Notes: This has been an idea of mine for a long time now, and I figured, what the hell, might as well just do it. Warning: Not only do I not own these properties, but I'm also not very knowledgeable about the X-Men universe. I've done my research, but I've only seen the films, so bear with me.

Leopold Stotch didn't mind that he didn't have very many friends. With the temperament of sunshine, he didn't mind much of anything. Not his parents, not the kids at school, not the nickname Butters and not his own feelings of inadequacy. He never got along with his peers, or, more specifically, they never got along with him. It wasn't all that bad. There were snickers and pushes and, worst of all, punches, but Butters never let anyone get him down. Not even on the very worst of days.

If anything did bother him, however, it was that he had... something, that his parents called "not normal." The bad kind of "not normal." It was something that had never really happened until Butters was ten, only three week away from being eleven. Often on his own, Butters learned how to play by himself since the kids at school declared him the King of Faggots and avoided him completely. His hamsters were great companions, as was Dougie, the younger boy who lived the next block down, but mostly it was just Butters.

And it was in one of those moments when he figured out his not-so-normal something. He had the ability to make his own friends, by simply concentrating.

The first time it happened, it was an accident. Up in his room alone, grounded for forgetting to take the garbage out, Butters had been working on his homework when an out of the blue dizziness hit him hard. It got so bad he had to close his eyes and take a few deep breaths, releasing his hold on his pencil and rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers. Butters had a few allergies and some experience with sinuses and migraines, but this force was something new entirely. The sharp, sudden weight on his head, however, was gone as quickly as it had come, and once it had passed entirely, he returned to his homework, only to notice something incredible.

"Oh my gosh!" Butters cried out. The pencil he'd been holding, the one he'd dropped when the strange feeling hit him, was moving back and forth on his own, rolling its way around his desk and spinning about in sloppy, confused circles. Stunned into silence, Butters sat with his mouth agape before rubbing his eyes with balled fists and wondering if he was really seeing this or not.

The pencil had moved farther now, past his sprawled-out math book and beyond without any indication that it was going to stop. Butters laid his hand flat against the desk, making sure the surface hadn't tilted at any point to make this happen, and as it approached the edge, Butters jumped up from his chair and caught it in his fingers before it got the chance to fall. Everything felt a bit dizzy again, like the world had just kicked itself into a faster pace and had left Butters behind to get the air knocked out of him.

"What in the Sam Hill is going on?" the blond asked himself, and maybe the question was even directed at the pencil, as well. When he inspected it, however, it seemed that the burst of movement had died completely, and that the average orange pencil was, well, just an average orange pencil. It wasn't moving, anymore, so whatever had happened to it had either passed or had just been in Butters' imagination.

"Wait a second…" With a frown, Butters moved his focus to the hand he'd been writing with. That feeling, the weight. Maybe that had something to do with it.

He quickly snatched the pencil up again, closed his eyes, and concentrated on bringing the feeling back. He took a long, deep breath before gritting his jaw and clutching the utensil with as much strength as he could muster. Another full minute passed, but, as he opened his eyes once again and everything returned to normal, the pencil was as lifeless as it had been before. It was put on the desk again, but when nothing happened, Butters frowned and slumped back into his chair.

"Aw, dang it," he muttered, laying his forehead against the desk and curling his arms over his head. For a second there, he thought he'd done something weird, something different. Something not normal, but that excitement now seemed to be misplaced. His heartbeat was calming down as the pencil lay discarded next to him, and Butters only sat up when the sensation of movement again demanded his attention.

He was met with the sight of the pencil again moving, this time in circles, as if he'd spun it, and Butters lit up with a sloppy grin and a new light in his eyes.

"You... you're moving! It worked!" he cried as he snatched the pencil up, making sure that it was still spinning about in his hands as he sprinted from his room and descended the stairs. "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!"

In the excitement, however, he hadn't had the time to consider how his parents were going to react to whatever it was that he was doing.

The Stotch's home in Richmond, Virginia was quaint and nothing much to brag about, but Butters loved it. Money troubles had forced the family to sell their beloved house in Kawaii, but the two story home in the mainland was close to Butters' paternal grandma and far away from his maternal grandmother, so it worked out pretty well, at least for him. His parents often complained about it, but Butters was content where life had lead him.

Pencil in hand, he made his way down the stairs, and into the living room where his mom and dad were watching the nightly news. Butters was meant to be doing his homework and wasn't supposed to be leaving his room or bothering his parents, not for anything, and while he knew he could potentially get in trouble, he figured whatever this was could be the exception. His mom and dad were sitting far apart on different couches, both with mugs of tea in their hands, when their son burst through the doorway and grabbed at their attention.

"Mom! Dad!" he called as he ran towards the couch, almost running into the coffee table in his excitement. "Look at this! Isn't it cool?" He held up his open palms as his parents , the pencil practically dancing, and decided that putting it on the coffee table would allow them a better view. His father's face fell almost instantly as he noticed what it was that his son wanted him to see, and his mother backed up into the couch as the writing utensil moved about on its own.

"Butters, what is that?!" she asked, eying the pencil as though it were a snake poised to strike.

"It's my pencil," Butters grinned, blissfully unaware of his parents' horrified expressions. "I made it dance, see?"

"Butters, how did you learn how to do this?" his dad asked, and Butters shrugged.

"I don't know, dad. I just sort of did it. Isn't it neat?"

Neither parent spoke as they gawked between their child and the animated object in his hands, and with the growing discomfort surrounding him, Butters' smile faded and the pencil ceased its movements altogether. It clanked against the coffee table's surface, rolling a bit before its momentum died down.

"Go to your room, Butters," his father eventually instructed, his expression solemn. "Mom and I need some time to talk alone."

They hadn't reacted in the way Butters had expected them to. He wasn't trying to scare them or upset them, but he clearly had, and he wasn't really sure how or why. Sure it was strange and unusual, but nothing bad had happened. He was special, wasn't he?

"Well, alright then." He took back his pencil and wandered back to the staircase, a heavy feeling in his stomach. He marched up and pretended to enter his room by closing the door and sitting at the top step so he could hear his parents conversing in the kitchen below. Their voices were quiet and muffled, but he could clearly hear what they were saying.

"I knew it," his father was saying. "I knew it, Linda. I was afraid your father would rub off on him. And now look what's happened-"

"My father?" his mom interrupted. "How do we know it wasn't someone on your side of the family?"

"Because I don't have any goddamn freaks in my family, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let my own child become one!" Butters had heard his father curse before, and every single time, it sent a wave of absolute dread through him. He'd done something wrong, and his dad just kept sounding more and more angry. Everything was so confusing, and Butters sat there with only his thoughts, wondering what he'd done to upset his parents so much.

"He's your son, Steven! It doesn't matter where it came from, does it?" The conversation suddenly stopped and for a solid minute, there was absolutely no sound. Butters held his breath and wrapped his arms around his middle, knowing he wouldn't be able to move until something happened.

Finally, he heard his mom ask, "What should we do?" His dad let out a heavy sigh, and with that, Butters stood up and silently crept back into his room.

"Maybe there's a way to get rid of it."

They ended up sending Butters to a camp sponsored by a local church called "Healing Hands." He was ushered into a basement by the counselors after leaving his parents to sign him in. These people made no move to touch him, but Butters didn't notice. He was too excited to be going to camp and getting out of school for a whole week.

The room he was lead to was brightly colored and covered with posters that only had positive things to say. Probably a youth group center for the church.

"Name?" Butters was asked by the woman who stood at the front door. She smiled down at him, but kept her distance.

"My name's Butters!" was the cheerful answer she got, and while she frowned slightly at the name, she still scribbled it on a nametag and stuck it to the blond's shirtfront.

"Alright Butters," she said, looking about the room. It was full of kids, most of whom were eying their shoes or the floor rather than one another, and there was little to no talking between anyone but the adults. "Looks like there's an open seat next to Bradley. Why don't you go sit next to him."

"Alright, then," Butters said, following her pointing finger. The room was wide and chilled by an air conditioner to the point of being too cold, and a stage with a podium and a walkway was in the center surrounded by fold-out plastic chairs. Many of the seats were full already, and Butters awkwardly scootched past other kids who wouldn't even look up at him to get to the stop he was told to go.

Bradley was the boy with moppy dirt-blond hair, sitting alone while he made himself smaller in his seat and chewed on his fingernails. He looked terribly sad, which only confused Butters all the more.

"Hi," he said as he approached, making the boy jump. "I'm Butters. What's your name?"

Bradley's eyes met Butters and the contrast was instant. When Butters plopped himself in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to him, Bradley shuffled slightly in his seat.

"Bradley," he muttered under his breath.

At that moment, the stage was lit up and a man wearing washed-out blue jeans and a green camp HH t-shirt stepped out from backstage. None of the other lights dimmed, and when Butters peered around the room, he saw that a few of the others around him still wouldn't even look up. "Alright kids," the man said, sounding far more light hearted than Butters would have thought. "My name's Chris. Who's ready to start camp Healing Hands?"

Only a few of the kids in the audience said anything, Butters himself joining in. Bradley was not one of them, and when the man began to talk, Butters decided to talk to Bradley instead.

"Can you do things, too?" Butters whispered.

"Uh. Yeah," was all the response he got, so Butters tried again.

"Well, what can you do?" The chipper blond leaned forward in his chair, closer to Bradley, his eyes bugging out with his overabundant good cheer.

"Um..." Bradley stuttered, eyes nervously swaying from side to side until again settling on Butters. The hyper boy sat patiently, waiting with a wide smile, one that Bradley eventually returned. Closing his eyes, Bradley's form, aside from his clothes, faded to the point of being transparent, only for a moment, before popping back.

"Wow!" Butters gasped, a genuine awe lighting his expression up even more. Bradley squirmed in his seat, awkwardly taking the complement in.

"No one else likes it," he muttered back, his smile faltering. "My mom and dad said it's really bad."

"What?" Heads turned at the volume and the preacher stopped talking, but Butters failed to notice. "It's so cool, though!"

A counselor leaning up against the door a few feet away approached quickly, leaning down and clasping a rough hand onto Butters' shoulder. "Boys, stop that! We're here to keep that from happening, now shush up and listen."

The command got everyone's attention, and the other kids kept quiet and looked back up to the stage as Bradley silently cowered in his seat. Seeing his friend go quiet, Butters let his smile fall as he also moved to also look at the front of the room.

"Yes, sir."

Camp Healing Hands didn't work, since not two weeks later, Stephen caught Butters in a heated conversation about Hello Kitty: Island Adventure with his moving lamp. There were other things done; therapy and other camps and even a few prescribed medications, but Butter's special trick of making his own friends never went away.

Even two years later, Butters and Bradley still kept in contact with one another. Bradley came out to Butters about being gay long before he did his parents, and the two supported each other through nothing more than emails and texts, since the distance between Butters' home in Richmond and Bradley's in Abingdon kept them apart otherwise. Things were difficult for Bradley, Butters quickly learned into their friendship. His parents were even worse than Butters', mean to him and aggressive, and Bradley was too timid to properly stand up for himself. When they would talk online, he'd tell Butters about the bullies at school, the people who made fun of him and his power, and how awful it all was, and Butters would assure his friend that it would all end up alright.

It was a brisk Autumn morning, however, when Linda got a call on their landline with someone asking for her son. Butters scurried into the kitchen to answer, got the message that was intended for him, and hung up without a word.

"What's wrong, Butters?" his mother asked when Butters hung up, his face free of the smile he usually had.

"Bradley's dead." A few tears slid down his cheeks before his eyes overflowed, and he broke down. "He killed himself, mom."

It was okay that Butters didn't have very many friends, because he made most of them himself.

Kenny McCormick is the dictionary definition of a Hedonist, which comes as far from a bombshell as news could come. The fact that, when told this, he actually had to look up the definition of "Hedonist" is not much of a surprise, either. If there was one thing everyone knew about Kenny McCormick, it was that his motto on life is that drugs, girls and poptarts are all one would ever really need to get by.

Because Kenny McCormick believed life was too short. Presumably, because he'd died about twenty-seven times and counting by seventeen.

You're supposed to bleed, Kenny had learned, if something split your skin and the veins beneath it. That's what was supposed to happen, but it wasn't until he was older that Kenny realized he hadn't seen his own blood for a long time, not for years. His parents must not have noticed, and neither had Kevin, and Karen wasn't supposed to notice things like that, anyway.

Kenny had lived his whole life in Sterling, Colorado, and in that time, he was regarded as something of a joke. Thinking back, he couldn't even fathom how he'd managed to stay in school up until sophomore year, or how his parents had evaded arrest for as long as they had. Their homelife was a disaster, which might have been why people stopped talking to Kenny around seventh grade. Parents knew about the nefarious shit his parents did; the alcoholism, the pot, the employment problems, maybe even the meth, and their children naturally were told to stay clear of the McCormick kids. The only peers that really bothered talking to him on any given day were just interested in if Kenny could get them some free handouts or not. The town was a shithole, yes, but Kenny was considered the bottom of the food chain in this particular shithole, which had always rubbed him the wrong way.

There were other things that frightened people off, too. Kenny was a quiet guy, and not in the "hopefully he won't grow up to shoot up a mall" kind of quiet. The bored, thoughtful kind of quiet. It didn't help that he kept to himself almost everywhere, not just school. There was never much he wanted to say, and never really anyone he wanted to say things to. Although with a good number of C's on his report cards to balance out the classes he did fail, his level of give-a-damn far surpassed his brother or parents.

But then he couldn't bleed, and Kenny decided to try seeing if he could. He'd cut himself with a knife, sliced up his legs with a switchblade, and, when that didn't work, he jumped off his roof. The gashes he got along his back were almost instantly gone and his spinal cord snapped back into place all by itself, not a drop of blood left over on his clothes.

It became a ritual of sorts for him after that; seeing what would make him bleed. Being a thirteen-year-old, Kenny was more awed by his abilities than fearful of them, but that all quickly changed after three years of getting bored.

The cheap watch his father had left next to the bathroom sink read 3:42 am as Kenny starred his reflection down. He'd checked to make sure everything was quiet; his mom was asleep in the bedroom, his dad off for some night shift, Kevin was off wherever he was doing whatever he wanted, and Karen sleeping soundly in her bed. He'd been putting the idea out of his head for a while, but it always managed to crawl its way back no matter what.

It made sense, that if his bones could instantly snap back into place and his skin could stitch itself back together, why couldn't a fatal wound do the same? It was stupid, but Kenny needed to test it.

He took out his pocket knife and slit it across his throat and everything fell into darkness-

-Before he immediately came to in his bed. The neck wound was gone, and making his way into the bathroom, there wasn't a single drop of blood anywhere; not the sink, not the walls, not the towels, nothing. The knife was found in the covers of his bed, and Kenny slid to the bathroom floor and wondered for a split second if he was God.

Or maybe just a god. Either way.

And it was there on a normal Sunday morning, sitting in a pile of dirty laundry on the bathroom floor and touching his neck, that Kenny realized for the first time, for real, that he couldn't die.

No one really noticed Kenny much, anyways, so keeping it a secret wasn't that hard. As long as the world was kind and he could avoid any major accidents where he'd get maimed in front of other people, he'd be fine.

He watched his body more, gave himself papercuts and saw his skin magically stitch itself up, like he was made of sentient twine. Deliberate papercuts grew to hitting himself with a baseball bat to even slicing one of his hands almost off his body completely. Regardless of injury, everything healed, naturally and without him even doing anything beyond breathe and keep existing, and not even a single scar was left on his body, test after test after test. Even his hand somehow managed to grow back.

Kenny McCormick was fucking invincible. And, for a while, he'd just experiment, see what he could withstand. There was nothing else he could do, or that he wanted to do. He was a freak, the kind you see on TV, and he intended on keeping it his own little secret.

Two months later, the winter of his Sophomore year, and he made the mistake of doing a test where someone finally saw him. He'd gone off into the thicket of trees next to a stream a quarter of a mile away from home with the intent of shooting himself. Sure, it would hurt for a second, but it wouldn't last very long. Kevin went out with the family shotgun all the time to shoot bottles and squirrels with friends, so seeing Kenny do the same didn't alarm his parents in the slightest. Not that they would have noticed, anyway.

There was no hesitation as Kenny put the tunnel to his forehead and fired into his skull, the metal bullet breaking out at the tip of his head and leaving his body completely. Kenny assumed there was some blood, some bits of his brain, but, dropping to the ground, there was nothing.

Nothing but a voice calling out. "Hey! Christ, kid just shot himself!"

It was that sound that made Kenny's blood run cold, and his eyes immediately opened. Oh god, please don't let them see me. Please don't-

His gaze focused and he sat up instantly, face-to-face with two boys he vaguely recognized. They looked older than him, maybe by a few years, both ragged and raised in the backwoods, and one of them was holding his shotgun. Their expressions were mystified and horror-struck, skin as white as milk, and Kenny figured he must have looked the same. He got up onto his feet, and at the sight of his brain courteously putting itself back in working order, the boys smirked. Kenny backed up a few steps, knowing a threat when he saw one.

"Hey, friend. You know guns is dangerous, right?" the taller one grinned, tossing the shotgun back and forth between his hands casually.

"Give that back, it's not yours," Kenny demanded, but he was ignored.

"We watched the blood go back in your head," the shorter one said, brows narrowing. They were moving in on him, dangerous and with some ugly intent.

"Fucking mutant freak, huh?" They laughed, and before anything could happen, Kenny turned tail and fled, climbing like a mad animal through the thickets and bushes. He needed to put as much distance between him and these lunatics as possible, but they were fast. These two were practically raised in these woods by the look of them, rednecks who knew how to hunt. Before long, they'd caught up to Kenny and tackled him off his feet. It was the short one who got him down, and when the guy climbed off him, he sent a swift kick to Kenny's ribs, knocking the air out of him.

"Where the fuck do you think you're goin'?" the elder laughed as he ran up behind the other, shotgun still in hand.

"Yeah, I thought we was hangin' out." They laughed at that, and Kenny was normal before long. His cracked ribs fixed themselves and the pain in his lungs died, but he was still in trouble.

He tried to stand up, and when it looked like another kick was coming his way, he screamed, "Don't fucking touch me!"

"Aw, c'mon. We were just curious," the shorter one snorted.

"Yeah." They kept snickering as the shotgun was almost playfully aimed at Kenny, the gun's tunnel only about a foot away from his forehead. "All we want is to see if you'd survive another bullet through the head, that's all."

A shot fired and hit the tree just above his head, and Kenny couldn't stop the instinctual flinch. Even if his head grew back, even if the blood was sucked back into his veins and he could snap his bones back into place and he'd just wake up again; death still frightened him. He was supposed to be the master of death, after all, and the idea that it was suddenly in the hands of these two felt eerily like betrayal.

"Fucking mutant." The boys must have moved beyond the hilarity of their attempted murder, as they now scowled down at Kenny, this time kicking him hard in the lower gut. "Everyone in town wants your kind out, so why doncha go while you still can."

What happened next was something Kenny would have never in a million years predicted. A violent wave of something sharp and light echoed around them, striking his assailants and forcing them to howl in pain.

"What the fuck was that?" one asked, and when it happened again, they scanned the surroundings until they realized they were not alone.

"It's another one!" Kenny heard them shout as they sprinted from him to whoever this 'other one' was, murder in their eyes. The lights happened again, and as Kenny's body fixed itself, he sat up and watched as little bolts of lightning again erupted and struck these boys.

"Shit!" one of them cursed. "That fucking hurts, asshole! Motherfucker!" Kenny strained from his safe distance to see who his savior was, and got his first clue when he heard the stranger's voice cry out.

"Get the fuck away from him!" Kenny scrambled to recognize this voice. Something about it was familiar, he'd definitely heard it before, but where?

"Fucking mutant scum!" And with that, they were gone, running past Kenny without even looking at him, taking his shotgun with them. Kenny watched it go as they darted into the direction they'd come from, wondering how he'd be getting it back, which he had to do. His body repaired itself but he still felt like shit, and for a moment he sat there on the frozen ground and just breathed, wondering what in God's name was going to happen to him now.

"You okay?" a voice asked, and Kenny opened his eyes to see who it was. The answer he got, however, surprised him far more than he thought it would.

"Uh..."

Eric Cartman. He was in a different class than Kenny, the two only sharing a few years of elementary school between them, but everyone knew about Eric motherfucking Cartman. This guy was infamous in school, an honest and in-your-face kind of douchebag. Nobody liked him and he gladly returned the sentiment with middle fingers and a grin that reached his gums. The guy whose mom really got around. The guy without a dad. The guy who could shock people. Kenny had heard a ton of rumors about the only out mutant in their school, but had never really talked to him up until that point.

The brunet's form was massive in the light of the setting sun, staggering and off-putting. He was short as a kid, Kenny remembered, but puberty had really hit him hard. Whoever his father was, he must have been huge. Kenny still sat in the dirt, eyes wide from shock, as he took in what had happened and watched the two asshole rednecks book it into the thickets before returning his eyes to his bizarre and out-of-the-blue savior.

Cartman didn't reach out his hand for Kenny to take, didn't even stand close to him. Instead, his gaze stayed firm and oddly serious on the blond, quiet and disinterested. Like he had other plans but had gone out of his way to help and was now expecting a thank you. In the light from the lamp, Kenny saw the other boy's eyes narrow slightly, waiting impatiently through the hesitation for an answer. With a tiny frown, Kenny picked himself up and leaned against the tree, realizing his very sudden, very strong dizziness and placing a palm into his greasy and unwashed hair. He would have been angry at Cartman's shitty attitude had the guy not saved him for... whatever reason.

"I'm… I'm fine. Thanks." He stood on still slightly shaking legs and dusted the dirt off his jeans, breathing slowly. The gunshot was still ringing wildly in his ears, and he kept where he was just to keep breathing a bit more.

What was weird, though, was that Cartman didn't move to leave. He kept staring holes into Kenny's head, waiting for something until Kenny finally heard him ask another question. "So what'd those douchebags want with you?"

For a second, Kenny felt like laughing, and although he didn't, his lips twitched upwards as he opened his eyes and met Cartman's gaze again. "Wanted to see if I'd survive a bullet through the head."

Because that was why Cartman stepped in. His attackers were calling him mutant scum, and if anyone knew about being called mutant scum, it was Eric Cartman. If Kenny hadn't been a mutant, if he'd just been someone in a bad situation, then there was no chance that someone like Cartman would have intervened at all. Along with his thoroughly reprehensible disposition and his easily hateable presence, he was the only vocal mutant teenager in town, proud of who he was and infamous for not giving a fuck who disagreed. A mutant living in an almost entirely anti-mutant town with a bitter animosity for the side that greatly outnumbered him. It was a miracle he wasn't dead yet, especially since his power wasn't going to grow him back to normal.

No, if Kenny was just a normal guy getting mugged or beaten or shot, Cartman wouldn't have even bothered. But Kenny was a mutant, a freshly soon-to-be outed one who was probably scared and unsure of how anything would work anymore because now everyone would know. Eric Cartman might have just become his only friend, and Kenny realized that Cartman knew that. It's why he was still standing there. The mere idea sent an army of shivers up Kenny's spine, and as he turned and started his way home in an exhausted sweat, Cartman spoke again.

"Eric Cartman." He whipped around to face the other boy again. Cartman looked almost scary in the moonlight. His expression didn't move as he held out his hand for Kenny to shake. "I shock people."

Kenny blinked once, then twice, before untangling his fingers from his frizzy mop of hair and tentatively cupping his palm around Cartman's, shaking up and then down in one swift motion. "Kenny McCormick, can't die."

Eric Cartman had always been a very unhappy person. And it wasn't like it was his fault, either. The only times when he knew he was really mad was when he was around people, normal people, or when someone was talking shit to or about him.

For one thing, no one in his life besides his mother and teachers called him by his first name. It was always 'Cartman', and while it wasn't something he'd always hated, it built over the years into number one on his list of things that made him mad. Number two was being called fat, and number three was other people, especially his mother.

Number four was Sterling, Colorado.

It wasn't the shittiest place to be, but for Cartman, the headline under the town's welcome sign might as well have read 'Welcome to Hell On Earth.' What's worse is that everyone who lived in his general area regarded mutants as less than human, filled to the brim with hicks and inbred white trash the way it was, and his peers and teachers all looked down on him even before he realized that he could shock people on demand. So when he started using it out of spite, or for fun, everyone only felt more disdain for the fat brunet, and were more vocal about it, too.

But Cartman didn't care. He made the habit of either caring too much or not caring at all, and he grew to be damn proud that he could shoot bouts of electricity from his palms and fingertips. The only person that stood behind him was his mother, who he'd stopped caring about in middle school.

To him, it was because no one listened to him. Not a single fucking person; not his mom, not his teachers, not Mr. Kitty or Kenny. Nobody. And for anyone else, the other people who weren't getting heard, they'd have stages; lonesome, outcasted, bitterness and anger, but Cartman must have had something wrong with his head from day one. Even he knew it in some way. He wasn't lonely or sad. He'd skipped those steps to make way for all the more bitterness and anger.

Eric Cartman had also become Kenny McCormick's only friend their Sophomore year at school.

The McCormick house was in the shittiest part of the city, near the train tracks, and everything smelt like pot. Everything. Kenny snuck a couple beers from the fridge, knowing full well his dad would never bother counting it, anyway. He never had guests over, and Cartman's presence seemed to be a gaping hole among the sagging furniture and wall decorations that had all been stolen from motels.

Cartman took the place on Kenny's bed, while Kenny accepted it with a frown and a slouch, taking the spot on the floor as they took to the beers and, for Kenny, the playboys he'd also stolen.

It was into the second round that Kenny rolled a joint, licking it closed and passing it to Cartman, who readily took it without a thank you of any sort. He flicked his cheap lighter, lit up and inhaled, and Kenny kept himself from laughing when Cartman burst into a furious bout of coughing. He passed it back as Kenny took his hit, reeling back in the comfort they'd come to find in the smell.

They both jumped, however, when a somebody knocked at the door.

"Who's in there, Kenny?" It was his father, a person Cartman had only met face-to-face a few times, despite being a common visitor for the past few months. Kenny frowned and sat up, leaning against his wall, hiding the joint behind his back, even though his dad hadn't even bothered opening the door.

"Eric," he replied in the most normal, not-smoking-pot voice he could muster.

Mr. McCormick didn't respond, but simply walked away, boots clanking down the hallway towards the master bedroom. Kenny's brows furrowed, his nose wrinkling with some kind of bitterness, as he took another long drag, coughing into a nearby pillow and passing the joint back to Cartman.

Kenny's parents, Cartman mused, had reacted pretty poorly to the reveal that their middle child was some freak with weird powers. The backwoods rednecks that they were, they did not appreciate the potential their son had, just like nobody understood or accepted him. Thinking about it, Cartman really disliked Kenny, may have even hated him, but they were both mutants. Practically brothers in a town that detested the both of them the way it did, and they had to stick together.

Kenny had offered Cartman a girly magazine, but the brunet shook his head and held his hand out for the joint instead.

"Get that shit away from me," he mumbled, going back for another inhale as Kenny shrugged and returned to the parade of brunettes and blondes with huge tits that he'd taken from the gas station down the road.

It was silent before Cartman started talking, finishing off his beer and glaring off at nothing in particular. "Everyone always fucking lies to me."

The words weren't really directed at Kenny, not really. When it came to Cartman, it could be anything from a simple observation to a paranoid declaration, and whether or not Cartman wanted Kenny to contribute, or whatever, was beyond either of them. Still, Kenny found it in himself to reply.

"I hear ya, man," he grumbled, sounding sluggish as he reached for the joint and took another drag. It was obvious that no, he didn't really care.

Cartman clicked his tongue and chucked his now empty beer can against the wall opposite him. The impact sent it spiraling under the bed. "And then there's all this mutation shit." He paused, looking at the joint between Kenny's fingers as he snatched it away, again, coughing at the exhale. "I mean, Jesus, I'm so goddamn sick of people always fucking with us just 'cause we've got powers."

"Mmm-hmm," Kenny replied, only half-listening from beneath his playboy.

"I mean, we're stronger than them. We're more powerful. So then why the fuck are they calling the shots?"

With an irritated sigh, Kenny shoved the magazine off his face and to his knees. He looked up at Cartman as smoke clouded around them, even with the window open.

"Not much we can do, dude. Seriously, we might be, like, the only two mutants in town who've gone public." When Cartman didn't return the gaze, Kenny's eyes trailed up to the ceiling as he laid flat on his back, hands covering his stomach. "If there are others, they aren't just gonna come out and join us. Not everyone can survive a shotgun to the head." He made a snorting sound then. Maybe a laugh or something, even if his lips didn't move. "Fuck, I still wish no one'd ever found out, really."

Kenny didn't really listen to the things Cartman said, but Cartman knew Kenny wasn't listening. Not like he'd wanted someone to. It didn't really matter, because, to him, no one had ever listened and the fact that nothing had changed wasn't news to him. When he was younger and by himself, it was his stuffed animals who listened to him, but they didn't really. He pretended they did, but that's all it was. Pretend. Kenny was just like a new stuffed animal.

And maybe it was just the Mary Jane, but it was in these moments, getting high and talking while no one even heard him, that Cartman got really angry. The more he thought about things, everything in his life, the angrier he got, even with the marijuana chewing away at his memory.

"One day, there won't be any humans left, anyway."

Kenny didn't respond, but that was fine. After all, his stuffed animals were all long gone, and he didn't mind the poor smell as much as he thought he would.

Kyle and Isaac 'Ike' Broflovski were unusually close for adopted siblings six years apart in age. This they basically accounted to three reasons: reason one, their mother; reason two, their intelligence; and reason three, their blood relations, or lack thereof. Example one was the easiest to figure out if you were acquainted with the Broflovski brothers, while two and three were more, well, personal. Private. Because neither Kyle or Ike had any intention of ever outing themselves as mutants, especially not while they still lived with their parents.

Their parents, however, found out soon before the letter came, spring inching its way through the often gray skies of another San Francisco winter as the rain sprinkled outside. Maybe it was out of a sense of boredom that Ike found himself wandering up towards his brother's room on the second floor of their family's row home. While it was true that Ike had more friends than anyone else he knew, it was also true that Kyle could count the number of friends he had on one hand. He wasn't completely anti-social, but after he learned that he could move things with his mind, Kyle started unconsciously shielding himself away from the outside world. Not out a sense of loneliness or whatever, Kyle wasn't that much of a pussy, but his commitment to staying inside reading was like a hermit, choosing an intellectual life of social exile. And Ike, naturally, saw something wrong with it.

It was actually Ike who had discovered his mutation first, Kyle figuring out his own abilities only about two weeks later. Ironically, Kyle's surfaced after an intense bout of desperation, wanting to one-up Ike who was quite the bragger. They both tended to thrive off a healthy dose of competitiveness. This was where their ties with blood came in, because it was pretty surreal and bizarre that, out of every kid ever filtered through the Canadian Adoption Agency, Kyle got himself a little brother who had a similar oddity that they shared and could bond over. They were similar in many ways, actually. Both were smart, ambitious, easily irritable, and they shared an inexplicable fear of their mother. The mutant thing only added to it, making their weird connection stronger.

Ike found Kyle centered in a mass of books and stretched out across his bed. This was not new. Kyle was, after all, the same boy who had his first existential crisis at the age eight. He even swore he'd become a part of the conscious universe for a while afterward. The books he'd surrounded himself with appeared to be on reality and its connections to the conscience mind; Space-Time and Quantum Theory, Taoism and Zen Philosophy, Descartes, and so on. A lot of shit, in other words. Upon closer inspection, Ike saw the book in his brother's hands was entitled 'On the Cosmic Relations'. Henry Holt. Ike had already read it, and couldn't help but scoff at how far behind Kyle was. It wasn't a competition or anything, but Ike was definitely winning.

On par with his complete detachment from the rest of humanity through both senses and consciousness, a set of earbuds closed Kyle's sense of hearing off. Something was blaring through, something Ike couldn't make out. Whatever it was, though, it had to be awful.

It took some time, but eventually Kyle's eyes darted up from the page. Ike knew better than to think Kyle hadn't recognized his presence, because Kyle always knew if it was him. And Ike hated being ignored almost as badly as Kyle did. Even if he was completely and utterly oblivious to almost embarrassing levels, Kyle could mentally follow Ike's presence for miles if he really wanted to.

With a sigh, the redhead didn't even bother removing even one of the headphones, muttering sternly under his breath, "Ike, leave me alone, I'm reading."

Ike grinned just a bit, folding his legs and leaning to balance on his knees. His elbows were propped up on the duvet as he focused his thoughts onto his brother. While Kyle did possess telepathy, some form of it, anyway, it was not nearly as potent as his telekinesis. It was difficult to read most people's thoughts, but Ike's were substantially easier to focus on. They both just sort of figured it was easier for a psychic to read another psychic's mind, something along those lines.

'C'mon, Kyle, you keep being a hermit the way you are, and you'll never get laid.'

That got his attention. Eyes widened and face glowing red, Kyle sat up so fast he almost fell off his bed. Earbuds intact, he moved to balance himself. "Ike!"

'What? It's true. Hell, I've had more sex than you.'

Ike leaned forward on his elbows and watched, amused, as Kyle went through the appropriate reactions. Shock, anger, a slight and short-lived twinge of inadequacy, which Ike also found funny as hell, and then right back to anger.

"Shut the fuck up, Ike, you're eleven!" he cursed, skin and hair now approaching the same color. His shoulders hunched and almost touching the lobes of his ears as he defensively curled into himself, glowering forward at his brother's stupid, smirking face.

Ike brought his hands to his cheeks and let loose an expression of mock terror. "Language!" His imitation of their mother had a dangerous level of accuracy behind it, all from years of practice. "I'm an impressionable young child, and I need an inoffensive environment in which to grow and develop a healthy mental state." Kyle shot him another glare, and he received it with a cocky grin.

Eventually Kyle sighed, rolling his eyes. "Oh, you're so full of shit," he grumbled, kicking out with his leg and purposely missing Ike's head with his socked foot. "You're a smartass, too."

"I must get it from you," Ike mused, voice practically drowning in sarcasm. "You just have such an influence over me."

Finding himself hilarious at the expense of his wholly irritated brother, Ike burst out in mad, hyena-like giggles. Kyle narrowed his eyes even further and clenched his fingers onto the book's cover, annoyance finally boiling over.

"Okay, that's it. Out!" Ike had no time to protest as invisible hands lifted him into the air and off his feet, gradually carrying him towards the door. Kyle spent his entire summer between eighth and ninth grade practicing multitasking with his telekinesis while his friends were off studying or getting high or masturbating. Now with little effort, the door was opened and Ike started struggling mid-air. Truly the sacrificing of his social life had paid off.

"Put me down!" Ike demanded, lightly struggling against the unseen force. "If you keep doing that, mom'll find out eventually, promise or no promise."

The joke was instantly killed and Ike was lowered to the ground, less gently than he was hoping. Kyle's irritated frown curled into something much more serious as he bit at his bottom lip. A hesitation grew between the two, sour and powerful. In hopes of crushing whatever conversation his brother was prompting out of him, Kyle vainly returned to his book, his brow furrowed, obviously distracted by the nagging thought Ike had brought back to the surface.

They'd talked about it before, argued about it, and it was honestly something that made the both of them inwardly shiver.

Ike returned to the bed, but kept a respectable distance as Kyle tried desperately to ignore him. Eventually, he decided to break the silence. "You think we should tell them soon?" he asked as looked down at his socked feet.

Kyle didn't respond immediately, first closing his eyes with a deep sigh and leaning even further onto his back. "No, not ever. Not before we get older." After a moment, he opened his eyelids and let his gaze trail back to his brother. "Ike, we've been over this."

Their mother was on the school board in their district, so infamous that everyone both feared and mocked her simultaneously. She was that person who organized protests and stayed awake for three days straight and got mad at the little things most people prefered ignoring. And naturally, her being a liberal Jew living in San Francisco, she was one of those people who went to streetcorner protests with signs that read "[insert minority group] deserve equal rights!" in bold letters, like the words themselves were screaming at you. She'd be that mom that would wear homemade shirts that would read "I love my mutant sons", and she'd have no qualms with telling anyone in earshot that her kids deserved the same treatment everyone else got.

Kyle understood her crusades more than Ike did. He got self-righteous, too, realizing too late that it was genetic and something doomed to forever be apart of him without any hope of escape. Ike was more apathetic, in healthy doses. If he ever found himself out with a sign that criticized something about the economy or the government or whatever, he could blame his family instead of himself. He knew it was selfish, but it was a natural coping mechanism.

It's not like they didn't care. It's that they didn't like being pariahs, especially if it wasn't their fight to fight.

Bored of watching his feet, Ike moved to the side of Kyle's bed and snatched up the book on the duality of the universe and the living individual, lazily flipping between the pages. "Dude, she'll figure it out some time, especially if you keep lifting me up like that."

"I'd rather her not ever know," Kyle mused. "Ever. I mean, she's pro-mutant, that's wonderful and whatever, but think about it. She'd totally-"

"Use our powers for her own political gain and purposely out us to the public." Kyle's brows furrowed even further and Ike cracked another all-knowing smile as he tossed the book back. Without asking, he crawled his way onto the bed and laid opposite his older brother, stretching out his legs and crossing his arms behind his head. "I know."

Kyle rolled his eyes, but otherwise didn't object to the new occupancy on his mattress. "If I have to promise to not read your mind to the best of my abilities, you've got to stop looking five seconds into the future to see what I'm going to say. Because that's getting really fucking old."

"For your information, you're just incredibly predictable." Ike moved his hand to poke Kyle's too-serious face, but his hand was slapped away by a force he couldn't see. "And even if that was the case, you're the morally ethical one. I promised nothing."

Kyle, being the intelligent individual he was, knew continuing any argument with Ike was a vain idea to begin with. As much as it pained him to admit, the brat was smarter than him, if just a bit. In complete surrender, he plopped back down against his bed next to his brother with a long, dragging sigh.

"Little shit." The impact of his weight caused a few books to topple to the floor, and without even lifting an arm, he had then swiftly moved back to their original spots. "You definitely got your smartassness from me," he admitted with a slight smile as he brought back his copy of Henry Holt.

Ike grabbed at Kyle's headphones and pulled his brother's iPod towards him, popping the buds into his ears as he made an effort to stumble upon something decent. "At least I don't use the word smartassness."

Stan Marsh was normal. As normal as any kid his age could be, anyway. And he liked normal, too, so it was alright.

Born in Littleton, Colorado, raised in Highlands Ranch, Stan lived the most common of lives with the most common of families. His father was a geologist, his mom worked reception at some clinic downtown for plastic surgery, and his sister was long gone after she scored a Field Hockey scholarship to some nice college on the east coast.

Stan was also athletic, dabbling in a good number of sports from basketball to soccer to baseball, but his most practiced was football. He'd call it his favorite if he really cared enough to rank them, although baseball was the worst, but he rarely cared deeply about much of anything. But Stan was a normal guy. He had nothing to hide. He liked his home and his city and his friends and he especially loved animals. He really was completely normal.

All except for being a closet mutant.

The day his life came crashing down was beautiful, sunny and bright, as Stan returned home from school. He walked since he was still saving up for a car, and he had figured the weather was nice enough, anyway. It was the final week of school and everyone was excited, especially the seniors, but Stan didn't really get the hype. Summers were long and often boring, although did serve for some good personal time. He had friends, being on the football team, but Stan valued time spent by himself more, like some weird and subtle form of regeneration. Being around people for too long wore him out, and friend invitations were often rejected so he could get to new levels on Warcraft and play with his dog.

As soon as he'd turned onto his street, the cat who had followed him from the mailbox and up to his front porch was still there at his feet. Stan hadn't given the cat much thought, since some animal always seemed to be following him from place to place, but even without any attention from him, the cat would not leave him alone. It purred and rubbed against the legs of his jeans, and Stan was forced to be careful not to step on its paws or tail. Cats weren't his favorite animal ever, but he certainly didn't want to hurt the stupid thing. Upon reaching the porch, Stan turned to the furball, glaring down at it with a stern frown.

Go home, you can't come in.

The cat was a brown tabby named Gus from a few blocks down, and with Stan's words, it stretched its shoulders and scampered off. He didn't know the owner, but figured that the cat knew where it was going even if it wasn't wearing a collar or tags. Damn thing was talkative without even knowing English.

Stan entered his home and closed the front door with his foot, immediately noticing a fat blob of wiggling fur at his feet. With a smile as warm and loving as Stan could pull, he bent down and put a hand to Sparky's head, scratching at the ears. There was the force he couldn't explain, the words without words, and with it he sent a thought from himself and out to his dog.

Hey, Sparky.

Sparky was Stan's Christmas present from when he was seven. Now he was old, fat and lazy in his age, but Stan loved him more than anything. Even before Stan discovered his -unique- ability, the weird thing that drew all animals to him, Sparky was his best friend. Animals had always understood him, and Stan had always understood animals far more than any person he'd ever met. People were baffling and distant, while animals -except goldfish, Stan made an exception at goldfish- were more comprehensible than any other person Stan had met in his life.

Sharon Marsh was in the kitchen, reveling in her day off by reading a book at the table and drinking a cup of coffee barefoot. She looked up at her son as he made his way through the archway that separated the kitchen from the living room, smiling just slightly, although her eyes immediately returned to the page she was on.

"Hi, sweetie."

"Hi, mom," Stan responded absentmindedly as Sparky waddled behind him. He scoured the freezer for something to eat, pulling out a box of hot pockets and popping a few into the microwave. Stan didn't really care for hot pockets, but the feeling of fullness meant more than the taste, anyway.

Despite her obvious interest in her book, Sharon still made an effort to keep the conversation going. "How was school?" It was more than his dad ever did, and even if Stan himself was just as disinterested, it was sort of admirable.

The microwave beeped and Stan pulled at the handle, gripping at the edges of the plate. "Fine. All the seniors are off now, so I'm pretty much done after finals."

"That's great, Stanley."

And that was that.

"I'll be in my room," Stan called over his shoulder as he made his way towards the stairs, but his mother's voice stopped him.

"Oh, Stan, I almost forgot. You got something in the mail."

Moving like he was in a hurry even when he really wasn't, Stan returned to the kitchen table and took the envelope his mother handed to him. "Thanks, mom."

Stan reached his room, backpack discarded into the corner as Sparky awkwardly jumped for Stan's bed. He made it after a few failed tries and curled up tight on the comforter, letting out a loud snort as he got comfortable. With the weight now off his back, Stan kicked off his shoes and tossed the letter his mom had given him onto his desk; probably another stupid reminder from the library or his school or something. Another perfectly boring night.

Three hours later and Stan sat slumped over his computer, mindlessly surfing online and finding himself reading the wikipedia article on Iggy Pop, when his pocket buzzed.

A text, from his friend Gary. You in for a movie tonight?

"Fine," was what he said, but he texted back Sounds great :)

That was when Stan noticed it; gold. The letter sitting alone at his desk had a bright golden seal right at it's center, refletent in the lamplight and making itself known by flashing in Stan's direction and catching his eye. Suddenly curious, Stan reached over and picked the envelope up, first inspecting the golden seal and then the front.

It was the sender that really got him interested. Well, that and nervous. Evolutionary Genesis Institute.

"What the hell-?" he muttered, biting at his lip. There was a sudden heaviness in his stomach, like he'd swallowed his lungs and now everything felt out of place.

Stan didn't really know what to expect what would be inside, but opening the envelope, it was just a piece of paper. That was what tended to be in envelopes, and Stan felt stupid for thinking some cryptic nonsense was going to fall out instead. His name wasn't printed on top like he'd figured it would, and the message inside was only a short paragraph long. Thoughts just slightly buzzing, his eyes began to scan over the first few words as he silently read along.

Dear Potential Applicant,

We are very pleased to inform you that you have been selected, along with a handful of other potential applicants, to be welcomed as a student to the first ever academy dedicated to the exclusive teaching of mutants all across the nation. Evolutionary Genesis Institute, headed by former New York State Senator William Gray, is the prototype academy to what we hope becomes a fast-growing chain of institutes world-wide. All details will be specified should you agree to become a fully-registered applicant, which you may do with parental or guardian consent on the return form found in the back of the envelope.

Together, we will all work for a prosperous future for both humans and mutants. We hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,
William Gray Sr. and the Institute of HMI

Words couldn't begin to fully explain the emotions jamming Stan's thought process at that small moment in time. His eyes were wide and full, chest tight and mouth left agape. He read it once, then twice just to be sure, then returned to the envelope to see if it was a mistake. It had to be. No one else knew, it was just him. Only him. That weird, unexplainable thing that only he knew about; he'd known it was something. His parents watched all those stories about mutants on the news, what they were, what they did. Stan had always had the sneaking suspicion that the things he felt, the way animals spoke to him and how he spoke back-

Stanley Rudolph Marsh, printed smack in the middle in such a damn official way. Without a second to breathe, Stan was back on his computer, googling Evolutionary Genesis Institute, the letter left face-down next to the monitor. Maybe it was a fake, a farce, nothing to get worked up about. Evolutionary Genesis Institute. There's no way it was a real thing, it had to be a joke.

A news story popped up immediately attached to a picture of an older looking man, his hair graying, smiling and waving at the cameraman taking the picture. He was grinning wide with all of his teeth, but he looked charming enough, like someone genetically engineered in some lab somewhere to be a politician. Scrolling down to the text, Stan read the first line without any hesitation.

William Gray, previously a New York Senator, has recently made the statement that he plans on opening a private institution that works to educate mutant children and young adults specifically. Financial backing has been granted in the name of the institution by means of multiple investors-

The mouse clicked out of the tab before Stan bothered to read any further. Leaning his head onto his desk and burying his head in his arms, Stan tried to keep his thoughts from raging and bruising up his skull. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, in and out, before he sat up and grabbed the invitation again. Without another read, his gaze kept firm to the flimsy piece of paper for a good minute as his brain scrambled to properly function again.

Instead, however, he just found himself again folding his arms over his head, hoping that maybe the world would just up and disappear for him. It was like he was back in elementary school again.

"Shit."

It was only natural that Stan got the letter he did. After all, Stan wasn't quite as normal as he'd hoped.

None of them were.

First chapters are always nothing but exposition. I'm too lazy to become the exception. The actual story starts next, so don't worry, it won't all be like this. Ships also happen later on, so I won't spoil most of them now.

Reviews are always encouraged, and will undoubtedly help me keep writing. Seriously, nothing encourages a writer more than a personalized message from a random stranger telling them that their work is worth continuing.

Hopefully there will be updates every two weeks or so.