Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any character present in this story. They belong to their rightful owners, and I do not intend to use them for any kind of profit.

T/W: Character death. Possibly chauvinistic remarks—please bear in mind that it's 1924.

XxXxX

Chapter 2: Au Revoir, Stanley!

Do you fear death.

The cigarette-smoking man's question echoed inside Stan's head. Of course he feared death-it was part of the human instinct. Although death was a concept that he didn't fully grasp yet, he knew it was the worst thing that could happen to a person. And given the present circumstances—bunch of people in black suit around him and one of them pointing a gun at him—one could easily deduct that death was one likely consequence that he faced.

The boy, however, did not answer his question right away. Amid the sheer pressure that could easily overwhelm an able-bodied man, he suddenly remembered something that his father, Randall Marsh, had always told him.

Be brave, Stan. That was what his father told him almost on a daily basis. Especially in the face of a great peril, do not give in. Do not give them what they want. Even if that means losing your life. Death is just one of many things a man has to face. Gut is what makes a man, a true man. A true man doesn't fear anything.

A sudden wave of courage swept the inside of the boy as he thought about what his dad told him. "No, I'm not afraid." Stan stated firmly to the man in front of him. "My dad told me a true man doesn't fear anything. Especially guys like you."

The whole place went completely silent for a second. What Stan didn't see coming, however, was the sudden eruption of loud laughter from all the standing men in the place, minus himself. Even the emotionless cigarette-smoking man joined other people, muttering 'Did you 'ear 'zat' to the blonde man who was standing right behind him. Stan had nothing to do except to stand still, feeling dumbfounded. Was it what he said that hat made them all laugh? If so, what was so funny about it?

The sheer laugher lasted a good ten seconds before it began to die down. For a reason that Stan did not understand, the cigarette-smoking man mysteriously lowered his gun and walked towards the boy, still not erasing the smile from his face.

"Boy, I love your answer. Sorry 'zat I didn't recognize a fine, brave, true gentleman 'ere" Some of the men giggled again. The smoking man continued. "Seeing that you're a good boy and all, there is somezing 'zat I want to show you." Then he shot a quick look at the blonde who had lighted his cigarette up minutes before. "Gregory, take all the boys out. I'll join you later."

"But, Christophe," the man named Gregory seemed to be the only one who addressed the cigarette-smoking man by his first name. "The whole building is going to collapse soon. There's little time left."

Stan couldn't help but notice that Gregory had a different accent from the cigarette-smoking man. He was already familiar with the heavy French accent that the smoking man spoke with, because his dad taught him a little French and told him to stay away from anyone who spoke the language. The Blonde man called Gregory, however, spoke British English. One of Randall's servants, Pip, was a British and had the exact same accent.

Then he saw the lingering smile on the face of the cigarette-smoking man go away. He slowly turned his head to shoot a death glare at the guy called Gregory. "Do not make me repeat myself."

Gregory went stiff as he felt the chill of death from the glare that he was receiving. "S, sorry." He then hurriedly walked towards the entrance, beckoning others to follow him. "Alright, boys, we're moving out. Move your arses!" He looked at the cigarette-smoking man one last time before he closed the front door. "We'll be waiting in the front yard."

The smoking man just nodded without looking back, and the door was closed shut with a clicking noise. After all the other guys exited the building like an ebbing tide, Stan and the cigarette-smoking man were the only ones occupying the great hall of the building. Stan noticed that the previous smile on the man's face had returned. Speculating cautiously that the man was in the right mood, the boy decided to press for a question that he had been wanting to ask.

"Who are you?" Stan asked nervously.

The cigarette-smoking man scoffed. "My, my. Excuse my rudeness." He exhaled the odd-smelling smoke from his lung as he continued. "Christophe DeLorn is my name. But everybody calls me 'ze Mole."

Stan remained silent. The Mole…he contemplated, what an odd name.

"Come 'ere, boy. You don't want to miss z'is." The Mole then headed towards the direction where the kitchen was located. Stan saw no other option than to oblige.

He pulled to a stop in front of the door leading to the kitchen and looked at the boy. "I 'ope you enjoy it." With that, he pushed the doors wide open.

When the door opened, Stan had to pinch his nose in order to prevent the odor from harassing his olfactory senses: the thick smell of human blood. As he entered the room, however, he discovered that the odor was hardly a thing that mattered at all. The place was nothing short of a bloodbath. The entire place was littered by dozens of dead human bodies, blood oozing out of them making ponds here and there.

"'Zey made 'ze final stand 'ere." The cigarette-smoking man commented, seemingly not irritated at the scene at all. "But to be honest, it was more of a massacre than a battle." Then he patted on Stan's shoulder. "'ave a look around. I prepared a prize for you somewhere in the kitchen."

This kind of scenery would normally make Stan cry and run away calling for his mom. He, however, knew that he had no one beside him to depend on right now. Swallowing back the urge to cry out and run away, he slowly looked around the place to find the 'prize' that the man mentioned he had hidden in the place.

His gaze first stopped at the corner of the room right beside the dish cabinet. Lying beside it with her back to the wall was a possibly overweight woman with red, curly, and voluminous hair. Tear welled up in the boy's eyes as he identified the body as belonging to the head maiden of this premise: Sheila Broflovski. She had always been kind to Stan, almost too kind sometimes. Her husband Gerald had been killed when he was caught in the middle of a crossfire between the Marshes and the DeLorns several years ago. Having learned about this, Randall offered her a job at his premise and paid her handsomely in an attempt to compensate for her loss. Sheila greatly appreciated the favor and pledged her everlasting service to the Marshes.

Sheila and Gerald had two sons: one named Kyle who was of the exact same age as Stan, and the other named Ike who was born when Kyle was three. Ike, however, died of pneumonia before he could reach his first birthday. The loss of her second child and the following death of her spouse drove Sheila somewhat schizophrenic. She became overly protective of her only remaining son and barred him from ever exiting the house in order to protect him from the dangers of the outside world. On every Tuesday, however, Kyle tagged along with his mom to learn about various things that he would grow up to do—she wanted Kyle to work in the Marshes' house in the future as she was doing. The Marshes were powerful enough to protect her child, according to what she professed every day.

As Randall didn't allow his only son to go to school where he would be targeted easily by other Mafias, Kyle was the only friend in his age that Stan ever got to know in his life so far. The story was not so different for Kyle, who had to remain home every day and night all by himself except for Tuesdays. As a result, the two loners grew to enjoy each other's company quite much, filling in the blank of human interactions with their friendship. Although Sheila usually had Kyle do some chores in the house, he would sneak out when his mother was not looking and would hang out with Stan, playing hide and seek in the garden, pushing each other on the swings, and just running along around the building for no obvious reason. Day after day, they witnessed their friendship evolve into best friendship, and then again into what they called 'super best friendship.' Naturally, Tuesday became their favorite day of the week. Now that Sheila was dead, however, Stan didn't know what would become of his super best friend. He placed his hand on his chest and clutched the necklace he was wearing through the fabric of the shirt. It was Kyle who had given it to him six days ago, over a certain promise that they made.

But his hand soon fell as his gaze moved away from the painful sight of Sheila's demise. There was no time to be mourning about the loss of one particular life for too long. If he did, he would be stuck in the kitchen for the next ten days weeping. He started to sob as he recognized several other people that he grew up to be intimate with. Lying across the table was Rebecca who used to read him bedtime stories whenever he had difficulty falling asleep. She was Stan's favorite of all maidens in the house, and he always liked to call her Red.

Then he noticed Jimmy. He was a World War veteran who lost his legs in a battle and acquired a post-traumatic disorder that made him stammer. Hired by Randall as an engineer and repairman, there was nothing he couldn't fix with his tools. He had a great sense of humor and was a welcome guest in every special occasion such as weddings and birthdays.

Yet another body belonged to Henrietta, who always held grudges against her own life, among numerous others. Her cold mannerism sometimes scared Stan, but he had to give her credit for making the world's best oatmeal. But as it seemed, he would never be able to taste it again.

His train of thought, however, grinded to an abrupt halt as his gaze stopped at a certain sight that he never knew he was going to see in his lifetime. At the other corner of the room beside one of the windows was a man lying dead, his hand still not letting go of the gun he held until his death.

Randall Marsh, the godfather of the Marshes who has been commanding the entire Bronx for years, was there. The color of his hair was charcoal black, identical to that of his son Stan. He wore the not-so-neatly groomed moustache that tickled Stan's face whenever he gave him a kiss. His open, unblinking eyes stared at the ceiling with an expression that Stan could not understand.

"Daddy!" without a second of hesitation, Stan bolted towards the dead, limp body that had been his father for the last eight years. The Mole man followed him slowly.

"Daddy! Daddy! Wake Up!" Stan wailed as he shook the cold body of Randall Marsh as hard as he could. He remembered the times when his dad feigned death when they played 'cowboy gunfight' with imaginary guns they supposedly held in their hands in the old, western style: back to back, ten steps forward, and pull the gun at the count of five. And then bang! Stan always emerged as the winner, and his dad would clutch at his chest with pained expression on his face, dropping on the ground covered by grass with an exaggerated gesture. Another unchanging feature of this game was that he always came back to life to play another round, or to head back inside the house when Sharon or Sheila called out for the two males saying the dinner was ready. Stan hoped that his dad was feigning death this time as he always did. He hoped that his dad was pulling a prank and he was going to surprise him any minute shouting 'BOO!' right to his face.

That, however, did not happen. No matter how hard he called out the name of his father, no matter how hard he shook his body, no matter how hard he prayed for God to bring him back to life, nothing happened. Stan hugged the body of his dad as hard as he could. He was so different from what he remembered him to be. He felt too cold to the skin of the boy. He did not hug him back. He did not say anything to acknowledge his son's presence. He was so… dead.

Stan felt the sudden feeling of his inside churning. This was too much for an eight-year-old boy to handle, especially for Stan Marsh who was born with a particularly weak stomach. Letting go of the body, he stepped backward and crawled on all fours. Then, he threw up everything that he held inside him. He didn't stop crying even when he was emptying the contents of his little stomach. The boy's face was now all covered in tears flowing down from his eyes, mucous from his nostrils, and vomit from his mouth.

"Do you like your prize." The cigarette-smoking man had been watching the whole feat, his facial expression still not changing from the usual look.

"Who…" Stan wiped his face with his sleeve as he slowly recovered and looked up at the Mole. "Who did this to my dad?" To his mind, there was no one who would do such a terrible thing to his dad. He was the most brave, most kind, and most loving person that he'd ever known. He didn't know the reason why anyone would want to hurt his dad like this.

"Oh, do you want to know." By that time, only the filter remained from the cigarette that he was smoking. He tossed it away as he walked towards the boy, slowly kneeling in front of him. "Do you really want me to tell you who did 'zis."

Stan was scared a little as the distance between him and the Mole was suddenly reduced to mere inches. Without saying anything, he silently nodded. He did want to know. He wanted to find out whoever did this to give them the same fate as his father's. He had never felt the anger and sorrow of this scale before. He was still too young to fully understand the true meaning of the word vengeance, but this was the exact thing that he was yearning for.

"Alright" Then the French man pulled himself closer to the boy to the extent Stan thought he was going to kiss him. The boy could feel the scent of French Vanilla coffee that the man presumably had for his breakfast. Instead of kissing him, however, he stared directly at the boy's eyes and stated in his cold, firm voice.

"I killed him." he continued as the boy's eyes went wide. "I killed Randall Marsh. I killed everyone. I killed your father, your mother, and your sister. I killed everyone in 'zis house." The wide grin returned to his face as he said this. "Oh, by 'ze way, you should have been here when I killed your mother. Or maybe you might have heard her screaming like a bitch."

"ARGH!"

Stan felt the immeasurable anger building up inside him and plunged his clenched fist forward. It was him. It was him all along. It was him that brought misery and destruction to his happy life. Now he had to pay for what he did to his family. He already had punched that Tommy guy earlier that day, and he was confident that he could fight the Mole in front of him like he fought Tommy.

His fist, however, was stopped in the middle of the air by the French man's hand. "Oh-oh." He wagged the index finger of his other, free hand in disapproval. "'zat is a very naughty boy."

Then the Mole stood up and kicked the boy in front of him hard, sending the fragile body of Stan flying across the room. Stan landed on the floor with a loud thud, wincing and yelping at the immense pain inflicted on him. He was sure that some of his ribs were cracked. The Mole stomped his way to the injured boy and stepped on his chest to prevent him from standing up.

"Let me go!" Stan yelled at the Mole while wriggling helplessly to escape from under his foot, but in vain.

"Go ahead. Call for help. Pray for God to help you out." He shouted almost maniacally. "Where iz' God when you need him the most. Where iz' your beautiful, merciful faggot, now."

Stan's brain, however, could not form an answer to that question. The Mole was stepping on the exact spot where his ribs were cracked and he thought they were going to break apart if the Mole continued applying pressure on his chest. He never felt so much physical pain in his life. It was becoming more and more difficult to even breathe. Stan groaned in pain.

The Mole either did not notice what Stan was going through or did not care enough to relieve him of the pain he was giving him. "People say I'm a freak. A bastard. But you know who the real freak is. God. He's the biggest bastard that the world has ever witnessed. He wouldn't even blink even if I killed you in this right moment, in this right place. What kind of just, loving deity lets a hardened criminal like me kill a little, innocent boy. He doesn't even bother to send you a rescue." Then the Mole finally lifted his foot from Stan's chest.

Stan lay panting as the Mole continued his heated insult against God. In fact, he didn't hear anything he said with sincerity. In front of him was the man who killed his dad, his mom, his sister, and virtually everyone that he grew up to know. Stan was waiting for the Mole to let his guard off so that he could try throwing another blow at him.

Thinking he caught a perfect opportunity, Stan jumped forward and tried to mount his fist at the Mole's stomach. It, however, was too easily blocked by the man who was almost twice as tall and three times as heavy compared to him. Without retaliating like before, however, the Mole pulled the boy's hand he was grabbing to his left chest, where his heart was located underneath.

"You must hate me. You must despise who I am and what I did. You must 'zink I'm a 'artless bastard. But I'm not." He pulled the boy's hand further to his chest so that Stan could feel his heart beating. "Can you feel it?" The Mole asked. "Can you feel my 'art?"

Stan did feel the man's heart beating. It rather came as a surprise, as he did not expect such a cold-blooded killer to have a heart as he and other normal people did. He, however, refused to answer the man's question. He didn't want to communicate or interact with him in any way. Instead, Stan glared at the Mole while breathing heavily.

"I'll take that as a yes." Letting go of Stan's hand, the Mole reached for the inner pocket of his suit, pulling something out. It was a long, lean dagger covered in a leather scabbard. He pulled the handle of the dagger to reveal the silver, shiny blade of the weapon. At the center of the blade was a certain inscription written in French.

Viva la Résistance

"Splendid, isn't it." He said while examining the knife closely, rotating it in various degrees. "It's origin dates back to the Révolution in 1789, which means this is more than one hundred years old."

Stan winced as the Mole suddenly cut one of his fingers with the blade, making blood ooze out of the fresh scar. "But still sharp. It hardly rusted." Then the Mole licked the blood on his finger.

This man is insane, Stan thought, he is completely out of his mind. He tried hard to guess at the meaning of his gesture. Was he going to kill him? Probably not. If he wished so, he would have easily disposed of him in the hallway. Even if he was intending to kill him, however, Stan could not think of running away, let alone fighting back. The amount of pain that he felt in his chest increased tenfold from minutes before, and he was not sure if he could even walk in this state. Even if he tried, the Mole would have little difficulty in catching up with him and piercing that long, scary dagger through his heart.

"What are you going to do to me?" Shuddering at the thought of his impending death, Stan managed to speak out those words.

The Mole moved his gaze from examining the dagger he held to staring at the boy, and answered him nonchalantly. "I'm offering you a chance. A second chance, perhaps." Then he spun the dagger so that the handle of it was on Stan's side. "Take it."

To Stan, it was getting more and more difficult to understand what was inside the French man's mind. Agitated by Stan's lack of reaction, the Mole insisted for a second time. "Take it."

Then the boy took the knife that the older man offered him. Stan was so confused that the idea of using the dagger right away to stab the one who killed his family did not occur to him. Instead, he stared at the Mole with a questioning look on his face.

"Go ahead. Live on. Experience firsthand the misery of life like I did. You're now all alone in this world. And when you grow up to be a man," The Mole returned the boy's gaze. "come for my 'art with that knife of yours. When that day comes, and if you deserve it, I shall give it to you." He didn't blink a single time as he said this. "But you'll 'ave to take it from me. I like my 'art."

Then, he once again grabbed Stan's free hand and guided it to where his heart lied underneath. Stan could feel the man's heart beating, but at a much faster pace than it had been moments ago.

"From now on, my 'art is yours, Stan Marsh. The question is," He grinned. "will you ever be able to claim it."

Still, Stan did not fully grasp the true intention of the Mole. One thing was clear, though: the man expected him to live. The man wanted him to live. The man wanted him to live so that he can claim the man's heart. If that was the case, Stan did not see any reason to decline his offer.

"I'll do it." The boy stated firmly. "I promise I'll do it."

"Good." The smile on the Mole's face grew wider. "I shall be keeping it until the day comes."

As soon as he finished that line, however, the entire building made a cracking noise. The fire must have gotten to the main pillars that had been supporting the ceiling. The whole place could come down any minute.

"Time to part ways, Stan Marsh." The Mole waved the boy off, standing up to get himself out of the place as well. "Get out of here. And don't forget the knife."

"But my dad!" Stan didn't want to leave the body of his dad in that state. And his mom. And his sister. In fact, he didn't want to leave anyone behind in a collapsing building.

The Mole sighed. "A boy iz' a boy…" Then he pulled out the pistol that he had stored at the side of his belt. "You 'ave five seconds before I change my mind."

Stan tried to protest. "But what about my dad!"

"Five." The Mole started counting.

"You can't just leave him alone!" The boy implored.

"Four." But obviously it failed to move the older man's mind.

Stan then realized that there was no point in trying to argue with the man. He quickly grabbed the dagger lying on the floor and looked around to see if there was any exit.

"Three." The Mole aimed the gun at the boy.

Stan then spotted the rear door of the kitchen that led directly to the backside of the building. Without wasting another precious second, he started running towards the door.

"Two." The gun made a clicking noise.

Stan reached the door and tried to open it. To his sheer dismay, however, the door was locked. He tried to force open it, but the task was simply too much for an eight-year-old boy.

"One." The mole closed his left eye, using the other eye to finalize his aiming process.

"Wait!" Stan turned around to explain the situation. "The door's locked! I can't…"

Bang.

Like earlier, Stan reacted to the sound of gunfire by flinching and instinctively covering his face. This time too, however, he didn't feel any pain of any bullet penetrating his system. Slowly opening his eyes, he noticed smoke exiting the barrel of the pistol held by the Mole. When a sudden squeaking noise came from behind, the boy turned around to see what just happened.

…the door was open. The doorknob, along with the locking device inside it, was completely blown off. It was an impossible job except for those who possessed remarkable marksmanship. Wait a minute, Stan thought, did the Mole just blow the door open for me?

The boy turned around once again to face the man holding the gun. "Did you just…"

"I missed." He stated in the usual cold, nonchalant manner. The pistol then made another clicking sound. "But I never miss twice in a row."

The boy noticed the sincerity in his remark and quickly bolted outside the door. It was getting dark. He climbed up the fence as quickly as he could and kept running from the house that he had been living since he was born. Tears welled up in Stan's eyes as he reminisced about all the memories he had before that day.

Mom, dad, Shelly… they don't belong to this world anymore.

Kyle… with his mom dead, he doesn't have anything left in his life, just like me.

He clutched at the necklace that he was wearing once more.

Sorry, Kyle. I don't know if I can keep the promise…

Back in the building, the Mole emerged from the collapsing building through the rear door of the kitchen. He pulled out the pack of cigarette from his inner pocket, and fetched the last remaining stick in the small paper box to bring it to his mouth. Lighting up the coffin nail, he dragged a puff of the sweet, addicting smoke into his lung and expelled it back into the air. He noticed the figure of Stanley Marsh running away from where he was.

"Au revoir, Stanley!" The Mole shouted at the direction.

When Stan heard the voice of the cigarette-smoking man from behind, however, he didn't look back. He knew that he would not be able to run again if he ever stopped. So he ran. And ran. And ran. He ran until he didn't recognize the scenery that he was passing through. And then he still ran.

The Mole silently watched the boy until he completely disappeared from the sight. He suddenly felt the taste of the cigarette less appetizing then before and tossed the still relatively-new cigarette back into the house through the open door.

"Go on, Stanley. Live on to suffer. When you grow up, grant me a wish that God wasn't nice enough to grant." He mumbled to himself. "And put me out of 'zis misery."

He then walked away from the building to join the other members of his clan who had been waiting for him in the front yard.

"What became of the boy, Christophe?" Gregory asked, opening the door for the black sedan for his old friend.

"He's dead." The Mole stated plainly. "Pity. He reminded me of myself when I was at his age."

Gregory silently nodded and then asked. "And what about this Cartman guy? I don't know if we really should let a rat like him into our ranks."

"A deal iz' a deal, Gregory. He fulfilled his portion of the bargain. Now we fulfill ours." The Mole stared blankly up front as he seated himself. "Give him a post. Perhaps in accounting. He seems to be good at calculations."

"As you wish, my good brother." Gregory smiled and closed the door shut, hurrying himself to take his seat behind the wheel. The Mole's face displayed a sign of uneasiness at the way Gregory called him, but he decided not to pursue the matter and said nothing.

One by one, the vehicles belonging to the DeLornes left the place. Soon after, the once great, white building at 609 Elm Street crushed down with a loud noise, splashing dust all over the block.

And Sharon was right: it made the first headline the next day.

XxXxX

A/N:

Thank you for reading thus far. This largely concludes the introduction part of the story, which describes the origin of the whole incident. The subsequent chapters will fast-forward to 1934, ten years after this event took place. You will begin to see some familiar faces popping up, and the story will become more and more romance-heavy as it progresses. I expect 12-15 chapters in total, but no guarantees.

The tip of my hat to xIcedRainbowsx, (Anonymous), Skaminski, and kenny and kyle who left their wonderful reviews! There's nothing that a writer appreciates more than the fact his—notice the pronoun—work is appreciated. A dude writing a slash fic…I'll be damned. I hope this doesn't scare off anybody. I don't bite. Usually.

Please let me know how you think about this chapter, and don't hesitate to tell me if you have anything you'd like to ask.

I might have to put this story on a brief hiatus to deal with some crazy stuffs happening in my winter session. FYI, I major in Procrastination. I must say I'm pretty good at it.

Happy 2012!

-Jack Colquitt.