And another edited one! Seriously, it can't be NINE years later… can it?
Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of hidden backwards tracks. This fan fiction is a product of watching Woodland Creature Christmas five times in a row… in April… and suffers "AU" slaughter… or what-if futurism. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term "AU" or "what-if". David Bowie is God. David Bowie, also, has nothing to do with this disclaimer.
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Butters groaned, rubbing a hand over his eyes like the specs would disappear. A piece of gauze was held against his face by two alien fingers underneath his nose, absorbing the salty, pungent liquid. The scent brought another string of nausea to his stomach and his hands crossed in front of his stomach with a half-whine and sniffle. He wanted to bite back the tears forming in the corners of his eyes but they leaked; small rivulets fell down the side of his cheeks, mixing with the woven threads.
"Way to go, Marsh," Token said, turning his head behind his shoulder to return a heated glare to the Quarterback. "Why don't you break all of our line backers' faces in?"
The target was isolated, fist still clenched from where it made contact. His jaw was agape, lower lip quivering.
"It-" Stan started, cutting himself short. "I didn't know-" No words could be said—the action had been complete. "Butters, I-"
"It… it… it's al; right, S-stan," Butters stammered. The palms of his hands slid to the floor of the bus, rubbing over the thick layer of chalky dust. He pressed down in an attempt to rise but Token placed a hand on his chest holding him in place.
"No, it's not." Token frowned, bringing his hand off of the smaller boy's chest when he turned his attention to Stan once more. "You're having a lot of behavioral issues-"
"When does Stan not have issues?" Kenny offered with a smile, though his enthusiasm didn't exactly help the cause.
"Look, point being, I'm Team Captain—you're star Quarterback. We need you, but we could find a replacement if you don't chill out. I mean, you shouldn't get so bent out of shape if we're ripping on you for something you brought upon yourself."
"Whoa, wait-" Kyle interrupted in place of his strangely mute best friend. "What exactly do you mean by 'something he brought upon himself'? We always fight—brawns over brains, that's our motto, right? What's the big deal?"
Checkmate—praise to the Debate Team's champion.
Token frowned, teeth closing over the inside of his cheek, smooth tongue running over the roof of his mouth. He was an outsider—an object as the only black student at the school. Phenomenal grammar, gifted musical abilities, and his position on the team were a guarantee into just about any college—a false move could ruin everything, labeling him. There was no answer, no way to word it. Because, really, the labels were what did it, were what killed everything.
"Just, could you please stop trying to fuck your teammates when we have games? I don't care what you do after the season so can you refrain until after the playoffs?"
Laughter.
Escalated laughter.
Stan sank into his seat, head turning to gaze out the window again. "Not like anyone complained until Butters ratted this out…"
Through the window's reflection, he swore he caught Craig's eye from across the aisle but when he turned around the boy was looking out the window, raising his middle finger each time a truck passed them on the right side with an amused Clyde sitting alongside him. Stan's body jerked, eyes widening as Kyle placed a hand on his knee.
"Dude… chill, it's just me," Kyle said, voice a low and monotonous rather than the high-pitched, nasally wail it usually held, though that, at times, was in conjunction with his irritation. And allergies. "Look, it'll pass soon enough, especially since you're no fun to tease. Least not about this. We want a spazz… speaking of, how long has it been since someone ripped on Tweek?" Stan lifted a brow, the corners of his lips half-turning up into a smirk. Kyle won the battle—for a moment Stan could forget that he was the one to have punched dumb and innocent Butters, though he couldn't forget that he was the one who made a move on about five teammates. Five friends, most of whom, he assumed, were now former-friends. Five boys he grew up with, cornering them in the midst of post-game laughs about losing by a shorter margin each time. Boys who would never admit to what happened except for one blond boy lacking the social skills and smarts the others possessed who turned him down—a boy who most likely was oblivious to the aftermath of a said-confession.
Boys will be boys, it was the way of the jungle—kill or be killed.
Currently, Stan was the hunted. Lord of the Flies-type shit.
There were a few claps as Butters was hauled to his feet, Token dusting off the back of his shirt and pants for him. Platonic touches, ones that Stan would brush off. He knew, though, that if he were to touch another, cries of "Fag" and "Queer" would echo around the bus, loudly jested through the locker room. Those who understood the platonic nature wouldn't stand for it, lest they be called the accursed nickname he would come to possess, and soon.
Butters flushed, cheeks tinting a pale rose tone. "N-now, that's quite all right. It wasn't any great feat or nothin' special."
"It's not every day that a good chap like you gets conked on the noggin, now is it?" Pip replied, patting the seat next to him in offering. He was two seats behind and opposite the aisle to Stan and Kyle—they were two seats behind and opposite the aisle to Stan and Kyle once Butters walked the few seats back. They were odd: the people the popular kids made fun of, the people that wanted to be popular made fun of, and the people who couldn't care made fun of. This barely changed upon joining the high school football team, though a few people held Butters in higher respect, mostly to their uncanny ability to use him. Pip was another story—it seemed to easy. There was no conscience, no second thought. Only Pip, and his desperation to become accepted and popular.
He wouldn't become popular. He was the target for spitballs and the one they called "queer" up through middle school. The nicknames died after they spotted Pip kissing Heidi by her locker in seventh grade, plus he was never shaken by the names so that ended up being boring and lame. The British were tough—nothing got to them.
A bang sounded, cracking into the air followed by the screeching of tires. The bus lurched to a stop and Stan nearly lost his balance, hand catching on the seat in front of him for support. Tweek screamed, gripping onto the blond locks of his hair as he curled into a fetal position on one of the seats.
"What the h-h-hell just h-happened?" Jimmy stuttered, rising to his feet before hobbling to the front of the bus. The piercing sound of Tweek's cries grated Stan's nerves.
"Jesus, Tweek, someone give you a tittie twister or something?" Cartman complained, rising from his seat. The boy followed Jimmy's slow trek, shoving a hand in the crumpled Tweek's direction before he continued toward the exit, curious as to the cause of the stop. The wailing boy's shoulders shook relentlessly, legs jerking to hit the seat back in front of him.
Stan turned his head to Kyle, opening his lips to make a comment about Tweek's irrational behavior when Craig rose. He stepped sideways over the front of Clyde's knees before he walked down the aisle. Coming to a stop by the side of the petrified boy's seat, he turned and squatted, resting his hands on Tweek's legs.
"They're coming, they're going to get me!" Tweek cried, voice lowering in volume. Craig replied, something too quiet for Stan to hear. Stan strangely longed to stand up and peer down at them, inviting himself into their world, but it seemed almost sacred.
"They just are! I know they are! Oh God," the boy stammered. Another low murmur of Craig's voice. A whisper in reply.
"WHOA! DUDES! SERIOUSLY! YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS!" Cartman shouted, rushing to the back of the bus.
"R-r-r-really now, Eric, it's not th-th-th-thhhhh…th-th-th-thhh… th-th-th…that special," Jimmy called from outside the door to the bus.
"Shut up, Jimmy! Of course it's awesome! Seriously dudes, it's AMAZING!"
Kyle sighed, glancing sideways at Stan before deciding to humor Cartman. "Did you fart so big you blew up Yellowstone National Park?"
"No, Jew. Yellowstone is in like China," Cartman countered, bringing a hand to rub over the bridge of his nose. Kyle stared at him incredulously for a moment.
"You idiot! It's in Wyoming!"
"Kyle, listen, okay? Incase you didn't notice, Wyoming is the capital of China-"
"God, Cartman, you are so fucking Stupid!"
"Just tell us what you saw-" Kenny interrupted, tugging the drawstring to his parka a fraction tighter.
"Oh. Oh yeah. DUDES, guys! For REAL! It is by far the coolest thing that has EVER happened to us! The bus hit a gnome and the front axel of the bus completely broke off!"
"For real?!" Token asked, face lighting up with excitement.
"Yeah! Like you guys have GOT to see it. I mean, the gnome is completely smushed underneath the wheel and there's blood everywhere!" Cartman's voice was cut off with another high pitched squeal.
"AHHHHHHHHHHH! I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU! THEY'RE AFTER ME! THEY WANT TO KILL ME! THEY'RE SENT BY THE SCANDINAVIAN GOVERNMENT TO TRY AND KILL ME! GAH! NO ONE BELIEVES ME! WHAT IF THEY KILL ME?! WHAT IF NO ONE NOTICES?!"
Typical Tweek.
"Thanks a lot, dick face. Now he wont shut up for at least an hour," Kevin grunted, though he made his way toward the front of the bus, anxious to see the damage.
"Get over it, spazz," Cartman jeered toward the boy though he was too consumed with his find to care. He turned his back to the group, flab jiggling as he ran to see the carnage once more.
"Damage sounds pretty bad—I hope we're not stranded here for awhile," Kyle muttered as he stepped into the aisle. Stan slid out, following Kyle closely. His body lightly collided with Kyle's as he came to a stop. He turned his head, half-looking around Kyle, eyes widening.
Craig slid onto Tweek's seat, his palm resting on the boy's back as his fingers drummed on his side. He sat next to the boy, his legs nearly entwined with the jerking boy's motions. Tweek's body quivered, eyes as wide as saucers. The whites nearly overcame the faint blue in his eyes, swallowing the water like the foam on the waves.
"Not coming?" Kyle asked, aiming the direction at Craig. Craig shrugged his shoulders.
"I'll pass. I can see road kill whenever."
"Is he going to be all right?" Kyle added. Craig lifted his free hand, middle finger elevating. Kyle shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Well, if you change your mind you know where we'll be."
Stan's brows furrowed but he said nothing, leaving the gentle murmurs and subsiding wails behind in favor of destruction. But, as he turned to move with Kyle out of the bus, he heard it—something soft and faint and barely there:
"I won't let them kill you."
The words were so quiet and alien that Stan wasn't sure if he heard them correctly. He glanced behind his shoulder, Craig's body out of sight. There were a few whimpers then a moan and a second moan. A calmness. He was Tweek's drug.
"Stan, you coming?" Kyle asked, tugging at his best friend's sleeve as he stood on the steps to the bus, the limbo between a peaceful serene and chaotic outdoors.
Stan took a deep breath and exited the bus.