Chapter Text
Kenny's alarm didn't go off. It never did anymore, broken since last spring. But his body woke at the right time anyway, trained by months of early shifts at the convenience store, his internal clock more reliable than any mechanical one.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the water-stained ceiling, his breath fogging slightly in the cold air. The heat had been shut off again. Past due notices were crumpled up and tossed toward the overflowing trash. As if not looking at them would make the problem disappear.
The house settled around him in the pre-dawn quiet. His father's snoring rattled from the living room couch, a wet, congested sound that meant he'd been drinking heavily again. His mother's bedroom door hung half-open down the hall, revealing an empty bed with sheets that probably hadn't been washed in weeks. Night shift, probably. Or maybe she just hadn't come home. It was getting harder to tell the difference.
Kenny sat up, his joints protesting. The mattress springs creaked. He'd slept in his clothes again; it was warmer that way, and now they were wrinkled beyond help. He smoothed them down uselessly.
His room was small, barely big enough for the twin bed and a dresser with two broken drawers. Posters covered the worst of the wall damage: bands he'd never seen in concert, movies he'd watched on a library computer, even posters of pin-up models, anything free he could get his hands on. The window overlooked the parking lot of their apartment complex, where someone's car had been up on blocks for three months.
He dressed carefully in the dim light: jeans with a patch at the knee that Karen had sewn on with uneven stitches that made his chest tight when he looked at them, a t-shirt that was clean enough, and the orange parka that he always wore zipped up fully with the hood over his head.
The mirror above his dresser had a crack running through it diagonally, splitting his reflection in two. He looked tired. He always looked tired these days. His blonde hair was messy, sticking up in the back. He tried to smooth it down with water from the bottle on his dresser; the bathroom sink had been running brown yesterday, and he wasn't risking it.
In the mirror's cracked surface, he practiced: "Hey, I'm Kenny." Too eager. "I'm Kenny McCormick." Too formal. "Kenny." Better, more casual.
Today was the day. His first day of actual school since he was eleven, with other kids and teachers, and a cafeteria. It wouldn’t be just him and library books and Khan Academy videos on the public library computer.
CPS had finally caught on that he wasn't actually being homeschooled. Hard to claim homeschooling when you're working forty hours a week at a convenience store. The social worker, Ms. Peterson, had been sympathetic but firm: school was non-negotiable. If he wanted to stay with his family, he had to attend.
So here he was. First day of freshman year, three months late.
His stomach twisted with nerves, but he pushed the feeling down. He was good at that.
Kenny grabbed his backpack, bought at Goodwill last week with only one broken zipper, and the folder of paperwork Ms. Peterson had given him. Enrollment forms, immunization records, proof of address. Everything he needed to become a real student.
He stopped at Karen's door and knocked softly, "Come in," her small voice called.
She was already awake, sitting on her bed with her backpack in her lap, wearing the outfit they'd picked out together last night: purple shirt, clean jeans, the sneakers from the church donation bin that were only a little too big. Her brown hair was tangled from sleep, and her eyes were wide.
"Ready?" Kenny asked, keeping his voice light.
She nodded, but her hands were gripping the backpack straps too tightly. "Are you nervous?"
"Nah." The lie came easily, smooth as breathing. "Just school."
"But you haven’t been to real school in a long time." Her voice went smaller. "Isn’t it scary?"
Kenny knelt in front of her, taking her hands. They were cold. Everything in this apartment was cold. "We're going together, though. That makes it better."
She gave him a wobbly smile, and Kenny stood, offering his hand. "Come on. We'll stop for breakfast on the way."
"We don't have breakfast food." It wasn't a complaint, just a statement of fact. Karen was good at facts.
"I know a place."
The apartment was quiet as they crept through it. His father was sprawled on the couch in his stained undershirt, empty beer bottles lined up on the floor. His mouth was open, and drool was on his chin. The TV was still on, playing an infomercial with the volume low.
Kenny grabbed two granola bars from the pantry, the last ones, and stuffed them in his pocket for later. His father's wallet was on the kitchen counter. He hesitated, then took five dollars from it. He wouldn't notice. Probably.
The morning air hit them like a slap when they stepped outside. November in Colorado meant frost on the cars, visible breath, and fingers going numb in seconds. Kenny pulled Karen's hood up and took her hand.
"The place" was a gas station two blocks from their house, the fluorescent lights harsh and humming in the early morning darkness. The clerk behind the glass didn't look up from his phone as they entered.
Kenny bought two breakfast sandwiches with the crumpled bills from his pocket, watching the total climb on the register display. $4.78. He had quarters left over. He pocketed them, laundry money for next week.
They ate outside on the curb, the concrete cold even through their jeans. Karen ate her sandwich slowly, savoring each bite, making it last. Kenny forced himself to finish his even though his stomach was twisted into knots. He'd learned a long time ago that you ate when food was available, whether you were hungry or not.
"Kenny?" Karen asked, mouth full.
"Don't talk with your mouth full."
She swallowed. "What if you don't make friends?"
Kenny considered lying, but Karen always saw through his lies. "Then I don't. I'll be fine either way."
"That's sad."
"Maybe."
She leaned against his shoulder, and they finished their breakfast in comfortable silence, watching the sun start to pink the horizon.
—
The elementary school came first, a low building with a colorful mural on one wall and a playground that had seen better days. Kenny walked Karen all the way to her classroom door, ignoring the looks from other parents in their clean coats and new cars in the parking lot.
He felt their stares and knew what they saw: a teenage boy in a ratty coat, a little girl with donated clothes, walking instead of driving. Poor. The word might as well have been stamped on their foreheads.
But fuck them, they didn’t matter.
"You'll come get me?" Karen asked, suddenly small beside the classroom door. Through the window, Kenny could see other kids already inside, laughing and playing.
"I'll be here when your finished."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He squeezed her hand. "Have a good day, okay?"
"You too."
She disappeared into the classroom, and Kenny watched through the window until he saw a teacher greet her, saw Karen's tentative smile. Good. She'd be okay.
—
South Park High was a ten-minute walk from the elementary school, a squat brick building that looked like it had been built in the seventies and given up trying since then. The parking lot was filling up with cars, students climbing out with backpacks and coffee cups, clustered in groups.
Kenny arrived with fifteen minutes to spare before first period. He stood outside for a moment, watching. Jocks by the flagpole. Goths by the bike rack. Theater kids near the entrance, already loud and dramatic. Everyone had a place already with established cliques and friends.
He pulled his hood up and walked inside.
The front office smelled like copier toner and burnt coffee. A woman sat behind the desk, typing with two fingers, glasses perched on her nose.
"Can I help you?" she asked without looking up.
"I'm, uh, enrolling. Kenny McCormick. I have my paperwork."
"Kenneth McCormick?" She finally looked at him, and her expression shifted to something that might have been pity. Great. "Says here you're enrolling mid-semester. Homeschooled before?"
"Just Kenny, and yeah." Not a lie. Just not the whole truth. He'd been schooling himself at home, anyway.
She typed something, still using just her index fingers. "You'll need to meet with a counselor, Mr. Mackey, to discuss your placement. Have a seat."
The waiting area had three plastic chairs and a dead plant. Kenny sat in the one farthest from the desk and watched students pass by in the hallway through the office window. They all seemed to know where they were going. Must be nice.
"Kenneth?" A man appeared in a doorway, balding, with kind eyes and a coffee stain on his tie. "I'm Mr. Mackey, school counselor. Come on back, m'kay?"
The office was small and cluttered, with diplomas on the wall and a mug that said "World's Okayest Counselor." Mr. Mackey sat behind his desk and gestured for Kenny to take the chair across from him.
"So," Mr. Mackey opened a folder, "you're our new student. Mid-semester enrollment, that's always a little tricky, m'kay, but we'll make it work. Let's see... you're fourteen, is that right?"
"Yeah."
"And you've been homeschooled up until now?"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Mackey's eyes were scanning the paperwork, and Kenny saw the moment he found his CPS case file. The counselor's expression shifted, became more careful. "I see. Well, that's... that's fine. We're glad to have you here, m'kay?"
Kenny said nothing. What was there to say?
"Now, your test scores are actually quite good," Mr. Mackey continued, and there was genuine surprise in his voice. "Math especially. Science and English are solid too. You're clearly bright, m'kay?"
"Thanks."
"But we're going to need to see some records of your coursework-"
"CPS has all that," Kenny said quickly. "They said they'd send it."
"Right, right." Mr. Mackey made a note. "Well, we'll get you started with a trial schedule. See how you do. You're technically a freshman based on age, but depending on your knowledge level and how you perform, we might be able to-"
"Freshman is fine."
Mr. Mackey looked at him for a moment, something thoughtful in his expression. "Okay. Freshman it is." He pulled up something on his computer and started typing. "Let me get you into the system here. Do you have any specific interests? Classes you'd like to take?"
Kenny shrugged. "Whatever's required is fine."
"M'kay, well, everyone needs English, Math, Science, History, and PE. We can add electives later if you want. How about... let's see... I can get you into Mrs. Carmichael's English class, that's a good one. Mr. Garrison for History-" He paused, reconsidering. "Actually, maybe Ms. Stevens for History. She's better with new students. Math, you'll have Mrs. Bailey for Algebra 1. Science with Mr. Adams. And... PE with Coach Patterson. How does that sound?"
"Good. Thanks."
The printer whirred to life, spitting out papers. Mr. Mackey grabbed them and handed them over: a schedule, a map of the school, a locker assignment and combination, and a cafeteria card.
"Locker 247. Combination's on this paper. Don't lose it, m'kay? Lunch is fifth period, and you qualify for free lunch, so just show them this card." He tapped the cafeteria card. "Any questions?"
A thousand. None he could or would ask.
What if I can't keep up? What if I'm too far behind? What if I don't fit in? What if they figure out my family's a mess? What if CPS takes Karen away? What if-
"No, sir."
"Alright then. Your first class is English with Mrs. Carmichael, room 104. Just down that hall and to the left. You've got-" he checked the clock, "-eight minutes. Think you can find it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Great. And Kenny?" Mr. Mackey's expression softened. "I know starting mid-semester is tough. But give it a chance, m'kay? You might be surprised."
Kenny nodded and left before the pity could get any thicker.
—
Room 104 was easy to find, straight down the hall, second door on the left, just like Mr. Mackey had said. Kenny stood outside for a moment, listening to the chatter inside, the easy conversation of people who knew each other. Then the bell rang, and he had no choice but to go in.
Mrs. Carmichael was writing something on the board, her back to the door. She was older, with gray hair in a bun, wearing a cardigan. The classroom smelled like old books and dry-erase markers.
Kenny slipped into a seat in the back, hoping to go unnoticed, but Mrs. Carmichael turned around with perfect timing.
"Oh! You must be our new student." She smiled, warm and genuine. "Everyone, this is Kenny McCormick. He's joining us today. Let's make him feel welcome."
A few halfhearted "hi’s” from around the room. Most students just looked at him with mild curiosity before turning back to their friends.
"Kenny, you can sit right there in the back, that's perfect. We're just starting our discussion on To Kill a Mockingbird. Have you read it?"
"Yeah," Kenny said quietly. "A while ago."
"Wonderful! Well, we’ll jump right in then. We're on chapter fifteen. Does anyone remember what happens in this chapter?"
A girl in the front row raised her hand. "That's when Atticus goes to the jail to protect Tom Robinson, and the mob shows up."
"Excellent, Bebe. And what do you think Atticus is feeling in this moment?"
The discussion flowed around Kenny; he listened, recognizing the story beats more and more as the discussion progressed. He'd borrowed it from the library three years ago, during a particularly slow winter when his parents were fighting more than usual, and he'd needed somewhere else to be, even if that somewhere was just in his head.
He'd loved Scout's voice and her refusal to be anything other than herself. But he'd hated how the book ended.
"Kenny?" Mrs. Carmichael's voice pulled him back. "What do you think? Why does Scout's presence diffuse the mob?"
Everyone was looking at him. Kenny's mouth went dry.
"Um," he said. "Because... she reminds them that they're people? Like, they came there as a mob, but she talks to Mr. Cunningham about his son, and he has to see Atticus as a person instead of just... an obstacle. She makes it personal."
Mrs. Carmichael's smile widened. "That's exactly right. She humanizes the situation. Very good, Kenny."
He felt the eyes on him shift slightly, not hostile, but reassessing, maybe they were recategorizing him as a smart kid, or maybe a try-hard. It didn't matter.
The rest of the class passed without incident. Kenny kept his head down and his hand unraised, but he listened. It was easier than he'd expected, slipping into the rhythm of it.
When the bell rang, Mrs. Carmichael called out, "Kenny, if you need any help catching up, I'm here after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays!"
"Thanks,"
—
History was in room 220, up a flight of stairs and down a long hallway. Kenny made it with two minutes to spare. The teacher, Ms. Stevens, was young and energetic, writing the day's agenda on the board in neat print.
"New student?" she asked when Kenny hesitated in the doorway.
"Yeah. Kenny McCormick."
"Great! Grab any open seat. We're covering World War II, specifically the European theater. Do you know much about it?"
"Some." He'd read about it a little, and he’d watched a few documentaries on YouTube when the library's wifi was working.
"Perfect. We'll get you caught up."
The class was straightforward: a lecture and notes. Ms. Stevens talked about the invasion of Poland, the Blitzkrieg tactics, and the fall of France. Kenny took notes in his years-old and worn notebook. Half the pages were already used, so he really would have to stretch this one. His pencil, though… It was old and falling apart, barely enough room for his hand to hold it.
The guy next to him leaned over. "Dude, you can borrow an extra pencil if you need it."
"I'm good. Thanks, though."
"Suit yourself. I'm Tolkein, by the way."
"Kenny."
"I figured. Welcome to South Park. It's not as boring as it seems. Usually there's some kind of disaster or insane news story to keep things interesting."
Kenny nodded, not sure how to respond to that. Tolkien went back to his own notes, and Kenny did the same.
When the bell rang, Tolkien stopped him. "Hey, if you need supplies or whatever, let me know. I always have extra."
"I'm fine, but thanks," Kenny said automatically.
Tolkien looked at him for a second, then simply shrugged. "Okay. But the offer stands."
—
The classroom was half-full when Kenny arrived. He began scanning for an empty seat in the back when he recognized someone from the hallway, a kid in a red poof-ball hat talking animatedly to another kid in a green ushanka.
"Dude, is that a new kid?" The red-hat kid was staring at him.
"Stan, don't be rude," said the green-hat kid. He looked at Kenny. "Hey. I'm Kyle. That's Stan. You can sit here if you want, Cartman hasn't shown up yet, so his seat's free."
"Cool." Kenny slid into the desk. "Thanks."
"First day?" Stan asked.
"Yeah."
"Mid-semester, that's rough." Stan had an easy smile, the kind that suggested he was friends with everyone. "I'm Stan Marsh, by the way."
"Kenny McCormick."
Kyle leaned forward, "What'd you get on the placement test? Mrs. Bailey usually puts people in different levels based on it."
"I don't know. They just gave me a schedule."
"Well, you're in Algebra 1, so you must've done okay. Cartman's in pre-algebra and he never shuts up about how it's beneath him, even though he barely passes."
"Who's Cartman?"
As if summoned, a larger boy in a red jacket strutted into the classroom just as the bell rang. "What's beneath me? Kyle, were you talking about me again? That's, like, a hate crime or something. I could sue you."
"Cartman, shut up and sit down," Mrs. Bailey called from the front. She was middle-aged, with frizzy hair and a no-nonsense expression. "We have a new student. Kenny, welcome. Everyone else, get out your homework from Friday."
Cartman dropped into a seat behind Kenny, muttering something that sounded like "goddamn new kid taking my seat." Kenny didn't turn around.
Mrs. Bailey launched into the lesson, solving systems of equations by substitution. Kenny followed along easily; he'd taught himself this from Khan Academy videos months ago, working through problem sets on scratch paper during slow nights at the convenience store.
"Kenny," Mrs. Bailey called, fifteen minutes in. "Can you solve this one on the board?"
It wasn’t too hard of an equation, so Kenny knew the teacher wasn’t trying to humiliate him, but even still, being called up on his first day was uncool.
Kenny stood, hyperaware of everyone watching, and picked up the marker. His hand was steady as he wrote down the solution.
"Excellent," Mrs. Bailey said. "You can sit down."
As he returned to his seat, Stan and Kyle gave him a small thumbs-up. And Cartman muttered, "Fucking nerd."
"Cartman, language," Mrs. Bailey said without looking up from her notes.
The rest of the class passed in a blur of equations and graphing. Kenny stayed quiet but attentive, and when the bell rang, Kyle stopped him in the hallway.
"Hey, that was good work in there. If you ever want to study together or whatever, let me know."
"Thanks."
"No problem. We have to stick together against the idiots." Kyle jerked his thumb back toward the classroom, where Cartman was arguing with Stan about something. "Speaking of which, you want to sit with us at lunch?"
Kenny hesitated. "You sure?"
"Yeah, definitely, you'll fit right in."
"Okay. Thanks."
Kyle grinned. "Cool. See you then."
—
Fourth period was Science with Mr. Adams, and Kenny found himself actually relaxing slightly as he walked into the classroom. There were only a few in this class that he didn’t recognize from previous ones.
Mr. Adams was soft-spoken but thorough, walking them through an experiment on chemical reactions. Kenny partnered with a quiet girl named Nichole, who was efficient and focused, and they got through the lab without incident.
—
The cafeteria was overwhelming.
Too loud, too bright, and too many people who all seemed to know exactly where they belonged. Kenny stood in the doorway for a moment, tray in his hands (mac and cheese that looked questionable, green beans, an apple, and a carton of milk), and felt his chest tighten.
He scanned the room, looking for Kyle or Stan, but the sea of faces blurred together. He was about to give up and find somewhere to eat alone when-
"Kenny! Yo, new kid!"
Stan was waving from a table near the windows, and relief flooded through Kenny so fast he felt dizzy.
He wove through the crowded cafeteria, dodging backpacks and elbows, and slid into the seat across from Stan and Kyle.
Cartman was already there, and there was another boy too, one with blonde, neatly combed hair, and wearing a blue polo shirt, with the brightest, warmest smile Kenny thinks he has ever seen.
"Hey, you made it," Kyle said. "How's your first day going?"
"Not bad. Haven't gotten lost."
"Yet," Cartman said through a mouthful of burger. "Day's not over."
"This is Butters," Stan said, nodding at the blonde boy. "Butters, this is Kenny. He's new."
"Oh, well, hi there, Kenny!" Butters' enthusiasm was almost startling. "Welcome to South Park! Gosh, starting in the middle of the year must be real nerve-wracking. Are you liking it so far?"
"It's okay."
"Where're you from?" Kyle asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.
"Here, actually. I've just been... homeschooled until now."
"Oh man, homeschool," Stan said. "That must've been weird. Like, did you just do school in your pajamas?"
"Sometimes."
"Yeah, lucky you didn't have to deal with Cartman every day," Kyle muttered.
"Fuck you, Kyle. Just because I'm a conservative doesn't mean-"
"Oh my God, Cartman, not everything is about your political persecution complex-"
"Guys, come on," Stan interjected. "Kenny doesn't want to hear you two bicker on his first day."
Kenny grabbed the apple (the mac and cheese was congealing unappetizingly) and took a bite while the others talked. It was easier to listen than participate.
Stan was clearly the diplomatic one, trying to keep the peace. Kyle was smart and passionate, ready to argue any point. Cartman was loud and obnoxious, but somehow still part of the group. And Butters... Butters seemed to be the one who really cared and tried to make everyone feel included.
"Dude, did you guys see the news this morning?" Stan asked after they'd settled down. "That huge fight downtown yesterday?"
"Oh my God, it was insane," Kyle said, leaning forward with excitement. "It was like an all-out hero battle."
"Heroes aren’t real," Cartman declared. "They're just a myth perpetuated by the liberal media to make people feel safe."
"Cartman, there's literally video footage of them-"
"Doctored! Fake news! The media wants you to think there are heroes so you won't rely on proper authority-"
"Proper authority? You mean the cops who show up an hour after the crime?"
"Oh my God, shut up about politics for five seconds-"
Kenny watched them argue, fascinated despite himself. They clearly did this all the time. Stan was refereeing, occasionally throwing in comments. And Butters just smiled, occasionally offering gentle comments that everyone ignored.
"What do you think, Kenny?" Butters asked suddenly, turning those bright eyes on him. The argument stopped.
Everyone looked at him. Kenny swallowed his bite of questionable mac and cheese.
"I mean... yeah? There's too much evidence otherwise. People with powers definitely exist."
"See!" Kyle said triumphantly. "Thank you. Finally someone with sense."
"But he's new, he doesn't know anything yet," Cartman protested. "Give him a week and he'll realize this town is full of idiots who believe anything."
"You'd be the expert on idiots," Stan said mildly.
"Screw you, Stan."
The conversation moved on, flowing between topics, video games (Stan and Kyle were apparently in the middle of some campaign), a teacher everyone hated (Mr. Garrison, who Kenny had managed to avoid), and back to superheroes (apparently, there had been a major fight last week that destroyed a coffee shop).
Kenny contributed occasionally with small comments that didn't draw too much attention. But he found himself relaxing, just slightly. These guys were... kind of okay. They included him without making a big deal of it and didn't ask probing questions about his personal life.
"So Kenny," Kyle said as lunch was winding down, "do you need help finding your next class? What do you have?"
Kenny checked his schedule. "Uh, PE. The gym, I guess?"
"Oh hey, we have that together!" Butters brightened. "I can show you where it is. The gym's a little tricky to find if you don't know the school."
"That'd be great."
"Awesome! Oh, and I wanted to ask," Butters' expression softened, "I saw you walking with a little girl this morning. Is that your sister?"
Kenny tensed slightly. "Yeah. Karen."
"She's awful cute! What grade is she in?"
"Third."
"Aw, well that's just sweet that you walk her to school," Butters said, and there was nothing but genuine warmth in his voice.
Something in Kenny's chest loosened. "She gets nervous."
"Well, I think it's real nice of you. You're a good brother."
They gathered their trays and headed to dump them. Stan clapped Kenny on the shoulder as they left the cafeteria.
"You're alright, dude. Glad you're here."
"Yeah," Kyle added. "Feel free to sit with us whenever. It's an open invitation."
"Even though you took my seat in math," Cartman said. But there was less bite to it now, more performative than genuine.
Kenny let himself smile, just a little. "Thanks."
—
Butters walked Kenny to the gym, chattering the whole way down the stairs and through a side hallway that Kenny definitely would not have found on his own.
"So Mr. Adams, he's real nice, but he talks kinda quiet so you gotta sit near the front if you want to hear him. And he loves chemistry, absolutely loves it, goes on these tangents about molecular bonds and stuff. Oh, and watch out for the Bunsen burners in the back, one of them doesn't turn off right and Tweak almost lit his hair on fire last month. Coach Patterson's nice too, mostly he just makes us run or play basketball. Sometimes dodgeball, but those games get real intense. One time Clyde got hit in the face so hard he cried, and- oh, here we are!"
The gym was exactly what Kenny expected: hardwood floors, basketball hoops, that distinctive smell of sweat and rubber. Boys were already changing in the locker room when they arrived.
"You'll need gym clothes," Butters said. "Coach usually has extra if you don't have any yet."
"I don't."
"No problem! Come on, I'll introduce you."
Coach Patterson was a stocky man with a whistle around his neck and a weathered face. When Butters explained the situation, he just nodded and handed Kenny a gray t-shirt and shorts from a bin.
"Return 'em at the end of the semester. Try not to bleed on 'em."
"Yes, sir."
The locker room was loud and chaotic, with boys changing, joking, and shoving each other. Kenny found an empty corner and changed quickly, hyperaware of his cheap boxers, his too-thin frame, the way his ribs showed, and the unexplainable scars and bruises. But if anyone noticed, they didn't comment.
PE was... fine. They ran laps, did some stretching, and played basketball. Kenny wasn't particularly athletic, but he wasn't terrible either. Years of walking everywhere and working manual labor had given him decent endurance.
Butters stuck near him the whole time, explaining rules and introducing him to people, and Kenny found himself actually grateful for it.
When the bell rang, and they headed back to the locker room, Butters asked, "So, what do you think so far? Of school, I mean."
"It's not as bad as I thought."
"That's good! Gosh, I was so nervous you'd hate it. New places are hard."
Kenny glanced at him. "You were nervous?"
"Well, yeah. I want you to like it here."
There was something so earnest about it, so genuinely kind, that Kenny didn't know what to say. So he just said, "Thanks, Butters."
"Oh, you're welcome! And hey, if you ever need help with anything, homework or finding classrooms or whatever,just ask, okay? That's what friends are for."
Friends. The word hit Kenny sideways. He had friends now. Maybe. Possibly.
"Okay," he said. "I will."
—
Last period was study hall in the library, and Kenny had never been more grateful for anything. He found a quiet corner and pulled out his math homework. No one bothered him, and no one asked him questions; just silence and the scratch of a pencil on paper.
He finished his math homework in twenty minutes. It was easy, almost boring. Then he pulled out the English handout and skimmed through the questions.
When the final bell rang, Kenny's head was swimming. He'd survived his first day, and no one had mocked him for his worn-out clothes or free lunch card. He'd even made... friends? Maybe? Too early to tell.
—
Kenny stopped at his locker, still mostly empty except for the few things he'd brought from home, and grabbed his stuff. The hallways were chaos, everyone pushing toward the exits, voices echoing off the tile. He fought upstream towards the exit, then made his way towards the elementary school.
Karen was waiting right where he'd left her, backpack on both shoulders, looking small among the other kids being picked up by parents.
"How was it?" Kenny asked, taking her hand.
"Good!" Her face lit up. "My friend Emily just got a pet bunny and she invited me over to meet it sometime. Can I go? Please?"
"We'll see. Tell me more about your day."
They walked home together, Karen chattering about her day, her teacher, the books they read, and the game they played at recess. Kenny listened, responding when appropriate, but part of his brain was elsewhere.
The house was the same as they'd left it. His father was still on the couch, though the TV had moved to a different channel. His mother was there now too, surprisingly, passed out in her bedroom, still wearing her work uniform.
Kenny made Karen a snack, the last of the peanut butter on stale crackers, and helped her start her homework at the kitchen table.
"I have to go to work," he said when she was settled.
"You just started school today."
"I know."
She didn't argue, just hugged him and said, "Be safe."
"Always am."
He grabbed his work shirt from his room and headed out.
—
The convenience store where Kenny worked was a twenty-minute walk into the worst part of town, the part where buildings had bars on the windows, and people didn't make eye contact on the street. He'd been working there for three years, part-time at first, then full-time when money got really tight. His boss, Mr. Chen, paid him under the table and didn't ask questions about age or work permits.
Kenny walked quickly, hands in his pockets, hood up. The sun was setting, painting everything orange and purple. Beautiful, if you ignored the boarded-up buildings and the guy passed out in the alley.
His shift started at 5:00. He had ten minutes.
He was three blocks from the store, passing the old movie theater that had been closed for years, when he heard the distinctive crack-boom of a super-powered fight.
The ground shook beneath his feet, and car alarms started wailing up and down the street.
Kenny's first thought was: Not my problem.
His second thought was: I can't be late for work.
He picked up his pace, angling away from the sound of destruction. Whatever was happening, whatever hero-villain bullshit was going down, it wasn't his concern. He had a shift to get to. Mr. Chen was already pissed about him for cutting back on work for school. He couldn't afford to-
The building to his left exploded.
Kenny threw himself to the ground as debris rained down, chunks of concrete, glass that glittered like snow, and something that might have been a door frame. His ears rang. Smoke filled his lungs, sharp and choking. Someone was screaming.
He looked up, gasping.
Two figures were fighting about fifty feet in the air. One was flying and shooting bolts of light from their hands. The other was on a rooftop, deflecting the attacks with some kind of shimmering shield.
A hero and a villain. Had to be. Though Kenny couldn't tell which was which from down here.
The fight was moving fast, careless of anything in their path. The flying one shot another bolt, and the shield deflected it. The bolt arced downward, slamming into a parked car that exploded in a fireball.
Kenny scrambled to his feet. He needed to move, to get to safety, away from this absolute clusterfuck of-
He didn't see the next energy blast deflect off the shield or see it arc downward, blazing white-hot. Didn't see it coming until it hit him square in the chest.
The pain was immediate, every nerve ending igniting at once. His body was thrown backward like a ragdoll, weightless for a moment, then slamming into a brick wall with a crack that he felt more than heard.
Something broke. Multiple somethings. Ribs, spine, he couldn't tell. Couldn't breathe or think. Just pain, white-hot and consuming everything else.
He slid down the wall, leaving a smear of red. His vision was going dark at the edges, tunneling down to a pinpoint. Above him, the fight continued, neither combatant aware of the boy dying in the alley below.
This is it, Kenny thought distantly, through the pain and the shock and the creeping cold. This is how I die.
He was fourteen years old. He'd just had his first day of school. Karen was waiting for him at home.
I'm sorry, he thought, but he didn't know who he was apologizing to.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
And then-
Then it got worse.
There were no words for it.
Later, much later, Kenny would try to describe it to himself, in his notebook, and fail every time. Because how do you describe something like what he had experienced?
Hell wasn't fire and brimstone or demons with pitchforks. Wasn't any of the cartoonish imagery from movies and TV.
It was pain without end and suffering without purpose. He had no body to feel it with, but he felt it anyway. And worse than the pain, infinitely worse, was the knowing, the certainty that this was forever. That he was dead, and this was what came after, and it would never, ever stop.
No reprieve or mercy or end. Just this, forever and ever.
He tried to think of Karen, tried to hold onto something good, but even that was ripped away, consumed by the endless agony.
There was nothing but pain.
Nothing but hell.
Nothing but-
Kenny woke up screaming.
He was in his bed, in his room. The morning light was filtering through the ratty curtains. His alarm clock read 6:00 AM.
He gasped for air, hands flying to his chest, expecting to find a burned hole, charred flesh, broken ribs, something. But his chest was intact. He pulled up his shirt with shaking hands, nothing. No mark at all, not even a bruise.
"What the fuck," he whispered.
He touched his chest again, pressing hard, searching for pain. But he was fine, completely fine.
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand with trembling hands.
Three missed calls from Mr. Chen.
Five text messages:
Where are you?
Your shift started 20 minutes ago
Kenny, if you're not showing up, you need to call
This is unacceptable
Call me ASAP
Kenny stared at the messages, his brain struggling to process.
His shift yesterday. He'd been walking to work when-
No, it was a dream, he thought desperately. Just a nightmare. A really fucked up nightmare.
But it felt so real. The pain had been real. The death had been real. Hell had been-
No. No, it was a dream. Had to be. The alternative was impossible.
He texted Mr. Chen back with shaking fingers: Sorry. Family emergency. I'll make up the shift.
Then he sat on the edge of his bed, trying to calm his racing heart. Trying to convince himself that yesterday had been normal. That he'd gone to school, come home, and had accidentally fallen asleep and missed his shift. That the villain fight and the death and the hell were just products of stress and exhaustion and starting school.
It was just a dream. Just a bad dream. He repeated it to himself like a mantra.
It worked, almost. He got dressed, the same clothes as always, the same orange parka. Made breakfast for Karen, cereal with milk that was two days past the expiration date, but it smelled okay. Walked her to school, listening to her chatter about Emily and the bunny and whether she could have a pet too ("We can't afford a pet, Karen." "But they're free at the shelter!" "The food isn't free. And the vet bills." "Oh.").
He walked to South Park High, arrived with ten minutes to spare, went to his locker, and grabbed his schedule.
First period: English. Room 104. Same as yesterday.
Mrs. Carmichael greeted him with a warm smile. "Good morning, Kenny! How was your evening?"
"Fine," he lied. "Good."
They were continuing their discussion of To Kill a Mockingbird. Kenny participated when called on, said the right things, and didn't draw attention to himself.
It was fine. Everything was fine.
Second period: History. Third period: Math.
He walked into Math and saw Stan, Kyle, and Cartman, and something in his chest loosened slightly.
"Hey, Kenny!" Stan greeted him. "How's day two going?"
"Pretty good."
"Sleep okay?" Kyle asked. "You look kind of tired."
"Yeah, fine. Just not used to waking up early for school yet."
"Cartman still hasn't adjusted and he's been here since kindergarten."
"Fuck you, Kyle, I'm perfectly adjusted-"
And they were off, bickering again, and Kenny let the now familiar bickering wash over him. This was real. This was normal. School and friends, and math class.
The death had been a dream.
Just a dream.
—
By lunch, Kenny had almost convinced himself completely. Yesterday's death had been a nightmare, nothing more. Stress from his first day of school, his brain was
processing too much new information. That's all.
He grabbed his lunch tray, chicken nuggets today, somehow even less appetizing than yesterday's mac and cheese, and headed for the table where Stan, Kyle, Cartman, and Butters were already sitting.
"Kenny!" Butters waved enthusiastically. "Over here! We saved you a seat!"
Kenny slid into the chair next to Butters, and the warmth of being included hit him again. He had friends, or at least people who wanted him around.
"So," Stan said through a mouthful of nugget, "everyone heard about that crazy fight yesterday?"
Kenny's hand froze halfway to his mouth.
"Which fight?" Kyle asked. "There's always some hero bullshit happening."
"The one downtown. Apparently one of the heroes and some new villain got into it. Totally destroyed like three buildings."
Kenny's heart was pounding. "When did this happen?"
"Yesterday afternoon, like around 5:00." Stan shrugged. "It was all over the news last night. You didn't see it?"
"I... no. I was busy." Kenny's voice sounded strange to his own ears.
"It was real scary," Butters said, his expression troubled. "The news said someone almost got killed. A pedestrian got caught in the crossfire."
"Almost killed?" Kenny repeated. His throat was tight.
"Yeah," Kyle pulled out his phone and started scrolling. "Let me find the article. It said... here: 'One civilian was injured in the altercation but survived thanks to quick thinking from emergency responders.' Lucky, right?"
Kenny couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
Someone almost got killed.
Not died. Almost killed. But he had died. He knew he had. He'd felt it, every second of it, the pain and the death and hell-
"Kenny? You okay?" Butters was looking at him with concern. "You went all pale."
"I'm fine," Kenny managed. "Just... that's scary. That it happened so close."
"Yeah, hero fights are dangerous, man," Stan said. "That's why you're supposed to stay inside if you see one starting."
The conversation moved on, but Kenny couldn't follow it. His mind was reeling.
The fight had happened, it was real, and the news confirmed it. But according to the news, nobody died.
Which meant either: (a) he hadn't been there at all, his memory of being caught in the blast was a false one, a dream, or (b)...
Something impossible had happened.
He touched his chest again, subtly; there was no pain and no injury. It was just a dream, he told himself again. The fight happened, but you weren't there. You just dreamed you were there. Stress. That's all.
But his hands were shaking, and he couldn't make them stop.
He wanted to tell someone. ‘I died yesterday. I know I did. I felt it. And then I woke up and I was fine and I don't understand.’
But he couldn't. Because either he was crazy, or something impossible had happened, and either option was too terrifying to voice out loud.
The rest of lunch passed in a haze. Kenny pushed his nuggets around his tray, not eating, and counted down the minutes until he could be alone.
—
He went through the motions for the rest of the day. PE, study hall, the final bell. Picked up Karen from elementary school, walked her home, and made her a snack.
"Kenny, you're being quiet," Karen observed, looking up at him with those too-perceptive eight-year-old eyes. "Are you sad?"
"No. Just thinking."
"About what?"
"School stuff."
"Oh." She accepted this and went back to her homework.
Kenny waited until she was absorbed in her math problems, then retreated to his room and closed the door.
He sat on his bed and pulled out his phone. Googled "hero fight South Park yesterday."
Multiple news articles popped up:
Hero vs. Villain: Downtown Destruction
Three Buildings Damaged in Super-Powered Altercation
One Civilian Injured, Expected to Make Full Recovery
He clicked on the most detailed article and read:
‘The confrontation began at approximately 4:47 PM and lasted eighteen minutes. Witnesses report extensive property damage but minimal civilian injuries thanks to the quick response of emergency services. One individual, whose name is being withheld, was struck by debris and sustained moderate injuries but is expected to make a full recovery. No one involved in the fight could be reached for comment…’
Struck by debris, with moderate injuries. Not vaporized by an energy blast. Kenny put his phone down and stared at his hands. They were shaking again.
Kenny pulled his work shirt out of his closet. The one he'd been wearing yesterday. Or thought he'd been wearing.
It was clean. No blood, no burns, no sign of any injury or violence. But why would there be? If he hadn't been, if it was just a dream-
His head hurt. Kenny lay back on his bed and stared at the cracked ceiling.
It was just a dream, he told himself one more time. I'm stressed. Starting school is stressful. The fight happened, but I wasn't there. I dreamed I was there. That's all.
He closed his eyes and tried to believe it.