ideas are ass.”

That gets the reaction you expect, a half-second of stunned silence, then a ripple of “ohhs” that spreads through the group. Even Craig, who’s been standing off to the side the whole time, cracks a grin.

“Damn.” Clyde mutters, nudging him. “You got told off.”

Cartman glares at everyone, cheeks puffed out, and huffs like a kettle about to boil. “Fine! Enjoy your dumb pumpkins! But when my booth steals the show, don’t come crying to me!”

Before anyone can answer, the shrill buzz of the school bell tears through the air, cutting his rant short. The playground instantly bursts into motion, kids groaning, tossing away snack wrappers, scrambling to grab their jackets. The once-scattered groups start funneling toward the doors, their chatter rising and falling like background static.

“Guess that’s the bell.” Wendy says, tilting her head and brushing dust off her coat.

“Thank God.” Bebe mutters, rolling her eyes. “I can only handle so much of Cartman’s dramatic monologues before lunch.”

Annie snickers, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. “See you guys later.”

You and the other girls head off together, Wendy tossing a quick look over her shoulder, just long enough to catch Cartman glaring daggers into the pavement like he’s planning ten new ways to get revenge.

Once the girls disappear back into the building, the courtyard quiets down again. The wind kicks up a few stray leaves, sending them tumbling across the cracked asphalt. Cartman’s still standing in the same spot, mumbling under his breath.

“I swear.” He mutters darkly, “I’m gonna strangle that dude. Who does he think he is? Taking my booth, my… ”

“Wait.” Kyle cuts in, frowning. “What dude?”

Cartman blinks, turning toward him like Kyle just asked the dumbest question imaginable. “The one who stole my booth, obviously! That son of a bitch, Misha!”

Stan stares at him for a second, then slowly points in the direction you walked off. “Cartman, she’s a girl… I’m pretty sure.”

Cartman freezes. “No, he’s not.”

“Yes, she is.” Kyle says flatly. “We literally just talked to her.”

“Dude, she’s in our class.” Stan adds.

Cartman’s eyes go wide, his jaw falling open a little. “Nuh-uh. No way. You’re lying. She doesn’t look like a girl!”

Clyde snorts. “She looks a little bit like a girl.”

“Yeah, man.” Token says, trying not to laugh. “She even stays with the other girls all the time.”

Cartman whirls around, pointing wildly toward the doors as if the evidence is still there. “You’re telling me that was a girl?! How?! It even wears shorts!”

Stan shrugs a little. “That’s a skort.”

“Wow Stan, since when do you know about girls fashion? Do you want to share something with the class or… ” Cartman says, trying to change the subject. 

“Shut the fuck up, dude!”

“Geez, okay, fine. But… “ Cartman sputters, looking genuinely offended. “ …His voice is even raspy and shit!”

There’s a beat where the boys just stare at him, Craig looking bored, Kyle looking done, Kenny looking entertained.

Cartman blinks, recalibrates, then throws his hands up again.

“Okay, wait a second.” He says, holding up both hands. “Hear me out… how was I supposed to know she was a girl, huh? She barely talks! It’s the first time I ever talked with her! You can’t expect me to keep track of everyone who just, like, silently exists!”

Kyle groans, slapping his hands on his own face. “Oh my god, dude.”

Stan sighs. “That’s your excuse?”

Cartman jabs a finger toward them, defensive. “It’s a valid point! If she never talks, how am I supposed to know what she even is? She’s like one of those quiet background characters you forget is there!”

Before anyone can respond, Craig’s voice cuts in from the back. “She talks.” He says flatly, arms crossed.

Cartman spins around, squinting at him. “What?”

Craig doesn’t flinch. “She talks.” He repeats, tone even. “Just not to you.”

For a second, there’s silence. Then Stan awkwardly clears his throat. “Sorry, man, but… Cartman kind of has a point.” He admits. “She doesn’t really talk much.”

Tolkien just shrugs. “Maybe she doesn’t talk to you guys.”

“Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?” Kyle asks, looking genuinely confused.

Craig looks at him like the answer is obvious. “It means she probably doesn’t like you.”

That gets a low laugh out of Clyde, and even Tolkien snorts. “He’s not wrong.” He mutters under his breath.

Cartman’s face goes red again. “Oh, shut up, Craig! That doesn’t even make sense! Everybody likes us!”

The look the others give him says otherwise.

“Dude.” Clyde says, struggling not to grin. “Nobody likes hanging out with you guys. Every time someone does, it turns into, like, a hostage situation.”

Tolkien nods. “Yeah, remember the last time? You literally charged us money to participate in your stupid cart race competition, only to scam us in the end.”

“That wasn’t a scam! We made a deal, you signed in the end!” Cartman snaps, pointing accusingly. “You’re just jealous of my business instincts!”

Clyde laughs. “Yeah, man, that’s definitely what it was.”

Craig sighs, bored already. “See? That’s why no one wants to hang out with you. It always goes terribly.”

The words hang there for a moment, simple, blunt, and cutting in a way only Craig can manage. For a second, it actually looks like Cartman’s at a loss for words, but it doesn’t last.

“Yeah, well… ” He finally blurts out, waving a dismissive hand. “You guys are all losers anyway! Have fun with your little gay quiet friend and your boring conversations about homosexuality!”

Craig just gives him a blank look. “Suck my balls.” And he flips them off.

That’s enough to send Token and Clyde into muffled laughter as they start walking toward the doors. Craig’s little group drifts off, the sound of their sneakers fading into the hallway as the bell rings again in the distance.

Cartman’s left standing there with Kyle, Stan, and Kenny, still fuming, arms crossed like he’s plotting revenge.

“Can you believe that guy?” He mutters. 

Kyle exhales through a sigh. “You’re unbelievable, dude.”

Cartman straightens his hat with exaggerated pride. “Thank you. I am pretty great.”

Stan just shakes his head as they start walking again, Kenny snickering behind his muffled hood. The courtyard finally empties, autumn wind scattering a few leftover leaves across the cracked ground and Cartman’s grumbling voice fading last, still insisting he’s totally right about everything.

_______________________

The walk home feels tiring than usual. The air’s cooler, feeling like a late-autumn chill that makes your hands ache a little because you forgot your gloves. The streets are littered with orange leaves that crunch under your shoes, the sky already dipping into that soft gold that never lasts long this time of year. 

When you push open the front door, the smell of dinner is already sneaking through the house, garlic, butter, something roasting in the oven.

“Mom, I’m home!” You call, kicking off your sneakers near the mat.

“Kitchen!” Comes her voice, bright and familiar.

You drop your bag by the dining table and head in, where your mom’s bent over the counter chopping vegetables, her apron dusted with flour like she’s been at it for hours. She glances up when you walk in, smiling that kind of half-tired, half-genuine smile that says she’s happy to see you anyway.

“Hey, sweetheart.” She says, setting down the knife. “How was school?”

You hesitate, leaning against the counter. “Weird.”

“Weird?” She echoes, amused.

“A boy found out I’m running the Halloween booth.” You say simply.

She pauses, a knowing grin tugging at her lips. “Ah… ” She says, like that explains everything. “And I’m guessing he didn’t take it very well?”

“That’s one way to put it.” You grab a piece of carrot off the cutting board and pop it into your mouth. “He had a meltdown."

Your mom shakes her head, trying not to laugh. “That boy’s going to give himself wrinkles before he turns twenty then.”

You huff, earning a snort from her.

From the living room, your younger sister’s voice pipes up. “Big sis?!”

A moment later, Agnes shuffles into the kitchen. Her hair is a messy curtain around her face, sticking out at odd angles like she rolled straight off the couch. She’s still in her mismatched socks, clutching her worn stuffed rabbit by one floppy ear as she peers up at you with huge, curious eyes.

Your younger sister’s voice pipes up. “Are you talking about that boy who fights crime at night?”

You blink. “…What?”

“You know… ” She whispers dramatically, eyes wide. “The one with the secret identity.”

You stare at her. “Agnes. You watch too much TV.”

“I do not!” She huffs, stomping once for emphasis. “Karen told me about it!”

Before anyone can redirect her back to reality, an arm suddenly hooks around your waist from behind, and the floor drops away under your feet.

You barely manage a sharp inhale before you're lifted clean off the ground.

Castor’s voice is right by your ear, unapologetically loud. “Hey, short stack. Miss us?”

Pollux is beside him, one hand steadying your shoulder so you don’t slip, the other giving Castor a flat look. “Put her down. Mom literally said to stop doing this.”

“You sure? I don’t remember.” Castor argues, already spinning half a step with you like you’re a plushy prize he found at a carnival. 

You plant one hand on his forehead and shove weakly. “Down… ” You mutter, because sentences longer than that are a waste of breath in these situations.

Castor sighs dramatically but obeys, lowering you back to the kitchen floor with exaggerated care, like you’re a fragile antique even though he was just swinging you around like a piñata seconds ago.

Your mom turns from the sink just in time to witness the tail end of your re-entry to gravity. She closes her eyes. Slowly. “Boys.”

Castor shoots her an innocent grin, followed by an exaggerated bow. “ I’m terribly sorry, Miss Enid. This is just our way of saying hi. We missed our little flea.”

Pollux nudges him with his elbow. “Stop calling mom by her name, it’s weird.”

“No.” Castor insists.

You kick his knee as you step past him. He yelps, more offended than hurt.

You brush invisible dust off your shirt and take your place at the table again, quiet but present.

Castor flops into the chair across from you, already drumming his fingers like he has endless energy to burn. Pollux sits beside him with more restraint, but even he can’t hide the faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

You just rest your chin on your hand, letting the chaos swirl around you, quiet enough for you to stay tucked comfortably inside it. No annoying boy yelling at you or the general disorder that school brings every day with the unnecessary and incessant workload that they throw to a twelve year old.

Before any of you can tell any news of the long day, Castor rises from his chair,  springing back up like a coiled spring that simply refuses to sit still. He barely stays put five minutes without already needing to cause something, the only moment he calms down, is when food is served.

He turns toward Agnes with a sudden wide vitality, that always means trouble.

“Mini-nugget.” He announces, swooping in before she can react. “You’re coming with me. I need your help with something.”

Agnes squeaks, delighted instead of alarmed as he lifts her clean off the floor and tosses her over his shoulder like a victorious pirate hauling treasure. Her stuffed rabbit flops helplessly against his back as he starts up the stairs at full speed.

Pollux’s head drops into his hands with a low groan. “Castor… ”

But he’s already halfway up the staircase, Agnes giggling wildly while he shouts. “Second floor! I need Agnes to help me with something!”

Your mom doesn’t even flinch. She just exhales through her nose, long and resigned. “One day… ” She mutters. “ …He’s going to sprain something important, and I’m not letting Pollux help him heal it.”

She wipes her hands on the kitchen towel, then turns toward you, the only stable piece of furniture in the room, apparently.

“Sweetheart.” She says, gentler now. “Can you go downstairs and get your father? Dinner’s almost ready.”

You nod once. 

The basement door sticks a little at the frame, like always, and the cool air drifts up as soon as you crack it open. It smells faintly like old paper, cedar, formaldehyde and whatever herbal concoctions your dad has decided to “experiment” with this week. You take the steps carefully, even though you’ve grown up with this place.

Your dad, Matthew, is right where you expect him, hunched over the long wooden workbench he built himself, the warm desk lamp casting a pool of yellow light over glass jars arranged in neat little rows. He’s got one in his hand, turning it slowly as he writes on a strip of parchment with a fountain pen.

You lean sideways just enough to peek.

The label is in looping handwriting you can’t quite decipher, but you recognize the weird words format. You’ve seen enough of his notes to know when it’s definitely not English, and definitely not something you’re supposed to try pronouncing out loud yet.

He hasn’t noticed you. He only murmurs to himself, checking a second jar, comparing them. “…no, that’s not the right ratio. The infusions react differently at higher temperatures…”

You clear your throat softly.

He jolts in place, not dramatically, just a little twitch of surprise before his face settles into a warm, tired smile. “Oh. Hey, champ. Didn’t hear you come down.”

You gesture upward. “Mom said dinner is ready.”

He nods, sliding the parchment aside and placing the labeled jar back in its precise spot among the others.

There are dozens, all different hues, some cloudy, some clear, some with things floating inside that you don’t have the vocabulary for yet. You look at them out of curiosity, but you never ask. And he doesn’t explain unless you ask.

He turns off the lamp and follows you toward the stairs, squeezing your shoulder as he passes.

“Thanks for coming to get me.” He says, and it’s simple, genuine, the kind of affection your family trades quietly, without dramatics. “How was school?”

“Explosive.”

He grins. “So, normal then.”

Above you, you can already hear Castor thundering across the hallway with Agnes shouting something about her rabbit “moving around”, Pollux chasing after them demanding they slow down.

You and your dad exchange the same look you always do and together, you head back upstairs.

By the time everyone finally drifts into the dining room, your mom already has plates set out. The smell of garlic and roasted vegetables hangs in the air, warm and familiar. Agnes climbs into her usual chair, knees tucked up, her stuffed rabbit squished beside her like it’s starving too.

Castor sits across from her, still in that loose, smug posture he gets whenever he’s proud of himself. Pollux drops into the seat on his side, quiet as always but with that faint crease of tired responsibility between his brows.

Your dad is last, wiping his hands on an old shop towel as he sits. “Alright.” He sighs, “What did I miss?”

Your mom gives him a knowing look. “Castor has something to share.”

Castor brightens instantly. “Oh! Yeah. So, Agnes and I tried that heat-delay trial again.”

Agnes grins around a mouthful of rice. “It was fun.”

Pollux lifts a brow. “Fun is one odd word.”

You look at Castor suspiciously. “You didn’t burn anything important, right?”

Castor presses a hand over his heart. “I would never.”

Pollux snorts quietly.

Your dad leans back in his chair. “Is the shed still standing?”

Castor hesitates. Just a beat.

Your mom groans. “Castor.”

“It’s fine, Mom! Mostly.” He gestures vaguely upward. “There was a little flare… not huge, just… bright.”

You say. “That’s still a fire.”

He shrugs, totally unbothered.

Your mom rubs her temples, but she’s smiling as she does it. “I swear, you three are going to make me age twice as fast.”

“Not me.” Pollux murmurs. “I was supervising.”

“You were reading the whole time.” Castor says.

Your dad laughs into his glass. 

Everyone eats for a bit, forks clinking, Agnes humming to herself, Castor stealing the tomatoes off his twin’s plate while Pollux himself pretends not to notice.

Eventually, your mom turns to you.

“So… ” She says softly. “ …Did you think more about the pumpkin-carving idea for the event?”

You nod. “Yeah. Maybe set up a few tables, make it kind of like an art corner. Nothing too complicated.”

Your mom’s expression softens. “I like it. And we can get those LED candles you prefer, no open flames.”

At that, your dad points a finger at you. “Better safe than exploding pumpkins.”

Agnes drops her forehead into her palm. “No! It didn’t explode.”

Pollux coughs into his sleeve. “It definitely did.”

As the small argument settles down, your mom leans against the table, looking thoughtful. “You know… ” She says softly. “I think this year’s going to be really fun. Something calm, something nice for once. You always bring good energy into these things.”

You glance at her, surprised by the sincerity in her tone. “Thanks.” You say, smiling a little. “Let’s just hope.”

She laughs lightly. “Even with that boy around?”

You sigh. “Yeah. Probably not.”

The table goes into an easy rhythm, forks clinking, Agnes munching a little too loud, Castor and Pollux trading quiet comments that only twins can decode. Even your dad has stopped teasing people long enough to actually eat. He works so much that seeing him without his dark circles tormenting him under his eyes, seems to be a nice change of pace.

Your mom wipes her hands on a napkin and serves you again with the steaming casserole, finally taking a moment to breathe. She gives the table a quick once-over, checking that no one is about to start another turmoil, then glances at you.

Her constant worries with her kids, tends to be excessive sometimes. But it is expected when you have four of them and trouble seems to follow your family. So when she asks questions that could be taken as too hard, it truly is just her showing concern for safety.

“Nothing unusual happened at school today, right, sweetheart?” She asks. Her tone is light, conversational, the same tone she uses when she asks if you remembered your jacket, but there’s a carefulness tucked underneath it that makes you stop for a moment.

You feel your fork slow halfway to your lips.

“…Not really.” You say after a beat. “Maybe something small. Doesn’t matter.”

Your mom finally lifts her eyes. Patient, but not oblivious. “…Something small?”

You let out a slow sigh, shoulders sinking a little. “My nose started bleeding in math.” You try to sound casual, twirling your knife like you’re more annoyed at the memory than anything else. “It stopped fast. I just… covered it with my sleeve. No one noticed.”

Across the table, your dad glances up from his food, brows drawn together just a little. “Were you focusing too hard again?”

You nod, embarrassed. “Yeah. I was trying to get the last problems right and I guess I… pushed too much.”

Your mom’s expression softens, though there’s a tightness at the corners of her eyes. “You need to be careful.” She says, gentle but firm. “If you feel it coming, you stop. You breathe. You don’t force it.”

“I know.” You rub your thumb over the faint stiff patch on your sleeve where the blood dried. You hate when her voice turns that soft, it’s not scolding, just worried. Yet, this is worse.

Your dad asks. “Anyone seen anything?”

You shake your head immediately. “No. I fixed it fast. Everyone was looking at the board.”

Your mom exhales, not relieved exactly, but settling. “Good. Just… keep it that way. You know how people love to notice the wrong things.”

The table quiets for a moment. Pollux nudges Castor under the table to stop him from paying too much attention. Agnes’s spoon clinks rhythmically against her bowl as she tries to get the last bit of broth. The window starts vibrating softly as rain picks up outside.

You pretend to focus on your food, but the thoughts are still back in the classroom, with that faint pulse you had felt under the skin when your concentration slipped, the way the blood had hesitated for a heartbeat before falling. It’s hard, but you can’t let people know. The idea of any of your friends or classmates discovering it makes you almost lose your appetite, but for the sake of your mother, you pretend that you have everything under control.

Outside, pressed against the narrow strip of wall beneath the kitchen’s window, Cartman crouches like someone who had never actually seen a spy movie but was very confident that he can star in one. The rain soaks through his jacket, flattening his hair, but he barely notices. His breath comes out in little fogs as he tries to steady himself, peeking just enough to catch a glimpse through the curtains. Inside, the family sit around the table, their voices muffled, but he can feel it, that something isn’t normal about them.

He has been watching for almost an hour now, his knees aching, his flashlight app still open even though it keeps giving away his position almost every time. But it is worth it. Every time the mom’s voice turns serious, every time you look down like you are hiding something, his suspicions deepen. “I fucking knew it.” He whispers to himself, eyes wide. “That little freak’s a witch.”

A dog howls from somewhere behind him, startling him so hard he falls back into a patch of wet grass. He scrambles up, clutching his dark hoodie for disguise. “She’s a witch! I fucking knew it!” He almost screams, from either joy or rage, stumbling down the street, his sneakers slapping against puddles.

When he reaches Stan’s neighborhood, he is panting like he has outrun the entire underworld. The streetlights buzzes overhead, his shadow stretching and shrinking as he passes each one. He doesn’t stop until he throws himself against Stan’s front door, pounding on it with the desperation of a man who has seen the utmost truth.

In the living room, Stan and Kyle are halfway through a movie marathon when they hear it, the unmistakable sound of someone trying to break in.

Stan jumps. “What the hell… ”

Before he can finish, Cartman bursts into the room, soaked, muddy, and breathing like he’d run miles through a swamp. “You guys!” He yells, pointing dramatically at them both. “We have a problem. A big problem.”

Kyle nearly drops the bowl of popcorn. “Cartman! What are you doing here?!”

Cartman ignores him, slamming the door shut behind him like he expects something to follow. “She’s a witch, dude! That Misha girl, she’s a freaking witch!”

Stan blinks, still trying to catch up. “What?”

“I saw it with my own eyes!” Cartman continues, pacing back and forth. “Her family was doing some freaky ritual dinner thing, blood, candles, probably chanting in some weird language or something! They’re hiding it, man. They’re all witches!”

Kyle groans, rubbing his face. “Cartman, you can’t just… you spied on her family? Are you serious?”

“I was doing recon, Kyle!” He snaps back. “Because someone’s gotta care about this town’s safety while you two are sitting here watching dumb movies!”

Stan looks at him, unimpressed. “You’re insane.”

“I’m right!” Cartman barked. “You’ll see. When she turns you into a frog or something, don’t come crying to me!”

He jabs a finger toward them like a prophet delivering bad news, his voice rising to a pitch that can wake the entire house. Outside, thunder rolls faintly in the distance, dramatic enough that Cartman immediately gasps and ducks.

Kyle just sighs, turning back to the TV. “You’re such an idiot.”

Cartman glares. “We’ll see who’s the idiot when I save your ass from the dark arts!”

Cartman doesn’t calm down, if anything, he doubles down. He drops to his knees in front of Stan and starts pulling things out of his backpack like a man revealing classified intel. Crumpled papers, a half-eaten granola bar, and finally, a thick pile of printed photographs.

“Look! Look at this!” He says, fanning them out across the carpet like a detective unveiling a conspiracy board. The photos are badly lit, most of them blurry, clearly taken from behind desks or doorways. “That’s her in math class! Look real close, she’s putting something in her nose! Probably bat dust or some other witch crap!”

Stan leans over, squinting. “That’s… she’s wiping her nose with her finger, dude.”

Cartman ignores him. “And this one!” He says, flipping to another photo where you are holding a pencil, a small dot of blood visible under your nose. “Explain that! Her nose is bleeding, dude. You think that’s normal? Nah, that’s her trying to summon dark energy from within or whatever!”

Kyle looks like he’s about to explode. “Oh my God, Cartman, she probably just had a nosebleed! You’re seriously the dumbest person alive.”

Cartman slaps the photo dramatically against Stan’s face. “You weren’t there, Kyle! You didn’t see it! It was like something out of The Exorcist!”

Stan shoves the paper away, frowning. “You’re just mad she’s in charge of the Halloween booth this year.”

Kyle snorts. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re butt hurt because you got banned for traumatizing the kindergarteners.”

“I did not!” Cartman snaps, pointing an accusing finger at him. “They loved it! Their little screams were screams of joy!”

“Uh-huh.” Kyle says flatly.

Cartman takes a breath, visibly restraining himself, then turns toward Stan with a sudden shift in tone, the kind that always means he’s about to say something manipulative. “C’mon, dude. You know she’s weird. You’ve always thought she was weird.”

Stan frowns, already sensing the trap.

Cartman steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “She’s always hanging around Wendy, right? Acting like they’re best friends or something? Doesn’t that bother you? You hate that.”

Stan’s jaw tightens, but he crosses his arms anyway. “That’s not the point, Cartman.”

“Oh, sure.” Cartman says with a knowing smirk. “Totally not the point.”

Kyle throws a pillow at him. “You’re unbelievable, dude. You literally thought she was a guy just this morning.”

Cartman scoffs, swatting the pillow away. “No, you idiots just can’t handle the truth! When she turns the Halloween fair into a blood sacrifice ritual, don’t come crying to me. I tried to warn you!”

He gathers his photos again, clutching them to his chest like they’re sacred documents. “I’m gonna blow this case wide open, you’ll see.”

Stan shakes his head. “You need therapy.”

Kyle sighs, sitting back down. “Yeah, and maybe a restraining order.”

Cartman points to the ceiling dramatically. “Laugh all you want, but I’m onto her. And when the witch apocalypse starts, you’ll thank me.”

The room falls quiet again except for the sound of the rain outside. Stan and Kyle exchange a look that says they’ve both silently agreed to ignore whatever happens next, because with Cartman, there’s always a “next”.

The boy stomps out into the cold night, rain still spitting down in thin, miserable streaks. Stan and Kyle’s light flickers behind him as he mutters curses under his breath, every word dripping with fury and self-righteousness. “Fine. If they don’t wanna help, I’ll find someone who’s not a coward. Someone with brains. Someone who understands danger when he sees it.”

His boots slap against the wet pavement as he trudges down the street, the glow of street lamps stretching his shadow into something small and ridiculous. He stops in front of a familiar house, cheerful, yellow curtains, a flower box under the window, the whole thing looking way too normal for what he’s about to do.

“Butters.” He whispers to himself, eyes narrowing. “Perfect.”

The tree outside Butters’ window isn’t really built for climbing, but Cartman does it anyway, grunting and cursing with each step. A branch snaps under his foot, and he almost falls, letting out a strangled yelp that sounds halfway between a scream and a cough. Somehow, he manages to pull himself onto the windowsill and shove the window open, tumbling inside like a raccoon breaking into a trashcan.

Butters, sitting cross-legged on his bed with a coloring book, lets out a high-pitched squeak and flails so hard his pencil goes flying. “Aaah! Wha… what are ya doing in my room, Eric?!”

Cartman slams the window shut behind him, soaking wet and wheezing. “Shhh! Keep your voice down, Butters! This is top-secret business!”

Butters blinks, clutching a stuffed animal to his chest. “What kinda business involves breaking into my house in the middle of the night?”

“The important kind!” Cartman hisses, already digging through his backpack. “We got a witch problem, Butters. A real one.”

Butters’ eyes go wide. “A witch? You mean like… like broomsticks and frogs ‘n stuff?”

“Exactly like that.” Cartman says, slapping a stack of damp photos onto the floor. “Her name’s Misha. You know her, right?”

Butters nods slowly. “Oh, sure! She’s real nice. We both like Hello Kitty! She’s got that cute little Keroppi sticker on her notebook. She doesn’t seem like a witch, Eric.”

“That’s what she wants you to think!” Cartman shoots back, his voice full of scandalized outrage. “That’s how they work, Butters! They act all cute and innocent while they’re secretly doin’ blood rituals in their basements!”

He jabs a finger at one of the pictures, your bleeding nose, another where your family is sitting around the table, taken moments ago. “Look! You see that? Blood. Straight from the source. That’s power, Butters. Power!”

Butters squints at the photo, frowning. “Well, I don’t know, Eric, that kinda just looks like a nosebleed…”

Cartman groans dramatically. “Oh my God, you’re as bad as Kyle! Look, Butters, do you want to be turned into a toad? Do you wanna wake up one morning croakin’ in your own pond?”

Butters gasps, horrified. “Well, gee, no! I sure don’t!”

“Then you better believe me, buddy. We’re the only ones who can stop her.”

Butters hesitates, chewing his lip. “But… she doesn’t really seem all that evil. Maybe she just… ”

“Don’t be fooled by her little stickers and smile, Butters!” Cartman cuts him off, gripping his shoulders. “That’s her disguise! That’s how they lure ya in before they suck out your soul and sell it to Satan or Hello Kitty or whoever the hell runs their coven!”

Butters’ mouth falls open. The fear sinks in fast, faster than reason ever could. He looks down at the photos again, his face going pale. “Oh, hamburgers… you really think so?”

“I know so.” Cartman says, triumphant. “But don’t worry, Butters, you’re not alone. We’re gonna get proof. Real proof. And when we do, the whole town’s gonna thank us for saving their lives.”

Butters nods nervously, already convinced, his grip tightening around his stuffed animal. “Oh, jeez… okay, Eric. Wh… what do we do?”

Cartman grins, the kind of grin that always means trouble. “We start tomorrow. Operation Witch Watch.”