Thank you everyone who reviewed! I enjoyed writing this chapter. I hope you enjoy reading it just as much.

Random chronological note: Little!Christophe was sold to the Yardale School in October. It is now March in his timeline. It was September of a bit more than ten years later when Big!Christophe met Damien. It is now October. I hope no one's confused (I know I am – I'm always confused about Chronology).

Enjoy this chapter.

They're hiding again, even though it's too late for the cops to be out looking for runaways and the low Heavenfilth soldiers from Yardale have already left. Christophe doesn't know what they're hiding from. All he knows is Gregory insists they stay tucked in the tree, curled up amongst the branches, even when the navy blue of night starts to bleed into dawn.

Gregory grips his uninjured hand hard enough for Christophe's fingers to turn white, to tinge purple. At first he thinks it's because Gregory wants to keep him in the tree. Now he knows Gregory's terrified of what will happen if he lets go.

This isn't right. Gregory isn't supposed to be the scared one. He's supposed to be calculating and unfeeling, not this trembly seven-year-old.

"We 'ave to go after zem."

"No," he says without looking up.

"We should. We . . . we 'ave to go."

"It's too dangerous."

"Please." Christophe is pleading now. He never pleads.

"Don't be stupid," Gregory snarls. "I said, it's dangerous."

"So?" Christophe screeches, his voice slicing through central park. Gregory motions for him to quiet down with a flick of his wrist.

They've had this argument four times in the past hour.

"Fuck you!" he screams, because he's not going to back down anymore, not to this scared little boy who needs to have his hand held. "Fuck you, Gregory, you fucking British fag! I'll save zem all on my own!"

He wrenches his hand from Gregory's grasp and leaps from the tree. He lands hard in a crouch, wincing when the impact sends pain shooting through his injured wrist. Gregory cries out after him, but Gregory ignores him, just takes off running, and he really has no fucking idea where he's going.

XXX

This is quite possibly the most awkward moment of my entire life. I stand with my hands shoved into my pockets, staring at the floor. The six angels examine us. Damien would probably be laughing if he weren't so worried about being tortured. The soldiers stand around us, their guns thrown over their shoulders. And, just to make this perfect, Gregory is waiting for a conference with the angels, and he's at the door so he can listen to our every word.

The female angel who seems to be in charge leans forward in her chair. I don't know her name yet, so I think of her as Purple because of her weird eyes.

"You're in a sexual relationship with the antichrist," she says after a few agonizing minutes.

I wince. Goddamn it, Damien.

"I didn't think even you could possibly stoop this low, Christophe Simon. Have you turned so far away from God that you would touch this filth?"

"Fuck your God," I snap, instantly on edge. "Damien is worz a zousand of 'im."

. . .I don't even trust Damien that much, but damn it, he's hurt me less.

"We cannot permit this," Purple says.

Damien groans next to me. I sigh and wait for him to launch into whatever lie he's come up with.

"See, I knew you assholes would do this. That's why I told him to make sure you guys didn't find out when we were captured. And you won't even let us make out for a few minutes. Fuck you guys." He jerks his chin into the chair. "I don't care if you can't permit this."

"You will not be allowed to see Christophe again," Purple says. "And you will suffer punishment for adultery, both of you." Oh, yeah, angels care about stuff like that.

"Who says we're committing adultery?" Damien snarks.

My eyes widen. No . . . he couldn't be about to say . . .

"You two have obviously had sexual relations. This is unacceptable-"

"It's not adultery," Damien says, "if you're married." And then he throws an arm around me, drags me close to him, and glowers at the angels. My face instantly flushes bright red. I am going to fucking kill him.

The angels are quiet for a few seconds, probably because Damien shocked the shit out of them. And me. I can't even find the words to yell at him. There's no way they'll buy this.

"No rings," Purple says.

"I'm from Hell," Damien says mildly. "We don't exactly follow traditional standards."

"How?" she demands.

He sighs and rakes his hair from his eyes with the hand that's not holding onto me.

"We met a bit over two years ago when he was on a mission to track down a rogue low Hellspawn. He's a mercenary. My father had just stuck me on the same job. It was before he decided to send me up to earth, and he was trying other parenting methods. This one was getting me to help him out with some of his duties. Anyway, we met and-" He shrugs. "We got married August 18th of this year. He still works as a mercenary. When he was injured in the last job hunting down those pedophiles, I took him to Butters' Scotch's house to help him patch up, which is probably why you assholes tracked him down there. Anything else you wanna know?"

The angels stare at us in stunned silence. To hide my horror, I bury my face in Damien's shoulder. "What ze fuck do you zink you are doing?" I mutter.

"Saving both of our asses," he mutters back.

"Well," Purple says after a few seconds. "This . . . changes things."

"You can't hurt him," Damien snarls. "I know you think he's turned away from Heaven, but he was never with you assholes from the start. Don't you dare hurt him for being in love."

I resist the urge to crack up.

"There's nothing wrong with being in love," Purple says with a sigh. "Love is a celebration of life. Love is of God. Perhaps, antichrist, by being in love, you are moving father away from your father."

He doesn't bat an eye. "Perhaps."

"And perhaps, Christophe, by being in love, you'll be closer with God again."

I start to snap out, "I was never on your side, beetch," but Damien, knowing me too well, slaps a hand over my mouth.

"Even though he's the antichrist and you're a High Heavenfilth, it's still love, and you two are still married." Purple sighs again. "Very well. I will permit Damien to stay with Christophe."

. . . that was unexpected. Damien's probably doing a mental happy dance, although outwardly he just smiles.

"Thanks, angel lady." And then he plants a kiss on my forehead. I sigh and lean into him. If Damien and I are sharing a room, we'll be able to plot our escape better and they won't be able to torture him as easily anymore. This situation is a win-win for both of us, really. I just wish it didn't involve me pretending to be married to him.

"Christophe? You've been quiet."

I bow my head. "Zank you." The words come out through gritted teeth.

. . . is it just me, or the angels actually being nice? I guess they believe too much in their own warped ideals to ever discard them, even if the ideals are advantageous to us.

Purple scratches her head, a surprisingly humanlike gesture. "I do not blame you for blowing out the cameras, even if it was a little shortsighted," she says.

Oh, if only you knew.

"Out of respect for your . . . er . . . privacy, we will not reinstall the cameras. We will, however, put microphones in your room."

It's all I can do not to start to cheer. Sure, they can hear us, but we can write down our plans just as easily. Escaping just became so much easier.

"In addition, the antichrist must either be with you or in your room at all times, unless we summon for him. The scripture will remain around his neck."

Damien curses under his breath. This close to him, I can heart the barest traces of mutterings.

"Please," I plead, "Eet 'urts 'im."

She looks surprised. I suppose I can't remember the last time I said please to one of them, or showed concern for another in front of them.

The angels whisper amongst themselves for a few seconds.

"Very well," she says with a sigh. "We'll fit him with a collar similar to yours, except specifically designed to repress his satanic powers the way yours repress your celestial powers."

My mouth almost drops open. Damien grins widely next to me.

"Zank you," I say again, only this time I mean it.

"Soldier Moore, take him to get it put on." She shakes her head. "Go."

Damien grabs my hand I don't even argue, just start to follow him out of the room. My mind can barely process what just happened. Are the angels really so thrilled about the idea of me being in love that they would grant me and Damien this much freedom? Are they fucking insane? I barely even notice the soldiers flocking around us as we head to the door. How could they be so fucking stupid as to buy this?

"See? That wasn't so hard," Damien mutters in my ear, jerking me out of my thoughts.

I wrench away from him and glare at him. "Don't startle me like zat!" I hiss. "And zat was close! Zey might 'ave really 'urt us if ze angel wizth ze purple eyes wasn't such a romantic."

He starts to respond but I bump into someone and look up. It's Gregory. I jerk back immediately, tense, even though I recognize his scent so easily it hurts. Fresh cloth, leather, blood. It's the scent that defines him.

"I almost didn't believe it," he says mildly, "Until you flipped out on him." His accent cuts through me.

He looks at Damien with undisguised loathing. "You see," he says, "it's impossible to truly tame Christophe. Even if he's in love with you, he'll still be just as contradictory."

Damien smiles. "You must be Gregory. Christophe has told me a lot about you."

I have? Um, maybe a little bit.

"Really? What did he say? Nothing bad, I hope."

"He called you a British fag a couple times, that's all." Damien's mouth curled up in a smirk. "And I don't think crushes back when you were kids really counts, pretty boy. He's mine now."

Gregory's cool, aristocratic demeanor transforms in a flash. "You're a filthy Hellspawn," he growls out. "I went through things with Christophe you will never even comprehend."

"Fucking stop eet," I snap out.

They both stare down at me.

"Damien, cut eet out." I give him a look that says we're not really married, remember? "And Gregory, I don't know what ze fuck ees up witzh you, but I want you to remember zat I fucking 'ate you and you chased me around ze world for nine years."

I swear to God, the fucking, cocksucking bitch in the sky that he is, if my life is developing a love triangle I am going to fucking smother it right here and right now.

Gregory sighs and stalks past me. Damien punches me in the shoulder, lightly.

"Cut eet out," I snap at him again. When I look at him, his face is dark. I remember his temper issues. "Let's go get zat fucking collar switched."

XXX

Damien rubs his new collar, grinning way too happily. His skin is starting to regain its color from just a few minutes without the scripture whispering in his ears. He shoves food into his mouth faster than I do. All we can do is watch him.

"Christophe," Maria whispers, her eyes wide, "why the fuck didn't you tell me you were married to the antichrist?"

"Because I knew you would flip out," I stage-whisper back. "And because we deedn't want ze Yardale School to know."

Also because I didn't know I was 'married' to him. I hate lying to Maria and Chase.

"That's sooooo cute!" Chase hugs me around the waist, then dances over to Damien and hugs him. Damien's eyes widen but he doesn't stop eating. He probably hasn't been hugged for a while.

"He's the antichrist," Maria whispers to me, unnecessarily.

"I know."

"Boo," Damien says. She squeals and jumps half an inch, which makes both of us crack up.

The four of us sit at the far table, eating a dinner of what appears to be Domino's pizza. Dinnertime is at six, but since Damien and I missed it they ordered pizza for us. Words do not describe the weirdness.

Chase sits on Damien's other side, clutching at him and rubbing his forehead against his shoulder, like a cat. "You and 'Tophe are sooooooo cute," he squeaks out. "Ohmigod you guys have to adopt a bunch of kids and stay happily married forever and-"

Damien glances to me, the corner of his mouth quirking. "Is he secretly a twelve-year-old girl?"

"I believe so," I mutter.

He stretches his jaw open and shoves an entire slice of pizza into his mouth. I watch with bile fascination as he works his jaw, managing to force the slice down his throat. The other two make gagging sounds.

Damien swallows, which sounds incredibly painful. He smirks at me.

I'm overcome with the desire to try it. I snatch up my own slice of cheese pizza. The other two look away.

. . . my success is painful.

Damien eventually wins our eating contest when he manages to eat three slices in thirty seconds. I tell him it's only because he's been starved for the past few days.

"Remember that time you ate like sixteen slices of French toast?" he reminds me. "I think you've got the advantage here."

I smirk. That was some damn good French toast I made.

"Awwww," Maria says, recovering from her gag-fest. "You guys are almost cute. Except gross." We've gone through three large pizzas in fifteen minutes.

I shift uncomfortably. Cute? Really? Goddamn it.

It's almost eleven o clock at night by the time we head back up to our 'room.' I want to make Damien sleep on the floor, but he wheedles at me until I let him share the bed with me (he said something about how Maria or Chase might barge in here and get suspicious). He comes out looking refreshed after a forty-minute shower, which I'm thankful for because he smelled chokingly bad.

I shower after him. The only good part about Yardale is the unlimited hot water. He steals a pair of sweatpants to wear to bed. It feels surprisingly . . . ordinary. And after less than a day, I'm used to being back at Yardale. Fuck.

At first I steal all the covers, and then he shoves me over and we fight for a few minutes. I start to giggle madly, like a little girl, and he joins me.

Maybe it's because I don't have to lie to him. There's no playing games, like I do with Gregory. There's no defiance, like with the Angels. There's no scorn and superiority, which is the way I feel for Stan's gang back in South Park (although I admit to being able to stand Stan and especially Kyle). I don't have to persuade him or argue with him like I do with Chase and Maria. It's just Damien and me. Just me and another person for the first time in years.

"Zey want me to take magic lessons tomorrow," I mutter to him after we've turned off the lights and are lying in silence.

He doesn't say anything.

"What should I do?"

Asking for help feels so weird. Something about Damien makes me want to trust him. Maybe it's because I know he wants exactly what I want: escape, and not to be part of this bullshit any longer.

"It would be good for you to learn magic," he says. "You should have let me teach you."

I scrunch up my face at the oddity of the second comment, then realize he's saying it for the microphones.

"I don't want to give zem anozzer way to control me."

"Don't," he says. "Turn it into a way for you to control them."

I roll over close to him until we're pressing against each other. He tenses, but I whisper into his ear.

"'Ow deed you know about . . . me and Gregory?" I hope the cameras can't pick up this part of our conversation.

He snorts. "Oh. From the way he was acting, it was obvious. Jealous bastard if I ever saw one."

I give a frustrated groan. "I do not understand 'im."

"You don't have to," he murmurs back, his voice a breathy sigh I can barely make out. "Just convince him everyone will be happier if we get out of here."

"'Ow? Flirt wizth 'im? Make 'im zink I want to be involved wizth 'im again?" My stomach recoils at the thought.

"No," he says, "that's not exactly how he feels about you. He's just jealous because . . ." He sighs. "I know people. And he's jealous because he used to be your closest friend, and now he thinks the person you're closest to is me, which makes him pissed off, especially since he thought you were as alone and tortured with self-hate as him for the past few years, when you supposedly in a stable relationship, getting married, all that stuff."

"Even zough I'm not."

"Yup, but we can't tell him that because he'll tell the angels. What we have to do is show him that he doesn't have to be full of self-hate anymore. Even though he kind of loathes me now."

"Zat's your fault for pissing 'im off."

"Hey," he growls out. "You're mine."

I look up at him, meeting his gaze with my eyebrows raised. "I don't belong to anyone, antichrist." This I say loud enough for the microphones to pick up.

"Yeah," he sighs out. "I know you don't. I'm just a possessive bastard." And then he murmurs, for me and me alone, "I don't think I could ever tame you, anyway. Isn't that what Gregory said? That no one can ever tame you?"

"I'd like to see you try, cocksucker."

I'm silent, thinking for a few more seconds.

"'ow deed you know I call him a British fag?"

He laughs above my head, my face tucked against his shoulder.

"Because that's what I wanted to call him."

We fall asleep bare inches apart.

XXX

Butters knows he has to stop being a pussy, he has to stop crying and be a man and face his punishment, but he can't halt the tears from rolling down his cheeks.

It's all his fault for not telling them what they want to know.

The lady over him holds a remote control in her manicured hands. She's smiling. In just a few short hours, he's grown to hate that smile.

"Just tell me, Leopold Scotch," she says, "and I can let you go."

He shakes his head.

Electricity slices through him. He screams and arches his back. Every cell in his body lights on fire. His world fills with blinding pain.

The electricity fades. He crumples to the ground, face pressing against the cool tiled floor. The stone feels refreshing on his tender skin. His mind settles into a fog. He barely processes her words.

He sees with his remaining left eye, watches her lift up her right foot in front of him, then bring the stiletto down on his left palm. He screams as the pointed heel of her shoe digs into his hand. A bolt of adrenaline slices through him, but someone's boot on his back keeps him pressed to the tiles.

When she pulls her shoe out of his hand, he's full-on sobbing. He curls up into a ball but one of the soldiers kicks him until he unfurls and lies on his stomach, knowing any second she will batter his back with kicks, or slash his flesh with her whip, or send more electricity through him. His left palm throbs, and the pain makes him feel like his whole body's being sucked from the world. It's difficult to focus, and he has to suck on air to drag oxygen into his lungs. His entire body is coated with a sheen of sweat. Wounds slash over his skin; he's clothed in only boxers and the metal collar.

The lady – she introduced herself as "Ms. Grayson," although he doesn't really care about her name at this point – drags him up and lifts him into the air by his neck. He gags, choking, struggling to breath as her fingernails dig into his throat. His hands automatically try to pry away the hand suffocating him, but she ignores his weak protests and stares into his eyes.

"Tell me, 'Butters,'" she says softly. "Who are the other High Hellspawn in South Park?"

He tries to speak, can't. She drops him to the floor, and he lands in a mess of limbs. He straightens himself out and she crouches down next to him. "Well?"

"Th-th-there's no one else-"

"Don't be ridiculous," she says. "We determined a huge amount of satanic energy in the town. The only reason we couldn't track them down was because your entire town is Hell-Allied, and all you hellspawn rotting together tends to cover each other up." She smirks. "Tell us who they are and we won't go back and kill everyone. One. By. One. Starting with your parents."

"You wouldn't," Butters gasps out. "Y-y-you're the angels, you're supposed to be the good guys-"

"Your town is full of Hell-Allied freaks," she snaps out, her face transformed into a mask of hatred. "Filthy, disgusting animals. They've turned their backs on God. We're going to fucking kill them anyway. We're going to kill all of you anyway, and if you don't cooperate, you little cunt, we're going to make sure it's as painful as possible.

She jerks her hands forward and digs her finger into his remaining left eye. He shrieks as he feels her nails digging around in his socket. He struggles, his shoulders twisting, but his body is held down and all he can do is scream and scream and scream.

He keeps screaming long after she twists out chunks of pulpy pupil, long after his sight has gone completely and all he knows is darkness and the pain, oh, the pain.

"Pathetic," he hears her say over the sound of his screams.

He feels her fingernails stroke his cheek, and he shudders, trying to pull away. His voice has gone raspy and all he can do is whimper and wish for it to be over.

"Butters?" she says gently.

"I wanna go h-h-home."

"I know you do, Butters."

"I wanna see my m-mommy and my dadddddyy."

"What do you have to do to be with them again?" she asks gently.

He coughs up blood. The soldiers holding him down relinquish their hold, and he struggles to his knees, wraps his bloody arms around her legs. He hears her mutter in disgust, but he needs someone, anyone right now.

He tells her their names. He tells her about Kyle and Stan and Kenny and Cartman, and he even tells her about how Christophe came to them injured and how Pip is one of the High Heavenfilth apparently.

He gives their addresses and phone numbers.

When he's done, the Grayson lady pats him on the head and disentangles herself from him.

"Put him back in his cell," she says.

He feels arms hoisting him up. Someone throws him over their shoulder, which makes blood start to leak from his eyes again. The numb haze of pain has now become second nature to him.

"Can you heal me?" he whispers to nowhere.

"Of course not," she says.

He wasn't expecting it.

"You won't hurt them, will you?" he stammers out.

She strokes his cheek again, and then he feels himself moving as the soldier holding him carries him away.

"Of course not, Butters," she calls after him in her gentlest voice, and even though he wants to believe her and buy her bullshit, he knows everything she's promised him is a lie.

XXX

The coffee shop is barren at this time of night, only the most loyal customers braving the stained wooden tables and the fluorescent lights flickering above their heads. It's the most demented, depressing mom-and-pop store Stan has ever seen. It's approximately perfect for Tweek Tweak.

Tweek flips out when he sees them shove their way through the double doors that are supposed to add to the atmosphere, or something.

"Oh, Jesus! Why are you guys here? What happened? Who died? My parents? Oh my god, they're going to send me to foster care and the gnomes will get me and-"

"Someone shut the spaz up," Cartman mutters under his breath. He gets his wish, in a way, when Craig leans across the counter and slaps his hand over Tweek's mouth. Tweek's silent for a moment, and then Craig gives a groan of disgust and pulls his hand away. Tweek must have licked him.

Tweek doesn't start his rant up again, merely inspects Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman as they sit down at the counter.

"Can I get you something?" Tweek says after a long pause, rather sullenly.

Kenny asks for an espresso, begging Kyle to pay with a bat of his eyelashes. Kyle rolls his eyes but nods in agreement.

Stan raps his fingers against the wooden counter while Tweek mixes the syrups. He plunks the espresso in front of Kenny when he's finished, then regards the quartet with unconcealed distrust. It's Craig, however, who gives them the full brunt of his loathing, directed through lidded dark eyes and gritted teeth.

"What are you assholes doing here?" Craig demands after the standoff.

Kenny slurps his espresso happily. Stan clears his throat.

"Maybe we just wanted coffee," he says.

He snorts, then flips them all off with a quick jab of his middle finger. "So you drive all the way to North Park for an espresso for a kid who can't even pay for it? Sure, guys, sure."

"Why the hell are you here?" Stan snaps back.

"The guys are seeing a movie after Tweek's done with his shift in half an hour."

For the first time, Stan spots Token, Jimmy, and Clyde in the corner of the shop, munching on cookies.

"We actually happen to be friends with Tweek. But you douchebags just want something from him."

"Don't have to protect Tweek like he's made of glass, dude," Kyle says.

"I don't mind!" Tweek squeaks out and backs away. "Just tell me what you want. No! Ah! Don't! It's too much pressure, way too much pressure, man!"

Craig raises his eyebrows. "See? Get the fuck out of here."

"'Ay! We're customers, asshole!" Cartman jerks his head at Kenny, who's only half-finished with his coffee.

"That'll be one fifty," Tweek snaps in retaliation.

"We don't want trouble. God forbid we get into more trouble after those zombies last week," Stan interrupts. "Tweek, we just want your help on one little thing, and then we'll leave you alone."

"Wow, I was right and you assholes were lying. Who would have fucking guessed?" Craig downs the rest of his own mug of coffee. "You going to be able to deal with them?"

Tweek nods, his gaze level on the quartet.

"Don't let them harass you. I'm going to sit with the guys. I can't stand these fuckers any longer." He stalks over to sit with the rest of his friends.

"So, what do you want?" Tweak asks, then visibly cringes.

"We were wondering if you know anything about this specific – government conspiracy," Kyle says, obviously without putting any thought into it. The rest of them wince while they wait for the outburst.

"GOVERNMENT CONSPIRACIES?" His voice shrieks up and down an octave in less than a breath. "Oh, god, the CIA is coming to get me, I knew it! They've found out I know their secrets, now they're going to make me regret ever setting up those microphones OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD." He starts to rip at his hair.

Kenny grabs his wrist to settle him, still guzzling his coffee. Tweek locks gazes with him, then sucks in a deep breath and nods. In the past few years, he's obtained the ability to calm himself down. Sort of.

"Not the CIA," Stan says. "We only think they're a government conspiracy because Kyle can't find any info on them, and you know how good of a hacker he is."

Tweek nods, processing the information.

"They were the guys who kidnapped Butters last week after they tore up and burned down the school remember? On the same day as the zombies?"

Tweek's eyes widen. "Oh, those guys!"

"What do you know about them?"

"They're the Yardale guys."

Yardale. The word sends a shiver through Stan's spine. And suddenly, he connects the word to a war from nine years ago. "Yardale School, you mean? Dude, what do you know about the Yardale School?"

Tweek twitches. "One sec, let me get my binders."

He grabs his car keys from the hook and heads out the door, still wearing his gray uniform shirt and apron. While he's gone, Craig sends them I'm going to fucking murder you glares.

He returns, lugging a stack of ten binders, huffing under the weight. Stan takes part of the stack from him and sets on the counter. He opens the first one. It has a crude sketch of what appears to be a garden gnome.

"My therapist told me to do this," Tweek explains. "Said it would help me organize my thoughts. I don't know if it works." He twitches again, and shuffles through the binders until he pulls out a black one.

"Look," he urges. The quartet huddles around him as he opens it up.

Inside are news reports, images, coronary notes. Lots and lots of stuff about dead people, people incinerating in fire, burned to crisp.

"Um," Kyle says. "This is nice, dude, but what does it have to do with this Yardale School place?"

"Everything!" Tweek screeches out. He flips through the binder and points to a page describing a group of people burnt in a fire in Kenya. Another about arson ending the lives of forty unfortunate schoolchildren in England. "It's the Hellspawn, dude, the hellspawn are doing it and they're going to get us next!"

They all exchange glances, except Kenny, who's just finished up the last of his espresso and is licking his lips and looking at Kyle hopefully for more.

"The war's coming up, the final war! It'll happen any month now, and then our lives will go up in poof, smoke, flame, because it'll all change and GAH!" He shudders. "And the Yardale school, they're on heaven's side, they're working for heaven, but they're not the good guys, either, dude! I'm heard whispers, mutters, rumors . . ." He leans in close enough for Stan to taste the reek of old coffee and recognize the flavor of Monster on him.

"They're angels," he breathes out, "and from the stories I pieced together, Butters was with the demons, and that's why they dragged away. Because they're not the good guys, no matter how much we want them to be. In this war between Heaven and Hell, there aren't any good or bad guys, there are just people who desperately want to win."

They're silent for a moment.

Cartman indicates crazy with the twirl of fingers. "Come on guys, let's get out of here."

"Fine," Tweek snaps, "Don't believe me. Just wait until they come for you next. Because they will. Both sides of this war will come for you."

They stare at him.

"Paranoid much?" Cartman manages.

And that's when they're invaded.

XXX

Yayynness, another chapter finished. The next one should be up soon since I already finished writing it. It'll be an all little!Christophe chapter.

Which timeline is more interesting, Little!Christophe timeline or Big!Christophe timeline?