Wendy Testaburger was in a bad mood. A very bad mood, and it wasn't fixing to get better any time soon. She'd missed breakfast, her sister had stolen the sweater sh'd been planning to wear that day, and the globby pink frosting on top of her turd cake of a day was the rapidly approaching exam season.
"Hey beautiful. Why the long face?" It was Bebe, joining her at her locker.
"Ugh." Wendy slammed it shut. "Just feeling pissy."
"That time of month, huh?" It was her least favorite voice.
"Fuck off, Cartman." She continued to face her locker. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her angry.
"All right then. Wow, Bebe, you should really get her some Midol or something."
"Get out of my face, Cartman!" To his credit, at least he knew when to take her seriously.
"Really Wendy, what's wrong?" Bebe asked after he left.
"Nothing. Let's just go to history, okay?"
Their AP US History teacher, Miss Franklin, was a huge fan of interactive learning, and while Wendy loved all the artifacts and speakers and videos she brought in, she felt that there were a few more pressing worries that should take precedence… such as passing the AP exam. When they walked in to class, there was a blues song playing on an old radio, and photos of 40's and 60's musicians put up around the classroom. She sighed again, and Bebe rolled her eyes at her friend.
"Just go with it," she said. "At least she actually likes her own subject."
"Yeah, I know," Wendy said, still annoyed. They sat down in neighboring desks at the back of the room.
"Everybody sit down!" Miss Franklin said, storming in thirty seconds late, dropping an armful of books and CDs on her cluttered desk. Her arms rattled from the mismatched bracelets layered halfway up to her elbows. "Class, today we're looking at how World War Two influenced pop culture back on the homeland, especially music and…"
Bebe leaned over to talk quietly to Wendy. "You know, there are much more important things to worry about. Such as who's gonna take you to prom."
The blue-eyed girl knew she'd struck a soft spot, and the smirk proved it.
"I'm perfectly capable of asking a boy myself," Wendy snapped. "It is the twenty-first century, after all."
"Uh-huh. Still have to find someone, though."
Truthfully, Wendy didn't want to resort to that. Call her a hypocrite, but the fiercely independent, somewhat feminist Wendy Testaburger had always hoped for a romantic prom-asking gesture from some cute boy. In the past, she'd often pictured Stan Marsh as that boy. She sighed, glancing over at her ex-boyfriend. They'd finally broken up (again… for the last time…) in ninth grade, but he hadn't had a girlfriend since.
"Of course, it was very different in the sixties and seventies, during the wars in Korea and Vietnam, when music became a vehicle of protest for disillusioned youth, and…"
Of course, that didn't necessarily mean he wasn't romantically involved, she thought. She had to hold her own smirk in. Stan was daydreaming, slumped over on his desk, head held up by his arm. Perhaps it was an accident (though Wendy suspected it wasn't) but his gaze was locked on the back of Kyle Broflovski's head. Cartman, who thankfully sat on the opposite side of the classroom, seemed to notice too. A few seconds later, a giant spitball landed in Stan's black hair.
He turned around in his chair, furious. Stan flipped off Eric, then crumpled up the nearest piece of paper on his desk and threw it at him. Kyle, now also twisted backwards in his chair, was clearly struggling not to laugh. Miss Franklin droned on, oblivious to the situation. Kyle scooted his chair next to Stan and wore a peculiar expression on his face as his fingers raked through Stan's hair, puling out the mess with a tissue.
"…and so that is what you will be looking for today!" their teacher ended, clapping her hands together with a cacophonous clanking, jerking Wendy's attention back. She realized with a twist of guilt that she had no idea what she had just said. "Let's all break up into groups and get going!"
"Bebe?"
"Girl, you know it," she said, smiling.
"Hey guys. This assignment is fucking stupid." It was Craig, who had already sat down across from them, slumping in his chair and pulling on his hat strings.
"Um, excuse me?" Bebe said, her own smile quickly fading. "Did we say you could join us?"
"No. But Wendy's gonna do the assignment no matter who's in her group. So here I am."
God, his monotone was annoying, Wendy thought. Especially since he was probably right. Dammit.
"Fine," she snapped. "Let's just-"
"H-Hey fellas. Or, uh, ladies and fella."
"Fine- Butters, just sit down," Wendy said.
Luckily, the assignment didn't require her to actually talk to any of her table-mates. Bebe's teasing was getting on her last nerve, and Craig and Butters had been living on her last nerve since fourth grade. Miss Franklin was passing out numbered CDs and ancient walkmans. They were supposed to listen to the songs and think about how international relations could be affecting the music. This was exactly the sort of nonsense Miss Franklin came up with that did absolutely nothing to prepare them for exams. With one last sigh, Wendy hit play on the first track.
Bebe really was full of shit. Right? Wendy was perfectly capable of finding a man. Or maybe a cute Junior boy. That didn't make her desperate, right?
"What references does the song make to US policies? What does this song tell us about American pop culture in the time period?" Wendy read the questions and pulled out the lyric packet, flipping to her first song. It was Credence Clearwater Revival. God, Miss Franklin was an overgrown hippie.
It was just a stupid dance. It really shouldn't mean so much. But that fact of the matter was it did matter. Wendy had bought her dress months ago. (Lavender, floor length, sleeveless, sweetheart neckline.)
Wendy scribbled down a few half-baked answers for the first track, and moved on to the second: Bob Dylan. Hippies, again. She seriously was going to snap if she didn't get out of South Park soon.
Wendy's attention wandered as she listened to the song. Bebe had her giant headphones on, but was clearly more interested in her nails. Craig was barely awake. (Asshole. If he thought he was getting out of this he had another thing coming.) Butters didn't seem to find anything wrong. He was just humming to himself, kicking his feet against the carpet, and writing down answers on his worksheet. Wendy, acting like she was adjusting her desk space, tried to see his answers—clearly someone knew what they were supposed to be listening for.
Nope. Useless.
The tiny blonde boy was doodling 'K + B' in his margins, and K's with tiny angel wings. Wendy rolled her eyes, more disgusted with herself for trying to cheat off Butters of all people than with Butters for daydreaming about Kenny.
Wendy re-listened to the first song, trying to answer the comparison question. Really, was Franklin high when she wrote this worksheet?
From across the classroom, Cartman caught her eye. Clearly, he was even more annoyed than her by his precious ears being forcibly bombarded by hippie music. He was scowling and gripping his pen far too tightly. It finally broke, spilling ink all across his fingers and the desk.
Tweek, sitting across from Eric, jumped and squeaked. He still had yet to put his headphones on.
"God dammit Tweek!" Cartman yelled. "There aren't any lice in the headphones. Just put them on for Christ's sake, or I will shove them so far-"
"Excuse me," said Craig, snapping out of his reverie of apathy and assignment-avoidance. He crossed the classroom, bee-lining for Cartman's red face.
Wendy rolled her eyes once again, turning back to her work. Craig was so over-protective. Wendy thought it was kind of precious, the way they both so clearly needed each other to function. She wished she had a friendship like that. Of course she and Bebe swapped secrets, and of course she trusted Bebe with her life, but it also felt like they were constantly at war trying to out-do each other. If Bebe had a new shirt, Wendy had to point out the clumps in her mascara. And after Token asked her to Prom with flowers and balloons, Bebe had to gloat that Wendy was still date-less. They were best friends compelled to antagonize each other.
Third song. Something old, World War Two era. She doodled flowers on her lyric sheet, reading along.
"I'm either their first breath of spring, or else, I'm their last little fling…"
It definitely wasn't too late yet. There was that blonde Junior in debate team- he wasn't too embarrassing to ask, and she was pretty sure he wasn't taken.
"The battle is on, but the fortress will hold, they're either too young or too old."
Wendy started writing in answers. This one was easy enough. All the date-able men were off to war, that's what the song was about. Either too young, or too old. Kind of like South Park, Wendy thought, only they were all either too young or too gay…
Wendy froze. She dropped her pen and didn't even notice. Craig and Tweek. Butters and Kenny. Kyle and Stan, even if the two idiots couldn't figure it out. There were even rumors about Clyde and Pip. They were all gay. That's why she couldn't find a date to save her life—half the teenage boys in Park County swung for the same team.
"Oh, shit!"
Every eye in the classroom turned to her. Miss Franklin raised an eyebrow at her.
"Uhh—sorry! Just realized I left, uh, left a window open, at home… Sorry…" They all slowly lost interest in her.
"Bebe!" she hissed.
"What?" The blonde girl lowered the closest side of her headphones.
"They're all gay."
"What?"
"All the senior boys. I don't know what the national average is, but we have to be way above it. There's no way we aren't."
"I'm sorry, what?"
Wendy let loose an exasperated sigh and leaned in closer.
"All the boys in South Park High are gay for each other! That's why I can't find a prom date!"
Bebe quickly covered her mouth, but her giggles still escaped.
"Are… are you seriously blaming it on that?"
"Yes! Think about it!"
Bebe stared at her a moment longer. "You're totally serious. Did you take some funny pills this morning?"
"Come on, I'm serious. How many straight guys are in this classroom, right now?"
She sighed, but looked around. "Token… Stan, maybe. Jimmy, I guess…" Her eyes widened, and she turned back to Wendy, shocked. "Oh my God. You're serious."
"Am I wrong?"
Bebe slowly shook her head, shock written on her features.
"What the hellhappened?"
She shrugged, eyeing Miss Franklin, who was staring at the whispering girls with a stern eye.
"Something in the water, I guess."
"Well. I suspect foul play." Whatever force in the universe that was trying to keep Wendy Testaburger from getting her prom date had clearly never met her.
"Hello? Mr. Marsh?"
Wendy stepped in to his office, feeling a slight flutter of nerves.
"Yes? Hello? Oh—Hello, Stan's old friend, Wendy, right? Wendy, uh, Testament?"
"Testaburger." She forced a smile. "I just had a few questions if you're not busy, Mr. Marsh."
"Oh sure, sure." He turned back, hurriedly hiding a half-empty beer bottle. "What's this for?"
"A Human Geography project." She felt a twinge of guilt for the lie.
"Okay. Well, shoot." In the intervening years, Randy Marsh's hair had started going grey at the temples, but he still had the same youthful spark in his eyes that told you he could (and would) do something reckless and irresponsible given the opportunity.
"I've been doing some research. According to my polling, the male youth of South Park rate an average of 3.5 on the Kinsey Hetero-Homo sexuality continuum scale, a seven point scale from zero to six, zero being exclusive heterosexuality, six being the opposite, so a rating of three and a half flies in clear disconnect with the national average of 1.7, if you see what I'm saying, and so I was wondering if there was something about the physical geography or demographic pull of Park County that would cause this."
She was met by a blank stare, and decided to just cut to the chase.
"Mr. Marsh, more teenage boys in South Park are gay or bisexual than not, and I want to know why."
A strange expression crossed his face. "Miss Testaburger, I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about. And I think it's best if you leave now." He stood up and opened the door, an awkward smile plastered on his face.
"Oh. Okay. Well, thanks anyway, ."
"Uh-huh," he said, shutting the door firmly in her face.
"I talked to your friend Wendy today, Stan."
It was dinnertime at the Marsh residence, a ritual held with iron-fisted veracity, equally by his mother and communal force of habit. The usual clanking of dishes and silverware, refilling of the old water glasses from before the Wall-Mart was sucked back inside its own bellybutton, requests for salt or the peas, laugh tracks from the TV in the other room, soundtracks to the stilted small talk.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. She stopped by my office actually."
"Randy, the potatoes?"
"Oh, sure."
"What did she want?"
"That's a good question, actually. You should ask her yourself."
He had that look on his face, the same he used to get when Stan would ask too many questions about Easter as a kid. The look that only meant something stupid was about to happen, because anything that Randy Marsh got tied up in ended badly.
"So, what- she just stood there in your office and stared at you?"
"Stanley!"
He chose to not even look at his mother.
"Please just let her know that her concerns are unwarranted."
"Now Randy, Wendy is a nice girl, and if she asked you something, I'm sure it was for good reason."
"Sharon, your heart's in the right place, but there are some things you just shouldn't worry about." He closed his eyes in a self-righteous pose as he spoke.
"Oh. Like Brenda?"
"Yes, exactly," he said, eyes flashing open and teeth grinding together in a tone that clearly said not now, not in front of Stan, a tone Stan was getting sick of. "Things that have been blown way out of proportion."
"I see."
Silence followed. Stan refused to look up from pushing his peas around on the plate. Ever since his Grandpa had been sent to the Home and Shelly had left for college in Denver, it had grown surreally quiet in their house. Stan had a sneaking suspicion that his parents had agreed to stay together until both he and Shelly were out of the house, and some nights he just wished they'd stop acting all together, because it was a shitty play and nobody in the audience bought flowers.
"You know," Stan said. "Maybe I will talk to her."
"You're getting involved."
"What?"
"You. I don't know what you're doing, or what you asked my dad, but you should stop."
"Why? Doesn't like what I might find out?"
"Like I said. I literally have no idea what this is about. Literally. I don't care." Stan sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose.
"This is South Park. Rule number one: you never, ever, ever get involved. Unless you absolutely have to. And I mean lives-on-the-line have to. Just last week, Cartman and I were over at Kyle's trying to play The Deadening 4 on his Game Dodecahedron when the FBI nearly bust down the door, looking for Kenny, claiming they needed his genes for some sort of regeneration project. Do I have any idea what they meant? No. Did it matter that he'd been missing all week? No. Did we still get dragged to a high security holding cell for the rest of the afternoon? Oh yes. You never get involved."
Wendy sighed. She was staring at Stan, some of the fire gone from her eyes.
"It's just a Human Geography project. I promise."
"Okay. Well, call me if it gets worse. Cartman, Kenny, Kyle and I know how to get out of these kind of things alive- Usually."
She watched him for a moment more, smiling slightly. "I will. Thanks."
Wendy spent an hour every afternoon the rest of the week in the library, searching local newspapers and databases for any potential leads, but she had no idea what she was looking for, or even if there was anything to find.
After her talk with Stan, she had resolved to keep her search online. Out of sight, out of mind. But after a frustrating week with zero leads- and still no prom date—she gave in to more… journalistic instincts. She had almost given up hope when a last-ditch effort at the Mayor's office paid off more than she could have imagined.
She finished her speech, stumbling through her power point slides and carefully researched diagrams with an uncomfortably expanding sense of self-awareness. As she finished, the mayor simply stared at her, blinked once, and sighed.
"Miss Testaburger… I'm not sure what exactly you're asking me for. I really don't know. And even if I did, I have no place commenting on the alleged sexuality of the population."
"I understand. Sorry ma'am."
Wendy left, heart sunk low in her stomach. Perhaps it really was all in her head. It could just be a huge coincidence after all. Their town was just… an outlier.
The mayor's undersecretary came bustling past her into the office as she left.
She would have missed it entirely, had she not realized halfway down the hallway that she'd left her USB drive.
"Mayor, this is serious business. Why was that girl asking about Project Unicorn?"
"And I'm telling you once again that I have no idea what you're talking about!"
Wendy paused at the doorway, hardly believing what she was hearing. She crouched out of sight and strained her ear towards the office, holding her breath to catch the conversation.
"This may come as a bit of a shock to you Mayor, but I am not Ron Dixon from Greenlake, Tennesse. My name is Ron Johnson, and I am a federal agent with the CIA, placed here on a strategic sleeper cell mission overseeing Project Unicorn."
"I'm sorry- what?"
"…And I need to know right now if there's been a breach in our security. I can make one phone call, and have this entire city quarantined and questioned, until the leak is found and eliminated."
"Oh dear lord. It's happening again."
"What's happening again? Has our position already been previously compromised?"
"No, no. At least, I doubt it. I have no idea what you're talking about Ron. Honestly. And you know what? I don't care. I don't want to know, I don't want to be involved. Just leave me and South Park out of it."
"But South Park is the entire Project."
"Once again Ron, the less I know the better."
"Right. Uh, ma'am."
"Now, if you'd like to keep your job?"
"Y-Yes ma'am. I would. Very much so."
"Then you can start on that filing cabinet like I asked yesterday."
There was a heavy shuffling, and Wendy stood to disappear—a moment too late. The mayor caught her in her hiding spot behind the potted plant, cheeks blazing in shame. She sat frozen for a moment, the mayor's blue eyes boring into hers. Finally, the mayor sighed.
"Good luck," she said, and continued walking down the hall.
Wendy stood on creaky knees, watching the mayor go. That was it? She was free to leave?
Equal parts anticipation and apprehension filled her veins. She began walking, and nearly half an hour passed before she realized she was subconsciously heading for the library, nowhere near home. She checked her phone. It was only six, meaning the library was open another hour, and nobody had called asking her where she was yet. And now she had something to search for. Screw it, she thought, mentally brushing aside the warnings and crossing the street to the library.
She punched Project Unicorn in to the database search engine, waited what felt like a small eternity for the ancient servers to process her request, and…
Nothing. Zero results found.
She stared uncomprehending at the screen for a moment, fingers dumb and heavy on the keyboard. She tried a Google search, and a library text search, and found equally helpful results.
Ten minutes until the library closed, and she had nothing. Coming so far to only hit a wall seemed cruelly unfair. She slowly started packing her things back up, holding back the bitter taste of disappointment, when she realized with a start that somebody was watching her, and it wasn't the beady-eyed librarian.
She turned slowly, heartbeat like the ocean in her ears, and jerked back the other direction, holding in a scream, when she realized somebody was staring at her. The creepy farmer from jus' up the way, oa'r there, with his overalls and wide-eyed, horse-faced stare. She'd really dug herself into it now.
"What?" she snapped. It would have been smarter to ignore him, but her "Human Geography" project was at a dead end anyway, so what was the point?
"I saw what you was searchin' for," he said in his hick accent.
"Great." She swung her bag over her shoulder and stood.
"You shoul'n't be searchin' for that."
"And why not?"
"Not safe is it?" He began shaking his head ominously. "No, no… Little girls like you should leave that treatment facility alone. You're not ready for the truth."
Treatment facility? Wendy's breath caught in her chest. Was the CIA taking South Park citizens to some sort of shady mad scientist facility? Was that what Project Unicorn meant? Wendy made for the door, checking over her shoulder every few feet, but he didn't move.
That was it. She was going home. She didn't want to know anymore.
Sunset had come and gone while she'd been in the library, and the way home was dark and long. Worst of all, the way home cut through Eastside Park, a nature restoration trail that was a haven for dog walkers during the day and a haunted forest of child-eaters by night. Or at least Wendy assumed as much.
Wendy was halfway through Eastside Park when she heard a sudden rustling in the underbrush. She froze, terror pounding through her veins. It was surely a murderer-rapist-madman, come to do terrible things to her.
The rustling got louder. She heard branches snapping, somebody swearing, and just as she was about to run, a man stumbled out of the trees.
He had a wild look to him, a feral glint in his eyes, hair matted from possible years of abuse. He wore nothing but a leopard skin loincloth and the tattered remains of a yellow Hawaiian print shirt.
Wendy shrieked. The man quickly shushed her.
"Don't scream! I'm not going to hurt you!"
"Who are you?"
"Who… am I? Yes, that's right… I had a name once, long ago. It was- I believe… Dr. Mephesto. I have been lost in the woods these past fifty years, fending for myself, man against nature, scraping out survival against the wild forces of—"
"Um, excuse me, sorry? Fifty years? It can't have been that long… I remember you."
"Oh. Very well, then. How long has it been in that case?"
"I don't know. What's the last thing you remember?"
"Not sure, to be honest. I brought a lot of acid into the forest with me. Was originally supposed to just be a day trip."
"Didn't you use to have an assistant?"
"Oh. Yes. He had to be sacrificed for the greater good. Like I covered before, I spent a long time in the woods."
"Okay. Right. Why did you run off?"
He looked around furtively before answering. "I'm not sure you're ready for the truth, little girl."
Wendy heaved a deep sigh. She had made it through the town's MIA mad scientist pouncing on her in the middle of the forest. She'd made it through a stare down with the local weirdo. Wendy Testaburger didn't commit to something just to back down halfway through. Her resolve rekindled, she crossed her arms and glared at the wild-man before her.
"I've already heard that one today. Trust me, I'm ready."
"Well, in that case. It was a secret government project. They recruited me due to my superior scientific knowledge. But I got dragged in too deep, too fast. I couldn't drink the water, knowing what I knew. So I had to do something drastic. I had to flee, and make it in the wild. I had no choice."
Couldn't drink the water? The facility Captain Staredown had mentioned—it must have been the water treatment facility. What had they done?
"I'm sorry!" He shrieked. "I shouldn't have told you this! Project Unicorn is top-level confidentiality! Oh, I've ruined everything…" He shrieked again, and garbled more meaningless nonsense, and dove back into the woods. Wendy watched him go with a barely concealed eye-roll.
She miraculously emerged at the end of the (ridiculous, hippie nonsense, safety issue without any lighting)"nature trail" into the parking lot- only to face one of her least favorite people. He was leaned up against a beat-up pick up truck.
"Cartman…" She said the name like a swear word. "What are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Nothing. Walking home."
"At…" he checked his watch with an exaggerated motion, "Nearly nine o'clock?"
Cartman sighed and shook his head. "Stan told me you were meddling, though he didn't know what it was about."
Wendy crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes.
"And?"
"Don't worry princess, I've done my fair share of meddling in my time," he said. "And as it just so happens, I always come here to round this time for my run. So you can quit it with that suspicious act."
Wendy dropped her arms to her sides. Perhaps she should give him a chance. He'd changed over the years. (Physically, at least. Rugby had been kind to his pectorals.) She shook her head, banishing the thought.
"Fine," she said, and brought him up to speed on her investigation so far. He listened to her story with a wooden expression.
"Well? Are you going to go?" he asked afterwards.
"Go where?"
"To the water treatment facility. Don't you want to see this through?" He jerked his thumb backwards at his truck.
Was she really going to do this? Was she really going to (besides putting her life in the hands of Cartman's steering wheel) stick her nose in CIA business?
"All right. Let's go."
They parked in a dark corner of the facility parking lot, empty of employee cars. They walked diagonally across the dark, outlying field to a back door. It was heavy, potentially steel, and locked with a code box.
"What now?" she asked.
"Hold on," Cartman said, pulling out his wallet. He pulled out a credit card and started jimmying the crease.
"Are you joking?" she hissed. "That's the most ridiculous thing…"
The door popped open.
"What?"
Cartman smirked at her.
"Watch and learn, dear."
"Wow. They have awful security, for a CIA project."
They wound through several dark hallways, Wendy walking close, but not too close. Finally, they came to a large, unlocked door in the wide expanse of blank concrete walls. Cartman pulled it open, revealing a room the size of a small football field. A large steel pipe ran through the middle of the floor, and large metal contraptions were wired to the pipe around the room. Some to measure pressure, some last-minute purifying devices. They walked straight for the middle, towards a particularly suspicious looking box.
"This must be it," Wendy said. They were stopped in front of a metal cabinet above the main water pipe running along the floor.
"What is it?" Cartman asked.
Instead of answering, she opened the doors, nerves fluttering in her stomach. Inside was some sort of Chemistry experiment dripping a clear viscous fluid through several filters before leading down a pipe that disappeared into the steel of the main pipe section below.
"What—what is it?" Wendy said, peeking in closer. She reached out to touch it, and just as her fingers brushed the cool glass of the flask, a cold, hard click behind them froze her motions.
They both flipped around, and came face to face with a man in a suit and a gun pointed at their faces.
This is it, Wendy thought, cold fear filling her stomach. I've just gone and fucked it now.
"Step away from the Unicorn Apparatus," the man ordered, stepping forward into the light of the flashlight she was still clutching in her hands.
It was Ron, the supposed CIA agent from the mayor's office.
"I knew you'd come poking around here sooner or later," he said. "I've been waiting."
"What is this?" Wendy asked. "Is this Project Unicorn?" Her voice shook, but only a little.
"Yes. We installed this ten years ago, as a long-term solution to the Gooback Problem. So far, clearly-" here he allowed himself a smug chuckle, "It's been working."
Wendy stared at him, narrowing her eyes in confusion. The name made her vaguely recall time traveling immigrants. They'd briefly lived in South Park, but quickly threatened to run over the town. But they'd solved that crisis years ago, hadn't they? Their solution had been…
An all-male orgy pile. Wendy gagged and nearly barfed at the sudden, vivid memory. They hadn't really solved that one, had they?
"You remember now, don't you?" Ron asked.
"Sort of."
"Just think of this as a family-friendly approach to the orgy pile."
Wendy stared at him in shocked incomprehension before the truth dawned on her.
"Oh god. That- whatever that you're putting in our water makes South Park… predominately homosexual?"
He nodded. "It's actually a formula aimed at males going through puberty. Our drug can trigger certain brain chemicals, if you follow, but it works uniquely in the brain-soup environment of a male of that age group."
"Is it permanent? Like if they left South Park…?"
Ron shrugged. "We don't really know yet. As long as the future-leeches stay away, we figure we're doing okay. Gotta keep the population down one way or the other."
"Oh. Okay," said Wendy. At least there a very small, twisted grain of sense with the immorality.
"Okay? Okay what?" the CIA agent asked.
"I mean… Okay. All right then. So that's the mystery. I just wanted to know, and now I know."
"You're not going to… do anything about it?"
Wendy considered it for a second, then shrugged. She looked at Cartman, who also shrugged.
"Nah. I've got an interview for Cornell next Wedneday, and Prom the Saturday after that, and still no date. So you know, more important things. And I also just don't care."
"Same here," chimed in Cartman. "Who really gives a shit, right?"
Wendy had finally learned the most important lesson of South Park: that it was really better not to care.
"You're not going to try to stop the Project?"
"No. Keep at it, I don't see why not. Your hypothesis seems sound."
Ron narrowed his eyes, but lowered the gun.
"You promise?" he asked.
Wendy smiled and held out her right-hand pinky finger. Ron took a few cautious steps forward, but gripped her pinky in his own.
"Alright girl, I'm trusting you," he growled, the threatening effect lost by his grip on her offered pinky promise.
And that was the last Wendy thought of it, for several days. It didn't cross her mind again until she cleaned up her closet and came across her prom dress, still wrapped in plastic.
"Guess I won't be needing this," she said to the empty room. There wasn't much point. She was jerked out of her self-pity by her shrill ringtone. She scrambled for her cellphone and answered it.
"Hello?"
"Are you coming?" It was Stan.
"Coming where?"
"Over to my house. For the project."
Shit, right. With all the drama of Project Unicorn, she'd completely forgotten about English class dioramas.
"I'm on my way over," she said, shoving her dress back into her closet.
Their diorama was already half-finished, probably thanks to Kyle. She sat down across from them at the table where they were working.
"Have you finished the essay?" he asked, eyes glued to the character he was painting. When they split up the work, Wendy had volunteered for the writing portion, not wanting to get between Stan and Kyle's awkward, platonic-ish not-flirting.
She opened her laptop and groaned.
"No."
"What? Wendy, it's due tomorrow."
"I know, I know, just… stupid Project Unicorn."
Stan looked up at her from the tree he was gluing.
"Oh no. You kept going, didn't you?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Well… What did you find out?"
"What're you talking about?" Kyle asked them.
"Wendy got tied up in some secret plot on accident, my dad told her to turn back, and it seems she ignored him."
"I see. Well, what was the secret?" Kyle asked.
"They're drugging South Park to make all the teenage boys hump each other. Something about brain chemicals."
Both of them stopped working and stared at her. She looked up from her laptop to their intense pair of eyes.
"A- All… of them?" Stan asked, voice strained.
"As far as I know," Wendy said carefully.
Kyle flushed a deep red and swallowed, staring down at a spot on the diorama with the intensity of a starving man in a staring match with a loaf of bread. Stan glanced at Kyle quickly, looked away, put down his tree, and stood.
"Wendy, could you give me, uh… Could you give me a minute?" Stan asked, walking backwards towards the kitchen. He swung open the door, meeting Kyle's eyes as he slipped through the door with a significant look. Kyle followed him without so much as an excuse.
Wendy heard a resounding crash, what sounded like a dish smashing and a pot rolling across the floor, and then utter silence.
Wendy started at the kitchen door, wondering what had happened, before she realized what had probably happened, and thought better of knocking. She hastily threw her laptop back into her bag and left a scribbled note for them.
She closed the front door quietly, and walked down the porch stairs. It had been a slow spring, and the last snow of the season was still melting. Slush cornered the yellowish grass and residential sidewalks. Turning down the sidewalk home, she saw a familiar face approaching.
"What are you doing here?" she asked him as they reached each other.
"Nothing," said Cartman, hands in his pockets. "Gonna go antagonize the Jew and his sidekick a little bit."
Wendy rolled her eyes. Cartman was probably in love with Kyle, she realized.
"Well, I'd leave them alone if I were you."
"Aren't you supposed to be doing that English project with them right now?"
She narrowed her eyes. How had he known that?
"Yeah, sort of…" She shrugged.
"Oh, they're too busy making out, is that it?" Eric asked sarcastically.
Wendy blushed. "Um, kind of? I might have mentioned Project Unicorn to them, and well… I guess it was the push they needed."
Cartman cracked up laughing. "I knew it! I called it years ago!"
"You did?"
He nodded, wiping a tear from his eye. "Oh yes, sweetie. I've never been so happy in my life."
Wendy couldn't help a small confused smile.
"I can't believe the CIA's been doping our water system all these years," she said.
Eric nodded calmly, as if she were talking about the weather. "Well it makes sense," he said. "I kind of figured. That's why I've only drank bottled, for years."
"Oh." Wendy mirrored his nod, and found herself blushing.
"So, got big plans for this weekend?" he asked.
"Not really," she said, sighing. "Pint of Ben and Jerry's, I guess."
"But what about prom?"
She shook her head. "Guess not this year. It's fine."
"What about your lavender dress, with the sweetheart neckline?"
Wendy was taken aback. "What? Are you… stalking me?"
Cartman flushed red and shook his hands as if to physically dispel the question.
"No, no, no—Math class. You never shut up, remember? It's not my fault I had to sit behind you all year."
Wendy laughed again. "Actually, yes it is, kind of. We chose seats the first day, remember?"
"Well. Whatever." Cartman kicked the gravel, swallowed, stared up at the sky as if searching for planes, and coughed.
"Well, uh… If you're not- I mean, if you're free- Maybe you'd want to, well…"
"What?"
"Go with me. Or whatever. To- uh, prom."
A smile spread across Wendy's face. God he was such a loser. She stepped forward and grabbed his wrists, still laughing. He finally looked up at her, brown eyes bashful, an angry set to his mouth.
"Eric Cartman… Did you just ask me to Prom?"
He simply stared at her, angry and embarrassed and hopeful. She tipped her face up to his and lifted up on to her toes, pressing a small kiss to his cheek.
"Did you just say yes?" he asked.
Wendy smiled, let go of his wrists, and held out her hand to him. He smiled back and took it.
"Where are we going?" he asked, as they started down the street.
"I don't know," she said sighing. "And I don't care. As long as it's with you."
He squeezed her hand.
Wendy shuddered and thought of one more thing.
"And also not Eastside Park."