Author's Note:
This is the first in a planned series of fanfiction stories. This crossover between Matt Stone and Trey Parker's South Park and Alex Hirsch's Gravity Falls follows two characters from each series: Stan Marsh and Wendy Corduroy.
For readers who are familiar with one series or the other, this may get confusing as both feature sets of characters named Stan and Wendy (SP: S. Marsh & W. Testaburger; GF: W. Corduroy & S. Pines).
To avoid any misunderstanding, "Stan" for the majority of the story refers to S. Marsh and "Wendy" to W. Corduroy unless otherwise stated.
Enjoy the journey!
P.S. In SP, Stan is a ten-year-old boy. Here, his age is raised to match Wendy's, who herself is older than she was in GF.
P.S.S. With the exception of the two protagonists—and a few mentions sprinkled throughout—most of these characters were created by me for this story.
"The Night They Met"
by The Wandering Millennial
Chapter One: Stan Marsh
Through the darkness of midnight, Stan Marsh trudged along the edges of Highway 76. His stomach gurgled; he hadn't eaten a decent meal in a couple of days aside from snack foods from vending machines (he was sick of those at this point). There was no trace of civilization in this part of Oregon, only plains of shrubs and tall grass for miles on end. He used the beams of the streetlamps to guide him through the night, like torches in a cave.
Only two cars drove by all night. The first was a fiery red Ford Explorer with enough space for five passengers. He knew this because his mother owned one back home. Upon seeing its headlights from a distance, Stan stood beneath the nearest lamp and held the hitchhiker's thumb out to the approaching vehicle. Instead of giving him the ride he was seeking, the explorer simply passed him by. Despite his best efforts to remain optimistic, it was times like these that made him feel as though he would never reach California. Until a white delivery truck pulled up beside him.
"Need a lift?" The truck driver called out from inside, rolling the windows down. He wore a Miller High Life hat and spoke with a southern drawl.
"Yes, sir!" Stan immediately replied. He felt a grin spread across his face as he climbed in. "Oh, thank God," he sighed in relief as he fastened his seat belt. The prolonged walking had left his legs feeling numb. He believed they were on the brink of turning into gelatin.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Stan. What's yours?"
"You can call me Travis." He extended his hand to shake Stan's, which the hitchhiker politely accepted. "Where are ya from, Stan?"
"Me?" Stan was taken aback, realizing that until now, nobody who picked him up bothered to ask him about who he was and what he was doing. He preferred it this way, but he decided to loosen up. "Well, I'm from a town called South Park."
"South Park? All the way from Colorado?"
"Wait, have you been there?"
"Yeah, I used to make shipments there, back when I drove a freight truck for a living. I've been everywhere."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yep. I've been makin' deliveries for about twenty-five years. A long-ass time." Travis felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. "Best thing about it was that I got to see all of America. I've passed through all of them Rocky states. I've driven through Washington State, to Idaho, Montana, Utah, North and South Dakota…" He continued naming the states, "New York, New Jersey, Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida."
"That's pretty cool!" Stan remarked.
They continued speaking for about half an hour, which seemed to fly by. Travis spoke to Stan about his years spent on the road and the wonders he witnessed with a passion. The geysers of Yellowstone, the vastness of the Great Salt Lake, the quiet serenity of the Appalachian Mountains, and many other fascinating places that Stan had only read about through pictures in school textbooks and magazines in the grocery store. When New Orleans came up, Travis couldn't help but gush about his favorite city on Earth. His descriptions of the French Quarter's nightlife, Mardi Gras parades, Cajun cuisine, and voodoo made the city seem like something out of a fairy tale. The man was a great storyteller, and Stan couldn't help but get sucked in.
Still, Stan remained cautious. As a hitchhiker, he understood there was always potential for catastrophe. He heard countless horror stories of hitchhikers who were too naïve and overly trusting and it cost them their lives or they were never seen again.
A month and a half earlier, his hitchhiking journey had taken an unintentional detour. Instead of going from Colorado straight to California, he found himself in Twin Falls, Idaho. There, he found a homeless camp made up of more than a hundred people, where he met a woman in her early 40s named Beth. She was quite friendly, and they exchanged stories over whiskey. She said she came from Wyoming, but when she was 17, she ran away from home because of her abusive stepfather. While hitchhiking, she almost fell prey to a man who volunteered to give her a ride. It turned out that he was a rapist and tried to rape and kill her. She fought with every fiber of her being and managed to escape. Beth even showed Stan her old scars from the fight, some of which hadn't fully healed. He was amazed and unnerved all at once, but she jokingly and sincerely assured him that she had "really fucked his face up good." She even showed Stan the blade she used to stab the pimp's eye out all those years ago. It was rusty. Her story may have had a fairly happy ending, but it has stuck with Stan ever since.
Though Travis seemed like a swell guy who was kind enough to give him a ride, Stan knew it was foolish to assume anything.
In fact, Stan couldn't help but notice that Travis kept glancing in the side-view mirror. Stan maintained a calm appearance, but his suspicions grew. He wondered if the truck driver was trying to avoid being followed. From the police, maybe? As far as Stan could see, the only other car for miles was the Ford Explorer further up the highway, the same one that ignored him earlier. Travis didn't seem dangerous, but he looked guilty. What was he up to? But then, Stan's pragmatism kicked in, and he remembered that sometimes the best thing to do was to not ask questions that could lead to deadly answers.
For if and when things go awry, hidden in a secret compartment of Stan's backpack was a revolver, loaded with five rounds. A couple of years earlier, his uncle Jimbo had given it to him as a gift for his eighteenth birthday. He pledged to never threaten anyone except in self-defense.
"So where are you headin' to, Stan?" asked Travis.
"I'm going to California."
"What's in California?"
Stan paused for a moment, thinking carefully about how to answer that. "My dad's waiting for me there. He's lived there since he and Mom split up all those years ago." Though Stan told the truth, he didn't want to say more about it, so he ended it with, "I'm just going to see him."
"Yeah, it's tough goin' through somethin' like that. I never knew my dad. Mom always told me I looked like him, but he left before I could remember anything. She also told me he went out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back. I can't say I miss him; I don't know him. But Mom... she always tried her best, but she was angry, drinkin' every day, bringin' asshole boyfriends around, tellin' me I wasn't shit and was never gonna' amount to nothin'. It made me feel bad about myself for a long-ass time."
Stan sensed Travis' sadness and felt compassion for him. As a child, he had his share of turmoil, much of it brought on by his father. Memories he did not want to conjure up at that moment. All he could say was, "I'm sorry about that."
"It's alright." Travis shrugged with a hint of a smile on his face. "gotta accept what you can't change. ya know?"
"Yeah... I guess so."
After their conversation, Travis assured Stan that he had "nothin' to worry about," and that they would be in California by the following morning since he had to make deliveries there anyway. As he tried to fight the pull of sleep, Stan watched the passing scenery, quietly reflecting.
It had only been two months since he set out into the world, but it sure seemed like an eternity to him. He left everything he ever knew in that old mountain town known as South Park. No longer surrounded by the people and places he had grown up around for twenty years, he was now a drifter, alone and unsure of what the road would throw at him. The only thing he carried with him, aside from the clothes on his back and the necessities in his backpack, was hope that maybe, just maybe, the thing he was searching for—which he had no name for—was out there...