When Kyle Broflovski exited his mother's car that morning, it became suddenly obvious to him that the day was carrying an unusual lack of wind. Not that he was unthankful, but he had become quite used to having to grab his hat every time he stepped outside . . . A little feature that had taken four years to happen, almost the entire span of his life in the little town of South Park, Colorado. Today the snow was falling softly onto the ground. Almost too gently, like a man who strokes a cat just to get in close enough to ring its neck.

South Park Elementary loomed before him, ominous after the cheers of the weekend. He was stepping away from his mother's car, just lowering his arm from the falseness of the wave, when he heard his name from across the yard.

"Kyle! Hey, Kyle!"

He whipped his head around. Behind him was the drone of the car pulling off, the smell of the thin exhaust. It left him standing in the gentle rain of the snow, looking to and fro in quick snaps of his neck.

"Hello?" He asked, turning all the way around to look behind him.

"Over here, Kyle! God, you're such a stupid Jew!"

Pricks of anger traveled his spine when he recognized the voice. Even if he hadn't have recognized the voice, he still would have known who it was . . . It was all in the comment conveniently tacked on at the end. He turned back around. The voice was coming from his far right, behind the left wing of the school.

"Yeah! Right over here! God, you're such a--"

"Shut the fuck up, fatass! I see you!"

And, suddenly, he could see him. In all of his fat and obnoxious glory, he was there, leaning out from behind the brick siding of the school. He was dressed as always, in the stocking hat and bright red coat. The yellow mittens were no surprise, either.

It was the look of concern on his face that did Kyle in.

"Well are you going to come on or not? We haven't got all day!" The chubby boy called out.

Kyle began toward him, surprised to find himself running instead of walking. Surprising it was, but he wasn't able to stop. The urgency in Cartman's face wasn't the only evidence, now. His voice also sounded strict and tense.

"I'm coming! But this better be good, because school's about to start, and--"

"Yes, yes, Kyle. We all know you're a dork, and that the sight of an 'A' on your work gives you intense sexual pleasure. For this reason, we are willing to work with you. We wouldn't want you to get too starved,"

Kyle, who had made his way from across the yard to Cartman, flipped him the bird. He would have added voice to the insult, but his chest was heaving too badly. The chill in the air had gotten inside his lungs and made it feel as if they were lined with ice.

"So . . . What is it?" He panted, between breaths.

Cartman grabbed his wrist. Before Kyle could protest he was being drug behind the school, his shoes leaving deep trails in the snow.

"Let Stan tell you. You've always understood each other so well before,"

The remark was spoken with sharp edges, and a wee bit of sarcasm. Once again, Kyle would have let his mouth fly, but it was too late for that. One moment he was being drug in the snow, fighting to catch his footing and pull away . . . And the next he was standing in front of his best friend in the entire world, still rasping to catch his breath. It flared out in front of him in little clouds of steam.

Kenny was there too, but Kyle barely noticed him. Stan was wearing an expression such as he had never seen before, and it deserved the full extent of his attention. Cartman had waddled up beside him, and was staring back at Kyle just as gravely. He ignored the fatass. If both of his friends-- if Cartman could even be called that-- needed emotional counseling, Stan's needs would come in dead first.

"Hey, dude," he said, trying to sound as normal as possible. He had hoped that Stan's eyebrows would uncross at his cheerfulness, but it didn't happen. Didn't even come close. "What's all of this about? We have a math test today, and--"

"We've got a problem, dude," said Stan, interrupting with a short lack of ceremony. "I think the math test can wait,"

It was briefly silent. Kyle blinked at Stan, and cocked his head, feeling like he was missing a very vital something. What could put a look on everybody's face like this? Why did Stan look so worried, Cartman so scared . . . and of course, he couldn't see Kenny's face, but he could tell it was probably just as drained.

Just what the hell was going on here?

"Okay. That's enough. Tell me what's going on. Is it something about Wendy again? Because I--"

"No, no, no, no, no, not that. Well . . . Not exactly," Stan looked down at the ground, shuffling his feet. It was something so unusual to the group's natural born leader that it actually struck Kyle aback, made his heart sunder heartily against his ribs. "It's not just something about the safety of her. It's something about the safety of everybody. It's--"

Suddenly, it all hit Kyle. It was so obvious that he couldn't believe it hadn't hit him before, when he had first glimpsed the downcast looks on his three friends' faces. All of the signs were there. Cartman, with his gentle sarcasm. Stan, looking guilty or embarrassed. Kenny being astonishingly quiet.

"Oh, God," said Kyle, looking at them each in turn with disbelief. "Oh, God, you . . . You all--"

Stan nodded, once. It was the only confirmation needed.

"Yeah, dude. It was Kenny," he said, speaking low and guilty. "He had a premonition. One that we couldn't ignore, and now--"

"But we had a pact, Stan!" He wasn't aware that he was screaming until he heard it pulling out of his chest. It boomed and echoed in the still winter air, fluttering all around. It made his chilled lungs ache. "We made a pact, together, that we'd never use them again!"

Cartman stepped forward this time. His look of fear had been erased, a bit, and was instead replaced with a slight anger.

"Shut the hell up, Kyle! Do you want everyone and their dog to know our secret?"

"Maybe that would be better, so you wouldn't be tempted to use your powers all the time!" Kyle shot back. There was no going back, now. He was too hyped up. Too angry. Just how could they? Just how could they--

He felt Stan's hands fall on his shoulders. Like they always had the power to do, Kyle felt his muscles melting beneath them . . . And felt all of the hot wind go rushing from his lungs. Damn it. It was so annoying how Stan had the power to do that.

He sat down, the cold snow freezing his rear. Stan, Cartman and Kenny followed immediate suit.

"Look. Kenny can't control his premonitions. You know that," said Stan. Kyle crossed his arms and looked away, his face hot with rage and terror. "He had a premonition, and you know as well as I do that he doesn't have those for just any reason. He has them because we're supposed to do something about it,"

Kyle snorted. "Yeah. Something we could do is ignore them, Stan,"

"We can't do that. And you know why,"

Kyle was silent. He could feel all three pairs of eyes upon him, burning his flesh like lasers. Especially Stan's. They held the most weight of all, and not just because he was the one person in the world Kyle would entrust his entire life with. It was also because, no matter how much Kyle didn't want to admit it, he was right. His best friend in the whole world was right, as he had a running tendency to be.

But why did it have to be something like this, now? Why did he have to be right about something like this, when it had caused them so much shit before?

He finally brought himself to look back up at Stan. His best friend's blue eyes were unusually flat, lacking the excited twinkle they had the tendency to hold.

"No, I do not know why. Do you remember what happened the last time we followed one of Kenny's premonitions, Stan? The destruction that followed?" He shot his eyes down to his shoes, trying hard not to let that flood come back. Not to let the way it felt to see with blood clotting up your eyes clog his thoughts, and hinder him from arguing this at his best and fullest. "Do you remember the month long hospital stay that followed, after I blew us all to--"

"But that was all you, Kyle! You could have prevented it!" Cartman's sharp, piggish voice cut into Kyle's like a spade through a marshmallow. "If you would just learn how to control your freaky power instead of messing it up all the time, none of that would have happened!"

Before Kyle could open his mouth to retort, Stan's red mitten had lashed out and popped Cartman right in the face. It wasn't a hard hit, but enough to shut the fat sissy up. He sat simmering in the snow, looking into the distance, his arms crossed as tightly as they could get over his large chest.

"That's not true, Kyle. You know it isn't," Said Stan, turning back to him. His guilty look had disappeared entirely, and he now looked fierce and determined. The old Stan, back for the count. "When Kenny has a premonition, we're meant to use our gifts to do something. To save someone. That's the way it's always been, and that's the way it has to be. Sure, we all got hurt last time. But if we hadn't have gotten hurt, what do you think would have happened to that kid we saved? Do you think he'd be alive today?"

Kyle looked back down at the snow. "No, he wouldn't, but . . ."

"We saved him by following Kenny's premonition, just like we saved all of the others by following the other premonitions! It was . . . It was just bad luck last time!"

"Yeah, but bad luck that I caused!"

Kyle got up from his place on the ground. Dusting the snow off his rear end he leaned against the tree, placing his forehead against the rough bark. It somehow made all of this seem more real. Made him seem more grounded.

"If I didn't have that stupid power . . . If I hadn't have used it . . . We all would have been safe,"

"Yes. We would have. But not the kid we saved. It was your power that stopped that guy. Your power of explosion. If you hadn't have . . . His kidnapper would have gotten away,"

Once again, Kyle was silent. He felt a hand fall on his calf, and judged it to be Kenny trying to calm him down. But he couldn't make away with the horrible images. The images of Kenny, having jumped in the path of his blast, being vaporized into millions of tiny, blood-red pieces . . .

"But . . . Oh my God, Stan! I killed Kenny!" Kyle blurted, still looking at the tree. It suddenly seemed a little foolish, to be making such a big deal out of this . . . Especially when everyone else seemed so cool about it. When Stan seemed so cool about it. Was it possible that he was overreacting just a tad? "I couldn't control my power, and I tried to hit the guy but I hit Kenny instead, and I--"

Kenny's voice emitted from the caverns of his hood, muffled and nearly indiscernible. Despite the nasty things that mouth could, at times, emit, his words were comforting and sensible. Kind.

"You hit me, but I came back, Kyle. It's all right,"

A smile came to Kyle's lips, very reluctant in coming. It felt grim and painful, like smiling with a face full of dried clay. He continued to study the pattern of the bark, memorizing the loops and jutting spurs. Their general confusion seemed to match his state of mind at the point.

"Of course you came back. You always do. But what if it had been Stan that I'd hit? Butters? Cartman? Are you able to say they'd do the same?"

Silence, from Kenny. A strange guilt coated Kyle's heart, but he swallowed a lump and bit it all back.

Stan's hand fell on his shoulder, and turned him around. He was suddenly staring back into the face of his concerned friend, and it was somewhat different from the confused pattern of the tree bark. It was straight and certain, heavy and firm.

"It doesn't matter if you like it or not, Kyle. Sure, one of us might die. But one of us might also die getting hit by a car. Our heart could suddenly stop." He shrugged. At Kyle's sudden appalled look, a slight smirk came to his face. "Who knows? You yourself had to be revived just two weeks ago, after Manbearpig grabbed you. And that had virtually nothing to do with our powers,"

"Yeah, but, but . . ." Kyle paused, looked at his feet. He could see the victorious smirk of Eric Cartman from his upper field of vision, but, unusually, it was easily ignored. "What if . . . What if we . . ."

The ring of the tardy bell sounded across the school yard. All four boys reacted to this surprise with a notable jolt, an action that came with relative risk when related to Kyle or Stan. At the upward movement of Stan's hand, a tiny rock in its path was thrown up into the air as if on stage attachments.

He snapped his powerful hands back to his sides, and began hurrying toward the school. Naturally, everyone else followed.

"Come on, guys! We'll get a hold of Butters at recess and talk about this then!" The bell rang again, nearly drowning his voice. His feet began moving faster. "We're going to be late!"

The other three boys followed after the natural born leader, thoughts of school and tardiness out drowned by those of much better things. Especially the mind of Kyle Broflovski, who wondered whether or not teaching a child to believe in magic could be considered masochism.

******************************************************************

The room was dark and foggy. In the hollow of the blank dark the sound of a gentle drip roamed the night, repetitive enough to produce madness in the weak. The smell was that of clotting mold and rotting animals. The light was dim, bleak circles around flickering bulbs sprinkled with mist.

The man sitting at the table, huge shoulders hunching over its face, was covered in shadow. The only part of him visible was one of his burly hands, and it was covered in a garden of thick black hair.

"So show them to me," He growled, his voice rolling gruffly from the buff chest. The man standing in front of him, invisible in the black, flinched just a hair. "Tell me what all this hype is about. What I should be worrying about,"

The invisible man threw something down on the table. The burly man, affectionately known as Slicer by his closest friends and enemies, looked down at it with a grunt of irritation. Really, this couldn't be worth his time.

It was a photograph. In it stood the figure of a little boy, smiling joyfully to the camera lens. On his head was a tuft of golden yellow hair. His skin was pale and frail looking.

"A kid?" Slicer growled, pounding his fist on the table. "Members of the Alliance across the world are nervous about some kid?"

"Not just some kid, your honor. Some kids," The invisible man in front of him stammered, stumbling clumsily over each word. He placed a hand on the photo and moved it a bit forward in the light, tapping his finger on the fair but cheerful face. Slicer looked closer, grunting endlessly out his throat. "We weren't sure about it before, but now we're completely certain,"

Slicer pinched his cigar between two fingers, sending the putrid smoke out from puckered lips. He squinted over the picture, straining his bad eyes for all they were worth. Damn the pupils of a demon. Unless his form was fully changed, they were useless for everything except total night vision.

He scooted closer to the table. "Certain about what?" He blinked his eyes repeatedly, trying to clear the endless blur.

The invisible man spoke again. This time, his voice sounded confident and loud.

"Why, certain that they're the inheritors, of course. The inheritors of the power that vanquished us, years ago. Now that we have returned to the underworld, it is believed that the power has, as well,"

Slicer nodded. Not because he agreed-- because what Connell was saying sounded like total bullshit-- but because his attention was caught. No matter how outrageous, this was an interesting story indeed. The power was rumored to be able to return, but, well . . . That was nothing but legend. A lie coated in romantic fantasies.

"Okay. So who is he?" Slicer asked, smiling as he adjusted the picture beneath the light. He would never admit it, but he liked kids. Had liked them before his eternal transformation, and supposed that he always would. He supposed it was something in their playfulness and innocence; two things that, unfortunately, had never existed in his sorry life. "Who is the adorable little thing?"

"Leopold Stotch, sir. Nine years old," Connell rambled, clasping his hands behind his back. "Not the one we have to worry about the most, but a formidable adversary just the same. 'Adorable' he may be, but not when you glimpse his power," Slicer nodded, still smiling. He tapped his ashes to the side, making gentle care that they didn't fall on the photograph.

"'Power'? You say he's an inheritor . . . So which has he inherited?"

"Force field, sir. The power to protect himself and others. Impenetratable by everything but the most potent of magic,"

Slicer nodded, inhaling again on his cigar. "Mm-Hmm. Anything else?"

"We aren't quite sure, but we believe as a secondary power he possesses amplified reflection. Very dangerous to those not prepared. He can take anything someone shoots at him, and reflect it back more than double,"

Ahh, Slicer thought, bringing a hand out to stroke his thick whiskers. So the kid's a rubber ball. He could hardly believe it by looking at the boy. He looked like the type that would be guilty if he pissed a drop on the quimode-- but, then again, you could never judge a person by a picture. Behind that smile could be one of the most sadistic minds ever born to the world.

The kid wasn't a demon, so he doubted it. But rubber balls had never been much trouble. The last one hadn't been. As long as you were sure to knock them out first, they were nothing but smooth gravy.

He studied the picture a little longer, sinking the face into his brain. He was sure he'd need to store it away for later.

"Okay. So we've got a rubber ball," Said Slicer, sliding the photo to the side. He looked back up into Connell's face. "And the next one?"

Connell gave a yellowed, broken-toothed smile. He removed yet another photograph from his breast pocket, and placed it on the table.

"Kenny McCormick, sir. Nine years old. A clairvoyant-- the powers of precognition and instinct. Also believed to resurrect, on occasion . . . But we're not entirely sure," The kid was blonde, like the first one. But he didn't have the same innocence to him as the rubber ball did. This was a fact Slicer could discern without even deeply studying the picture. It was something in the face. Something in the eyes. But no matter how tough-as-nails the kid seemed, the one unavoidable fact about precogs was that they were weak. The weakest in the supernatural world, as a fact. They had no way to defend themselves save for predicting the situation which might get them hurt.

No matter how well they predict, that won't save them from a dagger in the chest, Slicer thought, rolling the cigar between his two fingers, smirking in a way that lined his face with hard shadow. He pictured the face of that last precog, the hot little thing with the long black hair, and remembered how easy it had been to kill her. Yes, it was her gift that had brought them to that final fight. But it surely hadn't saved her.

He slid the picture to the side, on top of the other of the rubber ball. He was smiling as he did it, something that scared him more than the thought of the inheritors.

"And there's more?"

"Yes, sir. Five. Five inheritors, from five original powers,"

"Allrighty then. Let's see 'em."

Without another word, Connell slid another picture from his breast pocket. This one was not only surprising, but also absolutely laughable-- Slicer threw his head back and bellowed to the ceiling, slapping a knee through his jeans.

"Oh, please," He wheezed, spitting out his cigar before he choked. He looked back down at the photograph and laughter began again, springing exhaustibly from his smoke-stained lungs. "This can't seriously be one of the inheritors!"

"It is, sir. Not a strong power, but definitely a nuisance,"

Slicer readjusted himself in his chair. Laughter fought to bubble out from his chest, but he fought it. He studied carefully the picture of the child in front of him, wiping madly at his tearing eyes.

"Okay. So who's the butterball?"

Connell chuckled, but swiftly regained his composure. He resumed the previous position; back straight, hands clasped.

"The 'butterball' is Eric Cartman, nine years old. And though his weight is . . . Substantial, and it should hinder his performance and speed, it doesn't because--"

"Because he's a leaper, huh?" Slicer finished, puffing a ring from the cigar. Of course. Of course the fat one had to be a leaper. How else would it work out? "The little butterball teleports?"

"Yes, sir. Teleports, and as a secondary ability is believed to possess levitation."

Slicer's smirk grew. Teleportation, huh? With a big fat dose of levitation. Not much of a road block if you looked at it in power's standards . . . But quite a force to be reckoned with when your destruction counted on accuracy. How could you hit a guy who could bounce all around you? Who could be, in the blink of an eye, three feet to the right of your aim? Not only in regards to teleportation, but levitation could be a pain, as well. When you tried to drop-kick someone who could lift right above your foot, you oftentimes landed on your ass.

But it was okay. No big dealio. Because it was nothing but a defense, right? And without an offense, one could only last so long.

Slicer kicked back in his chair, propped his feet on the table. It wobbled threateningly beneath them. "Wow. So we've got the leaper. No big problem-- more of a pest. The last one was killed rather easily. All it takes is a good sneak from behind,"

Connell nodded. "Precisely. No need to get discouraged . . . At least, not until you hear about the next one,"

Connell took the fourth picture from his pocket, tossed it onto the table. It skidded over the wood and landed cattycornered in front of Slicer, the glossy corner pointing off the edge of the table.

"Stanley Marsh. Eight years old. The believed leader of the inheritors-- and the strongest of the five,"

Okay. The leader. The strongest. This, he had to see.

The kid in the picture looked like your perfect, all-American sweetheart. He was little now, yes, but Slicer could see the kid he would later become in high school. Popular. Handsome. Quarterback of the football team, president of the student council, object of all the lady's desires. It was something in the kid's stance, he thought. Something in that brave and determined look in his bright, crystal blue eyes.

Something that said he was a force to be reckoned with. And that he would not back down easily.

"So what's our strongest do? Kill on sight? Take over the mind?"

Connell was shaking his head. "No, no no no your honor. Nothing like that. Little Stanley Marsh is a telekinetic. A mover. He can send things flying with the swing of his hand . . . Or the squint of an eye,"

Slicer nodded eagerly. "Okay, okay. Not bad. Any thing else? Does he have a secondary power?"

"Yes, your honor. Astral projection,"

And that was the real downer. Astral projection in itself was no big deal . . . Nothing more complicated than teleportation. Worse, actually. When an inheritor astral projected, the original body was left immobile and defenseless. If the projector wasn't careful, the body could be slaughtered in this moment of immobility and thus end the life all together.

But if the projector had another power, especially a particularly dangerous one such as telekinesis, the power could become a sentence for death and destruction. Sure, the leaper could leap . . . But without another power to use on the offense, the power was nothing. Little Stanley, being a mover and a projector, could end up being the downfall of, potentially, whole groups of Alliance members.

Damn it, Slicer thought, crumbling tobacco between his fingertips. This could be a problem.

"Okay. So this one's the one to watch out for. After taking care of the rubber ball to eliminate his defense, we should get rid of this one as soon as possible," he said, rubbing his brow with his rough fingers. Gosh. There were many of his Alliance members-- many whose faces he could picture in his head-- who would have circles run around them by the mover alone. And if he led the others, that made it twice as bad. "A mover and a projector? I might have to kill that one myself!"

"Well, I wouldn't be too discouraged yet, your honor. There is still one more, and . . . Though he is not the strongest, his powers have the potential to be the most lethal ever seen in the supernatural world," Oh, great. More bad news. "Let's see him," said Slicer, continuing to rub his brow.

Connell threw the last picture upon the table top. In it was a little red-haired boy, obviously Jewish and unhealthily scrawny. The look in his eyes said he was honest and good, the picture-perfect child and ideal for any parent to have.

Slicer tried to smile, but he couldn't. He tapped his ashes, and this time made no pains to control where they fell.

"His powers?" He asked through clenched, nervous teeth.

Connell, a little shaken himself, cleared his throat. "Well, they revolve on the control of molecules, your honor. Of course you must know what this means,"

Controlling molecules? Of course he did. Slicer pounded a fist lightly on the table, watching the pictures and ashes shake.

"Of course I do. Controlling molecules? That gives him the power to do two things,"

Connell nodded, but said nothing. Apparently, he was leaving that privilege to Slicer himself.

Slicer let out a breath through clenched teeth. "If he controls molecules, that means he can do two things to them. One: slow them down. Thus, freeze his subject,"

Connell nodded. "Yes. Freeze his subject. Right in place, like a human statue. A formidable power, yes, but avoidable. Many of our upper levels have grown strong enough to break the freeze,"

Slicer looked down at the top of the table, thoughtfully. He studied the hairy patterns on the backs of his hands. "If he can slow the molecules down, that means he can also accelerate them. If he accelerates them, then that means . . ."

Sayonara, baby. Anything from the tiniest ant to the empire state building can be blown all to hell in less than two seconds.

He had never seen the power in action. He had seen freezing, yes, but exploding was a much different story. Those with the power to slow molecules usually couldn't go the other way around. He had only seen it in, of course, inheritors, but never practiced to the best of its ability. Due to its strength, the power was desperately hard to control. In the last dispatched round of inheritors, he had seen their little exploder aim straight for a demon's head and blow up a sparrow twenty feet away instead. It had never been clear exactly what made the power so hard to control, but he had an idea it had to do with fairness. You couldn't have someone packing power like that just walking around. The entire world could fall straight into his hands.

"Surely he can't . . . can't . . ."

"Eight-year-old Kyle Broflovski can't control his power completely, your honor, no. And you'd be pleased to hear that he refrains from using it. Turns out it scares him,"

Slicer smiled. It was grim, and not joyful.

"Ha! I guess that can be expected from a kid, huh? Guess we got lucky,"

He expected Connell to smile, but he didn't. He only shook his head.

"No, not lucky enough. Though Kyle Broflovski is afraid to use his power, and though he is not yet strong enough to control it, it is lethal beyond what we can fathom. And the boy gets stronger everyday. Just as is the leader, and just as are the other boys, little Kyle is growing. Learning.

"The older and more experienced the boy becomes, the more of a handle he will gain on his power.

"And once it gets to a certain point, there will be nothing we can do,"

Slicer could only look at the picture. It was strange, the way it felt when you realized the world could just go sliding on around your ears; it was a strange lack of control, and horribly unpleasant. That feeling of doom. The way the humans would probably feel when the first celestial trumpet was sounded. And it was extremely hard to believe that the little kid in the picture could be the author of that doom. He was pale. Scrawny. And possibly sickly, judging by the color of his skin.

But that's okay, Slicer thought, unaware that he was wringing his hands. That's okay, because we can take care of him. He has the power, but if he's afraid to use it . . .

"We still have time. We just need to kill him fast. Get him alone," said Slicer, speaking a little louder than he intended. A little faster than he intended. He hated how nervous this kid was making him and, little and cute or not, the boy would pay for it later in spades. "He's really no danger being as he is now . . . And if we can get him at least away from the rubber ball, one of my lower demons should be able to take him out without ceremony."

Connell was nodding, but not smiling. That was the biggest flaw with his advisor-- the fact that, speaking or not, the man sucked at lying.

"Not a lower demon. Though he is afraid to explode, the boy has been known to freeze . . . So an upper would be sufficient,"

Slicer nodded. Of course. "Yeah,"

"And the boy's ninth birthday is coming soon. He's growing older. 'Fast' is variable, because we're running out of time."

Running out of time? No-- they're running out of time. Because we're not going to mess with them, this round. We're going to come in swift and take them faster than they can call for their mommies.

Connell blinked and cocked his head. "Sir?"

Slicer looked back up at him. "Do they have a healer yet? One they run to with their battle injuries to have their booboos fixed?"

"Not yet, sir. It was, at first, believed to be the precog that doubled as their healer, due to his uncanny power of resurrection . . . But we now see that that's very impossible. After their last battle, the boys had to stay in the local hospital, which means that their healer is yet undiscovered," Yes. Why would kids who can have their injuries healed in a second bother with the hospital? Slicer thought, snuffing the tip of his cigar on the table.

Connell was silent, then, giving his boss a well-needed second to think. It was appreciated, needed, but not too much. Slicer had already heard what he needed to hear, and planned what he needed to plan. It took only a second for the greatest of all demons. Strategy ran in his blood.

He brought his rough fingers up to his whiskers, and stroked them. The heavy scritch-scratch filled the damp air around them.

"Okay. So our first move is easy," Slicer thought out loud, still stroking his stubble. "We need to find out who their healer might be. If we fight them without finding out, the one we don't kill will just be thrown back into the fight. Not good," Connell nodded, agreeing. "Yes. The faster the healer is located, the easier it will be to eliminate those who require swift elimination."

Slicer nodded. Yes. Locating the healer could help them with the elimination of the rubber ball, who, of course, must be killed first . . . And then the others would follow quite easily, like dominos lined for the fall. The mover and the exploder might display quite a bit more difficulty, but in the end they were all just kids. Children.

And just how tough can the kiddies be?

"Sir? Have you decided on our first motion?" Connell asked, picking the photos up from the table and stashing them back into his pocket. "The plan of action to carry this out?"

Slicer drummed his fingers on the table, still thinking. It had nothing to do with their first plan of action. That was completely obvious, and already mapped out meticulously in his head.

"Yes, Connell. Our first plan is simple. I want five lower demons, each with the ability of invisibility, to spy on our five inheritors. By doing this, he will be certain to find the healer. Throughout time, he has always stayed close," Connell nodded, slightly smiling. "Yes, yes. And if they see the opening . . ."

"If they see the opening, especially with the rubber ball or the exploder, they are to take swift action. To kill. Hell, might as well make it the same with the others . . . If one gets hurt, the healer is much more likely to reveal himself," Connell nodded. "Yes, sir. So we give the healer the chance to act,"

"Yes. Any way to spring blood to the little darlings, have it done. Even just to trip one of them, to make him skin his knee . . . Have it done. A healer's instinct is unmistakable."

Connell nodded, again. The play of the slight light in his eyes was eerie and sadistic. "Yes, sir. It shall be done."

"Good. Then go out and get it done. Get me five lower demons, and a status report every hour," "Yes, sir," Connell bowed, and was gone.

Slicer reclined back in his chair. He would have looked at the photographs again, to be certain . . . But he had it all pretty well engrained into his mind. He was good at that. The little blonde one, a rubber ball. The shy one a precog. The butterball a leaper, the leader a mover . . . And the Jew an exploder. The most dangerous inheritor of all.

And now . . . We just need to find the healer.

One step at a time.