Notes: This chapter is a tribute to one of Crow's unfinished fics, and his upcoming collaborative project, as well as a taste of things to come.

Dusk had descended on the small mountain village, and the full moon glared down in all its prominent glory from atop skies of maroon and midnight blue. Stan found himself running once again, his clothes damp with heavy perspiration, his breath hanging in the air in puffs of hot steam. A ringing pain pierced his skull, running down the length of his spine to a point below his waist. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his skin crawled and burned as if he had been touched with a million live wires at once.

The change was upon him.

Stan willed himself to press on, as if he could somehow outrun his fate, but his body had a mind of its own. "Aaah! No!" He staggered to a stop, wrapping his arms tightly around his midsection and doubling over, unable to fathom what was happening to him. He could dredge up no memories of ever being bitten, or having been experimented on, or entering into a pact with the darkest of supernatural forces. How could this be real?

He clenched his teeth hard after an itch like tiny shards of glass embedded in his gums had spread through his mouth. Running his tongue over them, he felt pointy rows of sharp teeth and fangs that hadn't been there before. A scream escaped Stan's lips. The tips of his red gloves were torn through with tough claws that had erupted from his nailbeds.

The blue-haired boy stood before a snow-covered pine tree, wearing an expression that conveyed more intrigue than apprehension. Stan had never before felt more relieved to see the Guide. "What's—happening to me?" Stan demanded. "Why me? This doesn't make any sense!"

"Stan," spoke the boy, "This makes perfect sense. You of all people should realize that."

What was his Guide talking about? Had the boy completely lost his mind? "But how did this happen?" was the only thing Stan could think to ask. The burning sensation all over his body was too much for him to bear, causing him to tug and claw away at his jacket and shirt to quench himself in the chill night air. His skin and underlying muscles felt two sizes too small, and were being wrenched to the limit by his bones as they shifted and popped into the strange new form.

"Stan," the boy addressed him by name again. "This was bound to happen."

"I don't…" Stan started to protest. He fell to his hands and knees in the snow, but could barely feel the freezing ground below. "I don't understand!" Stan lifted his right hand out of the snow and screamed again at the sight of the thick dark pads that now covered his palm. Turning his hand over, he could only watch helplessly as his skin prickled and writhed underneath, and a dense layer of dark gray hairs crept across. The dark gray pelt spread in seconds, enveloping his chest and midsection as far as he could see. Stan's eyes widened as a third scream echoed through the evening air.

"Stan," said the Guide, "Change is inevitable. You have surely matured a lot since we first met. You are simply awakening to your true self."

"No…" Stan tried to say, but was caught short of breath, hyperventilating and straining against the curse that had taken control of him. Stan cried out pathetically when a heavy crunch shuddered through his bones. His limbs, spine, and ligaments continued to stretch and reform, telescoping outwards, while his muscles spasmed and swelled to keep pace. "I don't want to change into something I'm not!" He gave an agonized groan. "I don't want to become a monster!"

"You fear becoming a monster, more than anything else," stated the Guide. "More than death, or betrayal, or even losing the ones you care about the most."

Stan tried to nod, even as his fur covered neck thickened and extended. "I just want to go back to who I always used to be!" The tarsal bones in his feet grew until his shoes became uncomfortably cramped. His ankles had popped out of his socks and shoes, and tough pads formed under his clawed toes and where the balls of his feet once were.

The Guide shook his head. "Change is the only universal constant. You know this. It happens to everyone in some way or another."

"The pain, it's just…" Stan clenched his hands over his head and the fiery throbbing within the confines of his skull. He could feel that his ears had grown pointy and extended upward. "I can't take it anymore."

"Clinging to the past is what causes your suffering," explained the boy. "You must learn to accept yourself and your underlying nature, even if others cannot."

"A-acceptance?" asked Stan, trying to make sure he'd heard right through his own anguished cries. His rapid breathing slowed for a moment, and he slowly unclenched his hands from his head. "What do you mean by clinging?"

The blue-haired boy stood with his hands clasped in front and spoke with his eyes closed. "Do not fight it. Embrace who you are."

Despite his lingering reluctance carried on shuddering breath, Stan knew he had no other choice. Focusing on the Guide's words, Stan crouched in the snow, leaning forward on his hands to find the most comfortable stance to ease into the transformation. What if the pain was all within his mind?

He stretched out his limbs, taming the wrenching pain into a dull ache. Deep cooling breaths filled his lungs, tapering the intensity of his boiling blood to a burning fury within. The stabbing in his skull gave way to the sweet release of pent up tension.

Stan pitched his head forward, allowing his upper and lower jaws to extend. His ears folded and grew into two points atop his head. At the base of his spine, a gray fluffy tail sprouted and unfurled from his lower back. He arched his back so that his chest could expand from front to back, bowing into a long stretch so that his abdomen could assume its longer, more slender shape, as his innards shifted to fill the space. Instead of the excruciating ordeal it had started out as, the transformation had become liberation from the cramped tightness of heavy shackles as it finished running its course.

When at last it was all over, a dark gray wolf pelt now covered the entirety of his body. Stan rose to his hind feet and kicked himself free from the last remaining tatters of his human clothing, no longer feeling the chill of the night air. All that was left was the blue and red poofball hat over his ears. In a dazed state, he reached up and pulled it off, folding it up and placing it in the Guide's outstretched hand. He tried to speak, but wasn't even sure that he could anymore.

"Do you know who you are?" was the first thing the Guide asked.

Stan swallowed in hesitation. "Yes…" Much to his surprise, his voice sounded no different from before. "I'm Stan… Stan Marsh, or at least I used to be."

"What makes you think you're not the same person you always were?" said the Guide. "You still have everything that made you who you were, only now you have this as well. Think of everything you've learned. Think of how far you have come."

"So this…?" Stan gazed at his front paws held before his face. "This is who I am now? But what if I don't want this?"

"To return to the way you were before would be clinging," said the blue-haired boy. "To wish you could go back to your past self is not a solution, but an embrace of ignorance. Tell me Stan, are you still in pain?"

"No." He could feel his newfound strength surging through him like never before.

"You are more powerful than you've ever been, correct?" asked the Guide.

"I guess so. But I just don't want to be seen as a hideous monster."

The Guide waved for Stan to follow. "Come with me, I have something to show you." He led Stan up to the frozen bank of the pond and motioned for him to look at his reflection in the icy waters.

Stan knelt at the edge and peered into the reflective surface. "JESUS CHRIST, DUDE!" He recoiled at once and clapped his paws over his face in shame.

The Guide urged him on. "Stan, look again and tell me what you see."

Stan slowly crept back towards the edge and peeked out from between clawed furry fingers. Bright eyes of arctic blue amid a dark gray complexion met his own from beneath the surface of the pond. He saw a long lupine snout covered in ebony fur, and ending in a cold wet nose, as well as a pair of gray tufted ears with black point coloration. "I'm--not hideous?" he spoke slowly. Stan blinked to ensure the reflection as telling the truth.

He was a beautiful loup-garou.

"So what will you do now?" asked the Guide.

"I don't know," said Stan. "This will take some getting used to."

"You will, in time," replied the Guide.

Stan's ears perked up. He could hear the distant voices of the angry village mob that had chased him from their midst. The villagers had since had time to gather their torches, shotguns, and pitchforks, and they would soon be coming for him.

He looked back at the small mountain village. "There is nothing left for me there," said Stan. The mob voices drew closer. He knew what he had to do. Leaving behind his past attachments, Stan dropped to all fours and loped off into the woods to start his new life, with his own kind.

The Guide smiled quietly to himself and vanished.

Several minutes later, the angry villagers finally arrived on the site. All they found were scraps of shredded clothing and large wolf tracks in the snow, trailing off towards the conifer tree line. The tall shotgun-toting redneck leading the village mob spat and cursed in frustration. "Dagnabbit! We'll never catch him at this rate!"

"It's yer damn fault!" shouted a skinny unshaven villager with a torch. "You took too long to track him down! Now the werewolf is on the loose!"

"Someone think of the children!" an older woman in the mob cried out. "If we don't kill that beast, it'll make off with them in the night!"

"Besides, we don't take kindly to anyone who's different from us!" said a burly villager, waving his pitchfork.

"Yeah!" shouted another of the village women. "I just know that werewolf's been behind everything bad that's been going on lately!"

The lead villager turned towards the rest of the mob. "But he's long gone by now! We all came out here for nothing. So what in tarnation are we going to do now?" Without warning a shotgun blast rang out, and a scream could be heard from somewhere in the back of the mob. Apparently the redneck hadn't realized his finger was still on the trigger, or where the barrel had been pointing.

The skinny villager stared slack-jawed for a second. "That's a great idea! We came out here to kill something, so let's kill each other!"

"Yeah!" shouted the other villagers in unison, before they all turned their shotguns, pitchforks, and torches on each other. The angry mob imploded, shooting each other in the feet, taking turns gouging each other with pitchforks, and setting fire to everything within reach. Before long, the orgy of immense stupidity had taken its toll, and many of the villagers lay dead or wounded, thoroughly enthralled in their victory celebration.

Deep within the forest, Stan had found the place where he felt he truly belonged. He was now strong enough to handle anything life could throw his way. A melodic keening chorus drifted on the night air beneath the full moon.

"Mr. Marsh? Mr. Marsh, how are you feeling?" asked the doctor.

Stan yawned and stretched. "I feel a lot better now, thanks." He noticed his cast had been taken off, and there was a small bandage over where his IV had been taken out. He moved his right arm around for a bit.

"You've made a remarkable recovery, I have to say," said the doctor. "Your bones mended a lot faster than we anticipated, so we went ahead and cut that cast off for you. You should be able to return home in another day."

"Okay," said Stan. He didn't bother to ask what his parents were up to. If they didn't want to come pick him up, he'd walk himself home. He couldn't wait to get out and stretch his legs regardless.

"Take care, Stan," said the doctor.

As the doctor left, Stan could have sworn he saw someone else out in the hallway. Sitting on a bench across from his room was a boy with his face hidden behind the magazine he was reading. A tuft of blue hair was barely visible from over the top of the pages. Stan rubbed his eyes and blinked, but when he looked again, the boy was gone.

The following day, Stan woke up, feeling a little groggy. His family was there, standing beside his doctor. His eyes hurt as they adjusted to the light.

"Welcome back, Stan," said the doctor. "You gave us quite a scare."

"I wha…?" Stan's throat felt dry and his voice came out gravelly. "What're you talking about?"

"Stan," said the doctor, "You've been in a coma ever since you were brought in after that car crash. We weren't sure if you would ever wake up."

Stan sat quietly in bed as reality slowly sank in. "But I thought that… It just seemed so real."

The doctor checked Stan's breathing and pulse. "Those must have been some dreams you were having. You were talking in your sleep so much that we had to move you down the hall so you wouldn't wake up the other patients."

"Oh…" said Stan, somewhat embarrassed.

Sharon approached his bedside. "Stan, now that you're better, we can take you to…" She paused. "…Visit your friends. If you want, that is." Her tone was uncharacteristically somber.

"Uh, okay."

"Why don't you get dressed?" said Randy. "We'll be waiting for you outside."

The drive was the longest ten minutes of Stan's life. He was finally reunited with Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman once more. He knelt in the cold earth, still soft from being dug into recently.

The three gravestones before him were a decent, fitting tribute to his three best friends. He had been the only one who survived the car accident. They had already been gone by the time they visited him in his dreams. His mind drifted back to all the times that they had been together, for better or for worse, laughing and fighting and sharing in each other's struggles.

Stan wiped away a tear with the back of his hand. His will had been tempered, and his resolve had been tested. He had learned to let go when it was time to let go. He rose to his feet and bowed his head. With time, he would learn to navigate the ponderous chasm that had been ripped in his soul.

A much older gravestone, crumbling and covered with moss and lichen, caught Stan's attention. He took a closer look and noticed that, although the name had long since eroded away, the date was still legible. October 15, 1905 – April 30, 1913. The grave must have belonged to a child about his age. Faintly visible under the moss was a carved likeness of the child's face. Stan knew he had seen him before somewhere. There was something vaguely familiar about the boy's appearance.

Stan departed from the cemetery. A great many things had changed, yet life would have to go on. His friends had perished, but they were not gone.

He knew where he would be able to see them again.

THE END