Stan snapped back to reality when he felt the gentle poke at his chest. For one blinding white second, instinct took over and his fist shot out. A jolt shuddered through his entire arm when it crunched into something hard.

SMACK

"Ow-OW!"

Stan shook himself from the sleepy haze, rubbing his eyes to see Butters reeling backward and clutching his nose. Immediately he sprung up.

"Butters!"

"I was just waking you up!" Butters touched his nose gingerly, hissing in pain. "Jeez Louise, Stan, you pack a punch! Ow!"

"Sorry, I'm sorry dude," said Stan, approaching Butters and hoping he didn't hit the kid too hard. "It's instinct, y'know?"

"Okay, okay. Am I bleeding?"

"No-wait…yeah, yes. Sorry."

"Ah geez, heck." Tenderly, Butters felt the tip of his nose. Once a small perky button in the center of his face, it was now crooked with a slight bump running over the bridge. Black-red blood dripped languidly over his pale lips, catching on his fingers. "It really stings."

"Yeah, shit, sorry."

Stan glanced around in a rush of embarrassment. Only Kyle and Cartman seemed to be paying attention, the latter looking on with wry amusement. But for Kyle's part, he didn't appear to be upset. Maybe a little concerned, but more for Butters' sake than Stan's adverse reflexes.

The sky was much darker now, purple and orange stained from where the sun was setting. The night air was distinctly cooler, the fine hairs on Stan's arm and neck standing on end. He squinted over the horizon.

"Are we moving on then?"

"Yeah." Wincing, Butters dabbed delicately at his bleeding nose with the end of his shirt. "Kyle wants to find shelter before the sun sets. And I do too, I mean, it's really creepy out here." He shuddered. "It's so open and…and big."

"The world is big," Stan agreed absently, scouring the horizon for threatening figures.

"I don't like it so much. Before, I always kinda wished I could see the world. But I can't stop thinking about going back home."

"You guys weren't waiting for me, were you?"

Butters' mouth twisted. "Well…everyone was real tired. And…" he dropped his voice, "…just between you 'n' me, I think Kyle was more tired than he let on. But don't tell him I said anything!" Butters glanced over at Kyle warily. "I don't want him thinking that I think he's, y'know…a sissy."

Stan almost laughed. It was absurd how preoccupied Butters was with pleasing others, smoothing over the smallest slights with a harried rabbit-like neurosis. Especially when there were so many real things to worry about. Like food. And shelter. Kyle might be an intimidating figure, but the sort of threat he imposed loomed vaguely, like a far-off storm cloud.

"Dude, it's okay." Stan stretched out his back, bones popping and cracking satisfyingly. Butters winced. "Seriously, there are bigger things to worry about."

"Well, I-I guess." said Butters doubtfully.

Though his body was rested and rejuvenated, Stan was already exhausted talking to the flighty blond. He wanted to get walking again, his legs threatening cramps if they didn't get moving soon.

"Speaking of bigger things," said Butters suddenly, "Tweak's awake."

Stan snapped to attention. "He is?"

"Y-yeah!"

"Where is he?"

"With Bebe." Butters pointed to two figures sitting off a short distance. Stan recognized Bebe's wild hair, but the other silhouette was so small and hunched, Stan almost missed it.

"When did he wake up?"

"Only a little while ago."

"What happened? Did he say anything? He's not violent, is he?"

"Oh, um…" Butters stalled, struggling to put it in words comfortably. "I guess…like…I don't want to be mean, but he's…slower now. Like, he kinda talks like he's drunk all the time now. But he's not hyperactive or anything, so that's good, I mean."

A low dread stirred in Stan. "What do you mean drunk?"

"Like, all slurred. And it takes a while for him to answer you. I mean, at least for us. When he woke up, he just kinda stared off for a bit, then Ike noticed and asked him if he was okay. And it took him a real long time to think up a response, like, thirty seconds. He said 'yeah', but he didn't sound too sure."

"And he's calm?"

"Kinda," Butters wrinkled his bleeding nose and hissed in pain. "It's more like he's just really out of it."

Needled with stress, Stan stood up.

"Where are you going?" asked Butters, surprised.

"I want to talk to him."

"Why?"

Stan found himself overwhelmingly irritated by Butters' persisting presence. "Because, I want to make sure he's okay to travel."

"You should probably ask Kyle first."

At the mention of his name, Kyle glanced over. Stan groaned inwardly. There was no avoiding it now. "Okay, I'll do that."

Butters nodded, pacified and utterly oblivious to Stan's annoyance as the latter stalked off.

One look at him, and Stan could tell that Kyle knew exactly what was on his mind.

"So, Tweak's awake. I'm sure Leopold already told you."

Stan felt a rush of concern as he studied Kyle's face. "Yeah. Is he okay?"

Kyle's mouth went awry. "He's not going to be making any big decisions anytime soon. I've got Bebe asking him questions, seeing what he remembers."

"He lost his memory?"

"No, not quite. It's more complicated than that. He's slower all over, and highly irritable. More so than before, but he doesn't get nearly as excited. Everything he does is…watered down."

"He hit his head," Stan remembered quickly. "In the cellar, he must have bashed it against a wall when he was down there. I noticed blood in his hair, trickling down his forehead, but it didn't look that bad at the time…"

"He had glass in his throat, Stan. I'm sure that took the majority of your attention."

Stan cleared his throat. Even thinking the words made him sick. "You don't think he, like, messed up his brain…do you?"

Kyle didn't say anything.

Stan's mouth went dry, not much of a feat in the desert prairie. "Okay. Well, he's slow. If the zombies could smell him, yeah, that would be a problem. But that's not an issue."

"There are other threats, Stan."

"I know that," Stan snapped. "What exactly are you getting at?"

"I'm just saying it'll be tough, Stan."

"That doesn't mean it wasn't the right choice."

"I know, I know." Kyle took a deep breath, green eyes deep and intensely clear against his dust-ridden face. "Believe me, if there's one thing I know, it's that choices have consequences."

Stan's anger puttered out as he realized Kyle wasn't being accusatory, at all. In his aggression Stan noticed he'd jutted his jaw out ridiculously, a tendency that came with being vertically challenged, and he automatically re-adjusted. When he wasn't straining his neck upward to look Kyle right in the eye, he was meet abruptly with jutting collarbones peeking through the rumpled, open collar of Kyle's plaid shirt. Stan noticed it was missing a button, the green thread curling loosely down the fabric. He wanted to pluck it off. Throat burning, he looked down, ashamed of himself. Too late he remembered that Kyle was suffering the exact same worries, magnified to a hundred by the sheer amount of people depending on him. Not that it excused Kyle acting like a jack-ass. But maybe it shed a new perspective on it.

"Stan," Kyle's voice beckoned Stan upward. "I want to get this sorted. How do you think we should handle Tweak?"

Stan thought for a moment. "I don't think we should do anything yet. Let's just leave him be until we find some decent shelter. If he's calm and willing to take orders, that's all we need."

Kyle nodded. "That was what I was thinking. I've got Bebe talking with him now, she's smart, quick enough if he becomes violent, and physically non-threatening."

"That sounds…good. Yeah." Then Stan looked around. "Where's Ike?"

"With Kenny and Cartman." A grin flickered over Kyle. "He wanted go hunting for wild plants."

Just the thought of Ike scouring the ground intently, a flash of satisfaction as he unearthed whatever prized flower he found, warmed Stan. But he was still concerned. "Will he be safe with them?"

Kyle looked at him funny. "Of course."

"Okay, it's just, Kenny can get really fucking reckless, y'know? And personally, I wouldn't trust Cartman to lick the dust off my boots."

"I know what you think of Cartman. I'm the first to admit, he's…an asshole." Kyle grimaced in spite of himself. "But in all these years, he's not once let the group down. He can hold his own in a fight. And he's smart."

Stan snorted.

"Really," said Kyle. "He's got a good mind for strategy. I sometimes wonder if he thinks he's playing this entire group, scraping by doing the bare minimum, then proving himself when he senses we're all getting too fed up. He…he saved my life once."

Stan's eyebrows shot up. "No way. Cartman?"

"The very same." Kyle's eyes went far-away as he plunged into the invisible memory. "One night this group of hungry stragglers roamed by, asked for shelter. I was about fifteen, and…God I was so naïve back then…I let them into our shelter. Back then we all lived on the second floor of the rec center, which was just one broken down building amongst a bunch of other broken down buildings. If I hadn't led them straight to us, they probably would've just kept moving. But I did. They seemed nice, in their late twenties, early thirties. We talked, ate some food, and most of the group was feeling pretty damn good about having some adults in the place. But later, when we were about to tuck in for the night, Cartman pulled me aside. He said, and I remember it clearly, like it was yesterday- 'I don't trust these guys, Kyle'. Now, Cartman's made all sorts of false accusations before, you've already experienced that yourself. He puts on a show, makes a complete jackass out of himself. But this was so…quiet. And he called me Kyle. Usually it was either some variation of Jewboy or Broflovski. So I took him seriously. That night, we hid loaded guns beneath our pillows, which I realize now, was incredibly stupid. But we did it. He told me to slip a dagger up my sleeve too, that it would be much quieter. I admit, at first I had no idea what he was getting at. But he knew.

I was pretending to be asleep when I felt something, like a weird tickling sensation, at my throat. When I opened my eyes, one of the stragglers was leaning over me with this great big hunting knife pressed against my neck. I didn't think, I just gripped the blade up my sleeve and thrust –and then the straggler had a dagger in his eye. Cartman was up in a flash, gun ready. A few shots and everyone was awake. There was a bit of a struggle…Wendy wound up with a split lip, and Craig fractured his wrist…but in the end we got 'em."

As he listened, Stan felt a sickly familiarity. "They were going to kill you in your sleep and loot your stuff. That's brutal. It's also really common."

"I asked Cartman how he knew, and he shrugged and said 'it's what I'd do'." Kyle shook his head incredulously. "Can you believe that?"

Stan shrugged. He didn't feel like talking anymore.

"I know, dark stuff. Anyways," Kyle said, switching gears back to business. "You go check out Tweak, I'll get Ike and the others, and we should get going. There's got to be a damn farmhouse out here somewhere."

"Sounds good."

Stan turned his face before it could betray him. He wondered what Kyle would think of him if he could reach inside and read Stan's mind with crystal clarity. He felt absolutely repulsed by these long-dead 'stragglers', targeting children. It was despicable. Cowardly.

He also understood it completely.

There were hungers that roared louder than reason, drowning out the human in a person. Actual hunger, of course, was one. But so was the intense need to survive, a burning instinct so deeply rooted in Stan that sometimes he feared what he might do. An old, grotesque daydream popped into his mind, one where his family was all locked in the car and banging madly against the windows as zombies surrounded them, begging Stan to unlock the doors. Stan could feel the keys in his hand, small cold metal pressing into his palm. But instead of charging down, clearing a path and heroically yanking the doors open, he turned and ran. Ignored the screams, let his feet take him as far away as possible. Every. Single. Time.

Bebe didn't so much as glance up when he approached. Her upturned eyes were focused, lips pouted in determination as she sat cross-legged in front of the slight blond. Unsure of what to do, Stan remained standing awkwardly beside the two and observe.

Immediately Stan was struck the wrong way when he saw how still Tweak sat. He didn't tremble, didn't even shiver as Stan's shadow crossed over him. Although he faced Bebe, his eyes were unfocused and dull. There was fresh cloth wrapped around his neck, some rag someone had ripped off a shirt no doubt, spotted with faint red. The bits of glass were gone too, from Tweak's translucent skin and thick sweater. His brow was wiped clean, but Stan could still see sticky, blood-hardened clumps in his hair.

"How about Leopold?" Bebe asked in such a soft, gentle way that, with a twinge, Stan was momentarily reminded of Red. "What do you remember about a boy named Leo?"

Tweak stared dimly at her for a few seconds. "…I…dunno…" His voice was low and sluggish, so different from the high-strung nonstop traffic jam he spluttered, under his breath or screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Blonde hair, blue eyes. Looks a bit like Malibu Barbie."

Stan almost broke the spell and laughed. It was true, he realized. Maybe not so much anymore, but before his accidental nose-job, Butters' large eyes and diamond face were startlingly reminiscent of the old plastic doll, even if he looked a bit underfed.

Tweak scrunched his eyes shut. "…'m tired. Gotta headache."

"Just one more question." Bebe's blues flashed to Stan. Making the movement very slow and obvious, she gestured to Stan. "Do you know who this man is?"

Motionless, Tweak's eyes remained closed.

Bebe blew an exasperated breath, and she glanced at Stan. He could see how tired she was; her fighting spark was fizzled out. "He's been like this the entire time," she said quietly, clearly only for Stan to hear.

Stan was a bit startled. "Dude, he's right there-"

"Oh, he's not listening. Believe me." As she spoke, Bebe snapped her fingers in front of Tweak's blank face. "You really –snap- gotta –snap- get his attention." The noise drew Tweak back with a little start, his brow furrowed in dim annoyance.

"Tweak," Bebe said through closed teeth. Stan could tell she was straining not to lose her patience. "This is the last question. I promise. Pretty, pretty please, look at this man."

Slowly, begrudgingly, Tweak looked. Dark circles outlines his eyes, bleaching the brown out like dead wood. His lashes fluttered in recognition.

"Yeah…yeah…'course I know him."

Bebe did a double-take. "O-oh? Tweak, that-that's great. Now, can you tell me who he is?" she asked with fresh conviction.

Tweak eased himself to a precarious stand, wobbling as though the ground was shifting beneath him. Bebe moved quickly, ready to catch him at any given moment, but Tweak steadied himself. What happened next was so unexpected that Stan scarcely registered what Tweak was doing until it was done.

Bebe's jaw dropped as, without hesitation, Tweak snaked his arms around Stan's waist, letting himself lean into Stan with an alarming amount of trust.

"Craig," he mumbled into Stan's leather jacket.


Yeah, more back-story! Because that's what you all come here to read, right?

All of my head-injury expertise (as you've probably guessed) is from the internet. Head trauma and memory loss are strongly connected, but (spoilers) that's not all Tweak's going through right now, as you'll see in future chapters.

And another goddamn cliffhanger! You guys put up with so much from me, it's great.

Thank you for reading, reviewing, all that jazz. It's wonderful, and truly means a lot. I know, I know, I monologue every time a chapter ends. But thank you thank you anyways!

Ps. Okay, and I know this is pretty bad...but did I ever give Stan a distinct eye colour? Yeah, I know, I suck.