The workers do not work.

The politicians speak but do not say.

The voters vote but do not choose.

The information means misinform.

The teaching centers teach to ignore.

The judges condemn the victims.

The military are in war against their own compatriots.

The police do not fight crimes because they are too busy committing them.

Bankruptcies are socialized, profits are privatized.

The money is freer than the people are.

And the people are at service of things.

("El Sistema" – Eduardo Galeano)

May 12th, 3660

Our story will be divided into two times. I believe that's the first thing you should know about everything that will happen when we move forward. There's a long way to go, don't fool yourself. I recommend you to leave all of your beliefs, your deepest moral and philosophical concepts at the door before you come in, because depending on the time in which you live, some of the things that I'll tell you may seem murky, confusing, even wrong. Don't think anyone is wrong here; right and wrong don't belong to the nature of war. War is an art like any other, very complicated to be defined, but it has some very specific criteria known by those who dominate it. I've never been one of those people. But giving the world in which I lived a long time ago, and the people I've met, the society in which I grew up, I understand enough to guide you through this story. Take your shoes off, get comfortable.

I feel a little manipulative here. It's not even my story, to be honest. Not really. There is a difference of voices and times between the two sides of the same story you'll be told. But both sides happen in the same place, with the same people, although the place is no longer the same and people are no longer the same either. People are never the same. Confused, already? I'll be clearer then: I'll be your first narrator, and that's how I want to be treated for now. Even though I'll report situations that I have witnessed, I'll keep myself in the third person not to compromise your judgment. At some point, I'll tell you my real identity, how about that? I know it's a little too much, asking for you to trust me, a man who can't even say his own name. Oh well. Let's do this.

Our tale takes place in South Park, a little mountain town in Colorado, United States, today known as The Old Republic. The year is 3660. There are many records from the past about the way people visualized the world in the future, portraying technological scenarios, robots, flying cars, all kinds of nonsense. To be fair, maybe that was the way the world was heading to until 2900. According to the History books, that was the year of the outbreak of World War III. That must have been such a mess, Jesus. The world population was significantly reduced. It's funny when you read about these events in History books (and yes, the books still persist, always will) but it makes all the chaos sound so banal, as if the changes had been very simple. "There was a twenty years long war, five billion people died, a new era began", a whole eradication reduced to a few words. I'm glad I'm not a History book, and I'll try my best to make you understand that nothing, absolutely nothing, was simple at that time. I won't bore you with details about the world I lived in, since they'll naturally appear with the course of events.

The second time, which actually happens first, will be told by a young man named Kyle Broflovski. But when Kyle tell you the story, he won't be aware of your presence, not as I am. So don't be sad if he ignores you, he doesn't know you're there. For Kyle's reports are extracted from the records he made at that time; the year of 3646, when he was just a nineteen years old fellow. Such records are essential to the understanding of the story. I won't show you things that Kyle has written; it'll be more intimate than that: he'll relate you the ideas and thought directly through his worldview. I like to wander through his mind, his memories. I think Kyle is the person I love most in this world.

But he's changed. Allow me to introduce him.

The man of whom I speak still has the reddest hair ever seen, which suited perfectly well with the ten years old coat he's wearing right now, in the same color, slightly torn in the elbows. The white shirt can be seen underneath, all sloppy in his body as if it had been used to sleep. It was possible that it had indeed. A lock of hair falls over his leopard eyes, his pupils enlarged by the darkness of the room, and his green iris with yellow stains is curiously shining in the dim light of the lamp, in bright contrast. The table before him looks quite messy, full of piles of paper, some of them stained with brown circles from a forgotten cup of coffee, pens scattered and hidden in the folds of open books. Let me tell you, there was a time when this kind of thing would have made Kyle develop a nervous rattle rash or something. He used to be the most organized person I have ever met. However, in those times, back then, the priorities were very different. Now there is no time to put the books in alphabetical order on the shelf. Well, anyway. I would like you to pay attention to the important details on his skin, starting with the face. Mark well the face of Kyle Broflovski, my friend. It is freaking unforgettable. The scar that cuts just below the eye, the thin skin darkened by tired circles, and halfway down his soft cheek, that helps you remember. It was not a new incision. How Kyle got that scar is a hell of a story. It was made with broken glass over ten years ago, but I'll let him tell you about it when it comes to it. For now, the only thing that matters is that you know it's there, deforming the left side of his face every time he offers a worried smile. That is the only kind of smile he knows how to give these days. Well, Kyle is not smiling now. He rises his chin a little more, resting his palms down on a yellowish sheet with words typed in French. He speaks it fluently.

Kyle is thirty-two years old, if you haven't yet done the math. He will turn thirty-three in two weeks. Gregory made a little joke this morning about that being the age of Christ, but this sort of thing is far from Kyle's mind right now. He doesn't think about Jesus all that often anyway.

It is late at night. In 72 seconds, an important man will enter the room. Kyle wears a silver ring with an onyx stone in his pinky, but it is too wide for the circumference of his finger, dancing loose as he slides a hand through his curly hair. If you are interested in this sort of thing, the room is large, consisted by shades of brown; besides the lamp, the immense window allows the entry of the moon's weak green light, but it's hidden behind dark clouds and pollution that always turns the skies reddened as the sun reigns and dark teal when it is night. Things are different now, but Kyle doesn't know that because, ever since he was born, the world has been the way it is now. It is all he knows, the green moon and the sky as red-brown as clay. He clears his throat and switches the hand that holds the pen as if he knew how to write with the right one. Leopard eyes cautiously study the void, oblivious to the mess on the table, focused on something that is not there. He presses his lips as he scratches his jaw, using the hand that keeps the pen between the fingers, gently closing his eyelids. His concentration is only broken by the sound of a knock on the door.

"Come in."

He turns his head back - the chair is always facing back to the door, for whatever reason - but it is not a man that he sees first. Instead, Kyle lays eyes on a huge black Labrador with an oddly long tongue and gorgeous blue eyes that distract him from a trickle of drool escaping through the side of the animal's open mouth. Kyle smiles at the dog because animals simply have that power over human beings, the power of gratuitous smiles, but soon it is held back by the sight of the important man, whose hair is as dark as the Labrador and his eyes are so blue and exotically dark as well. On one hand, the man was holding a chain firmly wrapped around his fist, and on the other, a cane made of copper and wood. Kyle does not move.

"Stan." He softly says, outlining a sort of restrained smile, almost embarrassed. You would have to look far to find the smile underneath that expression, but it is there.

(A detail that might be relevant in short: we are dealing with two people who deeply love each other. We are also dealing with two people who hardly talk to each other anymore.)

The cane hits the ground as the man takes a step forward, feeling the icy air in the room touching his pale skin, even the covered parts. His clothes are simple-minded; his pants are high-waisted and striped in black and brown, the jacket is royal blue and shredded, a very poor quality fabric, but enough to keep him warm, which is more than he can ask for now. Underneath, a brown linen vest. A red scarf around his neck. The dog shakes his ears, disinterested. Stan reaches out and bends his knees until his palm touches animal's thick fur, stroking the side of his body, giving him an affectionate pat before continuing walking, leading the way with his cane to make sure that he doesn't run into any object. The man in question, tall and slender, moves cautiously across the room - which is ridiculously long to make room for all the bookshelves that still preserve some organization - by following the sound of the voice that had uttered his name. There is no need to actually follow Kyle's voice, whereas Stanley already knows this room by heart. Kyle takes some time to get up from his chair, dropping the pen on the paper, leaving it to roll to the edge of the table; but it does not fall. For a moment, no one says a word. The only sound filling the space is the dog shaking his ears once more, getting rid of the rest of the water accumulated on his pelage. Kyle licks his lips, his hand caressing the table's thin wood that supports a part of his weight.

"I thought everyone had gone home." Kyle is the first one to speak. "Gregory said..."

"Yeah, I'm on my way out."

The redheaded man waits a few seconds - at least until the silence becomes uncomfortable - and clears his throat, crossing his arms. Stan makes no mention of explaining it; he just stands there, holding his faithful canine by the collar. Kyle's hip rests against the edge of the table. He rubs his exhausted face, the fingers lightly touch the scar tissue.

"Do you need something?"

Before we continue, it may be relevant to explain where these two men and this dog are: the building has four floors. It's not very intimidating from the outside. A brick building eroded by time, its windows are rounded and large, each has a small balcony for purely aesthetic reasons. On the roof of the building there is a chimney and a clock with Roman numerals, huge, in green and gold, which no longer works. It has not for decades. The construction comes from a time when Victorian architecture had been embellished; cities were reinvented. On the facade, you can read just above the door, in large golden letters, "AUTARKIC CHAMBER". Stan works on the first floor. Kyle works at the top.

They never meet.

"No." Stan replies, trying to sound casual. It does not work and he is aware of it. He tries to be more genuine, rubbing the back of his hand on the opposite wrist. "It is the twelfth."

If he could see, he would know that Kyle's face faded. It was an almost imperceptible twitch, his face shrinking into a painful grimace that soon dissolves into resignation, but most people wouldn't even notice. Stan isn't most people. Kyle lifts his chin almost without realizing it. Now that he's giving his back to the lamplight, his pupils dilate in the darkness.

"Yeah. Fourteen years today."

Unlike Stan, Kyle can see his livid face perfectly. His appearance is probably much healthier, the rounded cheeks of those who still have bread on their table, who found a way to live with the ghosts of that building. Resilience was one of the features that Kyle admires the most about Stan; he is absolutely certain that Stanley can survive whatever is placed before him. Maybe because a part of Stan still remains a conformist, like he was at the time they were living together. That doesn't seem important now, one way or another. Kyle rubs his eye, pulling out the chair to sit down again, losing his leg strength.

"Are you okay?"

The redhead diverts his face to the side, glancing at the man behind him for no more than one second. The question appears to tie a knot in his throat, such a rigid node that is almost physical, aching to the point where Kyle covers his neck with his hand, squinting. His silence is enough to make Stan understand. It's almost funny. If you allow me to take another break, I can make you understand a little better about the connection between these two souls. I've never met two people who loved one another as much as Kyle Broflovski and Stan Marsh, they changed the concept of love (for me, at least, but I think it was something that touched everyone around them). Whatever they had was unconditional. One can not remember a world in which the other did not exist, since it was something they established in diapers. There are things that Kyle himself must tell you, he can explain much better than I can about everything there was to bring these two men to this room at this moment, immersed in the silence of familiar acquiescence. There is too much hate involved, I can tell you, but it is common knowledge that the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. Kyle and Stan will never be indifferent to one another. What I can tell you is that there was a third part involved. We'll get to another important man soon.

"I'm fine." It's all he says.

"People say it gets easier as time passes. But you already know that's a lie. Death never gets easier."

"What do you want here, Stan?"

The dog yawns, sitting patiently, scratching behind the fallen ear. His blue eyes are full of rheum, his nose is wet and he drools constantly, but regardless of all that, he is a beautiful dog. Egon is his name. Kyle watches them sideways, resisting the urge to reach out and cuddle Egon. He remains on his seat. Stan sighs deeply, uniting his feet, relieving the pressure on the collar between the fingers. He is anxious.

"I'm sorry. I just..." A pause. "I thought you wouldn't want to be alone today."

Kyle rubs his eyes as the sound of his own rudeness echoes inside his skull. It is one of the most unpleasant sounds possible, especially when it is directed to Stanley. You might not notice right away because he has become a bitter man, but in essence, Stan is still one of the kindest human beings to ever walk the face of the earth. There is something fascinating about him, as if he was unbreakable, no matter how many horrors he has seen and last throughout life, there is something in his soul that keeps him always flexible and foldable, for good or ill. He is a survivor. That's why he seems such an easy target, someone who's standing there waiting for the punch. And then Kyle, so passionate, let himself get carried away by the desire to punch him, but there wasn't even once that he didn't feel like a monster for it.

"Forgive me." He simply says, in a whisper that people ordinarily would not listen, but Stan's ears are not like the majority. He hears perfectly. "It was... It is hard. I just want this day to be over."

"Did you go to the cemetery?"

"Lord, no. Filling a grave with flowers for my own contentment seems increasingly meaningless now. It doesn't help anyone."

Stan leans on his cane and falls with the head slightly to the side, crossing his legs. His hair, which once were black as the night itself, but now looks washed-out, falls over his eyes. It doesn't bother him, though. Under the right light, you can see a sad little smile take over his mouth, but Kyle does not realize it.

"Do you still dream about him?"

"Almost every night."

'He visits you,' Stan thinks, 'so you don't have to visit him.' But he didn't say a word about it, as usual, because it was not necessary.

Stan is a very perceptual man. He is right, I do visit Kyle in his dreams. I don't know if it makes it better or worse, but I miss him as much as he misses me.

The huge shadow of a zeppelin blocks the bright light of the moon that illuminates the room for a while. The darkness is comfortable to Kyle's eyes, it calms him somehow; that was one of the reasons why he had specifically asked to settle in the highest room on the top floor of the building. Fewer people transiting around there, a whole floor protected from the city lights that disturbed the retina. For Stan, of course, that kind of thing was not a problem. He lives in the dark.

It's funny, isn't it? The one who lives in the light searches for the darkness and the one who lives in the darkness longs for the light more than anything. It would be comical, if not tragic.

The zeppelin moves away. Large, imposing, red, brown and gold. Just a reminder that the city is still guarded by the Great Lords, the supreme symbol that they control up to the heavens, although things have been worse, truth be told. When the green light from the moon invades the living room with its undulating rays, Kyle's eyes are wet.

"I'm alright, Stan." He lies. And he is not fooling anyone, not even the dog. "Go home. It's getting late, you shouldn't take the train after midnight. Perhaps Gregory can accompany you."

He longs for the solitude, the dark and maybe a glass of wine. He doesn't want to drink too much, but there's still a bottle of Malbec Marchiori Vineyard stored in the kitchen cabinet, right behind the cans of beans, like it was hidden. This bottle came to his mind throughout the day. He pictured himself drinking on the balcony, watching the city from up above. Although he flirts with loneliness, the idea of going to an empty house, hearing the echo of the door opening, so extensive were the high walls of the entrance room, gave him chills. Kyle faces Stanley for long enough to commit the folly of imagining the words coming out of his mouth: 'Come with me', he imagines himself asking, 'Your hands are always hot and I miss them so much. I really need your warm hands on my face today.'

Clarity, however, didn't allow him to say such things.

He doesn't know what Stan thinks of him anymore, but he understands enough to be sure that it would be crazy to cogitate that this man will serve as a source of affection, after all that happened between them.

"I'm sorry, Kyle. I know it's not worth much, but I'm really sorry."

"I know you are. No one else has been there for me like you were when... When it happened. I don't want to seem ungrateful." There is hesitation in his voice, a groan contained in the throat. "God, how I miss him."

And that will never change.

Stan's face overflows a twinge of pain that comes from the guts. It doesn't last much, it's just a reflection of the pain in front of him. The demons that Stan bears are others.

"I'll leave you alone."

The dog lifts his head curiously, twitching his ears, bending his head to the side with the interest of a puppy. Kyle smiles. He catches the pen on the edge of the table, as if that would help him regain concentration, while Stan pulls Egon's collar to make him stand up again.

"Thank you." Kyle says, taking the back of his hand to his face, feeling how hot it is.

His cheeks are already wet by the traces of tears that flow naturally, so that he can barely feel them running down. The tears seem to have become part of his face in the last few years.

. . .

Kyle's home is away from town, located far up the mountain. It is a beautiful house, if you must know, an old building in Victorian architecture, with large windows that provided a beautiful view of pine trees. You can see the city lights from there, but they're like a mantle of stars. It's not a big house, even though it has three narrow floors and an attic with an extremely low ceiling, all made of wood, causing strange roars at night. Kyle is already accustomed to the sounds of nowhere, the wind blowing in the windows and the wildlife that rarely bothers him. The best part is the silence. The entire town of South Park, as well as any city in the United States today (except for the devastated areas) is captured by the constant sounds of mechanical sappers, trains going back and forth all night long, the crowded bars of bohemians who gained freedom to be there not many years ago. There are no more small towns, even with the reduced population. As one climbs the mountain, these sounds are falling behind, giving place to croak, howls, roars and other sounds that compose what is left of nature.

He climbs the three steps leading to his porch and puts his hand in the left pocket to get the key, which always insists on fleeing to the bottom. Suddenly, he hears a noise. Kyle turns to take a brief look around, not taking too seriously whatever his ears were warning him about. What bothers him is not exactly the noise itself, but the uncanny feeling that a pair of predator eyes is watching him. Kyle expects to see a white fox when he turns, but there is nothing. He frowns. He even forgets, at least for a moment, about all the weights he has carried on the shoulders today, because his mind is busy discarding absurd possibilities. Kyle hears footsteps, but the darkness does not allow him to see if it's real or only his imagination. Nobody uses to go up there and roam in the middle of the night in a mountain forest area while it's snowing, but Kyle can not deflect the impression that those steps are peculiarly human. And that brings an unpleasant sensation to the tip of his stomach.

There is a decent amount of people who are not fans of the work that Kyle, Stan, Gregory (you'll also get to meet Gregory soon, and believe me, you will never forget him) are doing. It is a delicate political moment, in which the effective change finally begin to deconstruct the sovereign elite. It seems that there is something - someone - big moving among the bushes, close to the wall of his house, in his property. Kyle rarely fears, but he turned out like a cat who is always with his eyes and ears open and carries an easily accessible pocketknife. Just in case. He now turns his body completely to face the woods, taking slow steps that make the wooden boards of the porch creak under his weight. The hand slides into the pocket, forgetting the key in the lock, tightening the handle of his Swiss Army knife between his fingers. His heart races a little faster, pumping blood to his brain, deregulating his intense breath that could be seen before his eyes because of the cold air. Kyle waits for a minute. The noise seems to have stopped completely.

A few more seconds, motionless. Nothing.

He drops the knife, leaving it untouched in his right pocket. He rubs his hot forehead and wonders if he's starting to go mad. It could happen.

Probably those hadn't even been steps, he knows that. Animals don't have the habit of getting so close, but it could even have been something as simple as a lost hunting dog looking for dinner in his trash cans. Kyle takes a breath and turns back to the door, ready to get in.

Until one foot - human, definitely human - steps on the first rung of the short stairs, then on the second, and it freezes Kyle for a moment. The only thing he has on hand is the front door key.

"Alms for a hungry man, monsieur?"

A hoarse voice is the snap to reality that makes Kyle ready to rip off an eye with that little bunch of keys if that's what he needs to do, his lips parted and his eyes wide open, not processing what had been said. He presses his back instinctively against the wooden door, seeing the dark figure approaching fast. Kyle clutches a fist using the hand that wears the onyx ring and throws a punch that is interrupted in the air by a rough hand holding his wrist as the large figure smacks the redhead's body against the door with strange grace in his movements. Kyle squints, expecting pain. A punch in the stomach, the blade of a knife, choking, any kind of pain. And the interesting part is how passive he is in the face of that idea, showing no reaction, no fighting back. If that's how he goes, then that's how he goes. Kyle has come in terms with the fact that would never die in peace, if such thing is even possible. But he feels nothing. The pain never comes. Then he realizes that his eyes are half-open and they reveal the face of a man, so close that he can actually feel his hot breath against his skin. A face as familiar as the back of his own hand. Kyle recognizes the man's scent before he even see his features.

The face that appears in the shadows belongs to the other important man.

Kyle sees him. The eye color of honey mix between green and brown, with an animalistic glare, the thick and irregular eyebrows which are as symmetrical as the face of rugged features, the protruding manly nose, the lower lip fuller than the upper, a small cut in the corner of his mouth, the square jaw, smooth messy hair covering the man's forehead and ears. This is the vision that Kyle has a few inches from his face, a dimly lit face that haunts him for years. Around his neck, a leather cord. Christophe DeLorne, a shadow.

Kyle takes both hands to the other's face in need to touch him before concluding that yes, he is real. From this conclusion, he collides his hands against the Christophe's chest, pushing him back a bit before moaning, mixing pain and relief, throwing himself into the Frenchman's arms right after as if moved by instinct. The embrace was also a necessity. It came tight, awkwardly twisted and confusing, as a substance of reality and dream. And the man receives him in his cold arms, resting his chin on the tangle of red curls, letting a smile - so rare are the smiles of Christophe - show through, illuminating his face.

"You're alive." Kyle murmurs against his bare chest. "You son of a bitch, you're alive."

The Mole wears a green moss coat, red plaid inside, open and revealing the trunk of a guerrilla, stiff and sculptural. His body looks stronger, though his face looks more aged. The thick belt attached to the hip holds an arsenal of potentially lethal weapons, well hidden in secret compartments. The pants and combat boots that go all the way to his knees are the same color, a brown so dark that borders on black. In the dim of the porch, there is no difference. Christophe isn't smiling anymore when Kyle looks up and let go of him.

"We haven't gotten a letter from you in nearly two years ago. We thought..." Kyle begins to explain, the words coming out disorderly, his hands still clutching the other man's arms. "What are you doing here?"

Christophe shrugs.

"It's ze twelfth."

For a moment, Kyle just stares. The sound of that voice that rarely comes so bland is a homeopathic dose of anesthetic. He can't help but giving out a sad smile.

"My goodness, Christophe. Were you in France all this time? Why the fuck didn't you write?"

He shakes his head.

"Non, I've been in Monaco. Belgium. Italy. Zings aren't pretty anywhere, I'll tell you. Now, I waited for three hours in zis fucking cold, be a good boy and invite me in." He says in his best seductive voice, which is surprisingly functional, perhaps because of the European blood flowing in his veins. You could even call him a charming man, if you wanted to. He raises a hand to touch Kyle's hair, but the redhead timidly lowers his face in response, biting his lower lip. "I'll tell you everyzing if you let me eat somezing."

"You could have called me, you didn't have to wait out here. Jesus Christ."

"And what fun would zat be?"

Oh, the charming boor smile on his face as he asks. Christophe is a filthy cranky bastard, but when he smiles, I understand why Kyle went through so much shit for him. We'll get to that later.

"I could have cut your jugular, you asshole. Your little joke nearly gave me a heart attack."

Christophe laughs.

"Why would it ever cross my mind zat you may need protection?"

Kyle tries to roll his eyes, but the smile is contagious and it takes over before he can realize it. He rubs his gloved hands and spend a few more seconds staring at the Frenchman, as if his image only now became clear. At this moment, Christophe tries to touch the scar on Kyle's face, but the response is skittish; he turns his face and makes a nod for them to go inside the house. He asks about the small apartment that the Mole had rented in the city, on top of a self-service laundry, where he had left most of his stuff before he went away. Christophe explains that the landlady, a fat old woman who could have a worse temper than his own, put all his shit in storage (not that he had anything of worth) and he is currently a homeless man. And the door closes behind them.

The constant in which Kyle's life had remained to this point is turned upside down from that night on. But you have no obligation to know why. You were not there, after all, on May 12th, 3646. The day I was murdered. You were not there at the night of the bomb, when Stan Marsh lost his sight. You were not there when Christophe and Kyle met, or when the ideas of revolution were sown on the blood of the students, you were not there when Gregory got on the table and shouted freedom in the basement of his father's coffee shot. You were not there when Christophe raised the red flag for the very first time, symbolizing the students union, their goal, their belief, on the same day that he was shot in the stomach and one student was trampled to death. You were not there when they all resisted. When the relationship between Stan and Kyle began to collapse, something that started with a drubbing in the cafeteria of the university and ended with a bottle of rum. You weren't there.

But you will be. Let me take you.