House after house passed the vehicle as it drove past, each one almost identical, apart from the different colours. Kyle's address was jammed in the compartment below the radio, tucked between a large collection of CDs. It was crumpled, and stained with some liquid; he wasn't sure what it was, but it smelt caffeinated, and he inhaled the odour as he scanned the familiar writing, a messy scrawl done under the influence of medication.

It stood out on the yellowing paper, and he frowned, trying to remember where it was located. On the back, Kyle had drawn a map, but it was one which could only have been written by somebody under an intoxicating influence, namely painkillers and looked more like abstract art than a readable map. In vain, he drove through road by road, noting with some interest that there were a few solar panels scattered around. They glinted in the weak sunlight, and, he thought, would be practically useless in the winter.

The fuel was running low, and he made a reminder to refill it once he had located the dwelling. His counterpart had rung ahead, and, due to some feat of persuasion, managed to negotiate a payment system that involved directing the amount in his account from his bedside towards the landlord.

"Hey," he called to the nearest passerby, who looked disturbingly familiar, hunched and cocooned in a fleece that looked to be on its last stint of functioning as warmth. "Can you tell me where I can go to get to this place?" In reply, the head jerked up, as a blue eyed gaze appraised him, coaxing their head out to gesture for the paper as they walked across.

"That place?" he blinked, and he tilted his face downwards to talk to the other, a young man around the same age, with startlingly memorable features. "It's a dump, man. Give me a ride, and I'll show you." He was already half in the car before he had nodded his assent, and the blonde was left with the impression that he was more used to giving orders rather than waiting for agreement. The hat, which the stranger had worn on his head was removed to reveal unkempt black hair, and clarified his identity almost immediately.

"Kenny McCormick," he muttered, holding out a hand. "Who said you could come in?" When he stole another look, the other's expression mirrored his own feelings.

"Dude, no way. Stan Marsh, though you er, probably don't remember me," he grabbed on hand shaking it with unnerving intensity. "I knew you in elementary!" Stan's posture had loosened, somewhat, and he wondered what had placed the tension there. He seemed to be carefully controlled energy, waiting for an opportune time to be unleashed, and the visitor's arm seemed to be the recipient. "We were like best friends!" They then proceeded to lapse into a silence only two people who hadn't spoken regularly in over a decade would, before Kenny cleared it, handing over the address.

"Is that Kyle's apartment?" the companion jerked up suddenly, a wide smile still intact. "Sorry, I spaced out there, yeah, Kyle lives there. It's, frankly, a shithole, but it was the furthest away from his mom he could get, you know, in South Park."

"Why are you still here?" He squinted through the frantically swiping wipers in front of them, tapping the glass.

"Have you ever thought of getting that fixed?"

"Dude, you're evading the question."

"There's no particular intrigue, really. I'm here on my break. I've got one last year for college, and then I'm going. I started a little late. Seriously, you need to fix that," They watched as they crashed down, obscuring the path from sight. "Seriously unhealthy." There was something slightly odd about him, as if he was shuttered to the world, and there was something about the smile that didn't seem completely right.

Maybe South Parkwas finally getting to him. Kenny wouldn't be sure, but eventually, there was enough madness for it to get to anybody who spent prolonged amounts of time anywhere else, only to return. It was starting to seep into him, something welcoming, but not sorely missed. He nudged Stan, who had started to look even more dazed.

"I know it's a surprise, coming to see my wonderful face around, but you should snap out of it." The response he got was a small, wry grin that looked so utterly like Stan, and so out of place that he had to blink before returning his vision to the snow covered road.

Stan Marsh was a person who he had been pretty close with when they were ten, and, like Kyle, had distanced himself from during the later years of school. Then again, everybody seemed to at one point, when cynicism had kicked in and he gave short, biting remarks that alienated him from the rest of the year. In high school, he had, predictably, become a celebrated sports player, and Kenny's memories of him were of a fairly well built, bulky football player, who was perpetually adored by the rest of the school to the point of nausea. There had been nothing special, just another jock in a line of them, who happened to date the budding activist, Wendy Testaburger.

At some unknown point, he had decided to trade in pure muscle for something else, a lean frame that was emphasised by the way he sprawled indolently in the seat, arms folded and legs spread, not slender, and not scrawny, but enough to make a difference in his appearance. His trademark hat lay in the side pocket, and if he caught Kenny staring, there was no reaction, merely an indication to turn left. They pulled up by the apartment, and it suddenly dawned on him that Stan had probably been watching him too, in a non-creepy way. They stood next to the engine, breath condensing in the air.

"This place really is a tip," he commented, going back inside to take the keys from the same area. It fit in the lock with ease, and swinging open, it revealed the inside, a small pair of rooms, while to the right was a kitchenette, barely used.

"He doesn't come home often," Stan quipped behind him, ducking in to run a finger against the counter top. It came away with accumulated molecules of dirt. "Normally I'm the one who has to cook when he comes back, otherwise he's too tired to care."

"Do you come with the apartment?"

"Do you wish that was true?"

"I'm not in any want of a maid."

"I practically am the live-in when he's away."

"Oh God," he slumped onto the ground, stifling a mock grunt. "You two are like, a package deal or whatever. Save us from the curse of the super bests." He probably deserved the punch on his shoulder as Stan slid beside him, one hand patting him awkwardly on the back.

"It's not too bad, you get free breakfast."

"Is lunch part of it?"

"I think you're taking your help a little too lightly." They exchanged a look of amusement, before Stan straightened up, moving boxes aside to make way for their walk. Cardboard was everywhere, taped and closed in a blatant sign of privacy.

"What's the deal? Do I have to do anything, or is this free?"
"Weren't you listening?"

"Honestly?" he laughed, a small sound that echoed in the silent room. "I was thinking about Bebe Stevens at that moment."

"You remember South Park, and the first thing you think of is her?" his acquaintance was incredulous at the thought.

"Well, it's better than thinking about dying, isn't it?"

Stan was silent for a moment as he studied the statement, before nodding, brushing past him with determination.

"You have any stuff?"

He was closed again, almost similar to his former behaviour, and Kenny adjusted his coat, glancing at the rooms before following him. The rest of the unloading was done quietly.

ben4kevin, thanks for leaving a review. The plot will start soon, the main characters have to be introduced, and there are a few more.