Expo '86

by Vcorrigan

Enter the psyche of society's base, add in numerous illegal substances, and you've got the expo of the century. Because neither can admit their faults, their feelings, the one thing that matters may be lost through their projections onto others. Tweek/Craig

4. 1 3 Carnage

Notes: I know I got the timeline screw up from the real South Park timeline, oh well. And let's jsut say that the mention of Asses of Fire 3 before was like Star Wars, how they screwed the production line up. Yeah, that's my excuse. And yes, you'll see a lot of SP:BLU scripting toward the end, once again, oh well :D

Disclaimer: I still don't own the title, lyrics weaved in, SP:BLU scripting, characters, yadda yadda. Only snugglywitttle Cur-Cur is mine >3

---

1.3 Mental Carnage and Overdue Bloodshed

car·nagen.

1. Massive slaughter, as in war, a massecre.
2. Corpses, especially those killed in battle.

When friendship fails, what is there? Loneliness, spite, vengeance, hate? Or all of those and more wrapped into a neat package, waiting to blow up in the least (and most) expected place. Rejection is never a pretty subject to tamper with; it leaves egos shattered, confidence vanished completely. In other words, it leaves a pit of dispair and depression. When mixed the medication to rid of any such feeling, the world continues to spin, and people live their lives like nothing ever happened.

---

For two days after, Tweek stayed home from school, sick. He couldn't eat without the sickening churn of having to vomit, nor did he have the will. Instead he stayed in bed, curled in the masses of blankets, restless, wanting to very well die and hating Craig for making him so weak. The hardest question to answer, yet the most commonly asked was causing such confusing and physical pain: why?

But then again, if he was in the same position, Tweek couldn't really argue the fact he'd do the same thing. It was childlike mentality; if it hurt or confused you, forget about it. Even as their minds adjusted to the preteen years, it would still be the same scenario, until pain eventually opened a world of pleasure.

Craig was hardly his worries, though. He was just one in a million, but he was the head-hauncho of their gang. What Craig said was law, no question, and the other guys would follow his lead like lost puppies. And eventually the behaviour would overcome the other children, until everyone in the town under the age of twenty-five was against him. Coupled with the decision of homeschooling, his social life was doomed. But what other option was there? Going to school, he wouldn't learn, instead be ridiculed for his differences, and sooner or later turn into a worse version of Butters. That was a worse punishment than being isolated.

The knowledge sunk in the first night, and he cried. Eavan had held him close, singing sweet lullabies, voice strangely accented and soothing. Within the first few minutes the hysterical sobbing and died into quiet sniffs and silent tears as he mumbled to himself the lyrics. Despite the situation, the soft Irish folk songs seemed calming, even though most were tragic love songs.

After an hour the dilemma scabbed over and the tears stopped as Tweek fell into slumber. Eavan put him to bed, to be awaked herself at three in the morning with a panicking Richard clutching at their son's arm shaking her violently into awareness. The child had a hand clamped to his mouth, thick gelluous blood dripping through his fingers onto the white carpet, eyes wide and tearful, face pale and slick with sweat. Before she could even ask what was wrong their son doubled over, hands grasping desperately at his stomach as blood and bile was painted on the carpet.

The next day and a half was spent in the hospital, diagnosed with a stomach ulcer caused by acute stress. Concerned, Eavan tread on the subject Tweek had carefully avoided since announcing his want of being homeschooled. He denied any such connection his condition had with his friends, but Eavan knew better, and called Craig's mother to find out. Lydia had noticed a distinct change in Craig's behaviour, but otherwise hadn't addressed it; afterall, children got into petty fights all of the time. She decided eventually she'd talk to the Nommel boy herself, but would wait until everything settled. The job she was more inclined to was making sure Tweek was once more healthy, and could show him his world wouldn't dissolve without his friends.

However, when the doctor announced caffeine had to be taken from Tweek's diet to strengthen the lining of his stomach, he might as well have died right then.

---

He was released early Friday morning and got the day to mope around, twitching and shouting obscenities about the government. The doctors at the hospital had gotten into a heated argument with Dr. Rizzo over the phone about the medication he was on, and eventually was taken off of them all until his stomach could heal properly. Tweek had celebrated appropriately by skipping up the driveway to the door, shaking his tail feathers and twirling in circles, until he hit a patch of ice and slipped onto his face that is.

Saturday he awoke with a sore nose, grumbling harshly under his breath as his curtains were thrown open, sending a wave of morning light into his face. He buried further under the covers, curling into a ball as if he'd somehow be protected from his mother's cheerful bantering.

"Tweek honeykins, you've got to get up, we're going to visit someone today!" Eavan sang cheerfully, stepping carefully across the floor to keep from making too much noise and tugged on the plaid comforter.

"Iduncare," he mumbled from under the layers of blankets, tugging back until it became a half-hearted game of tug-o'-war.

"Tweeky, I'll drag you there in your pajamas if you don't get up."

Growling he rolled over and poked his head out from under the blankets, squinting into the sun to find his mother standing over him with a coy smile. Throwing off the sheets he shuddered against the sudden cold and frigid winter air that seeped in through the closed window.

"Jesus Christ, it's freakin' freezing! I'll get hypothermia going out there, who is that important?"

Crossing to the closet she opened it slowly so her son didn't go shrieking out of the room and ruffled through his clothing; it was a secret fetish of hers, picking out outfits for people. As she examined a jade jacket with cream-coloured faux fur she answered, "Oh, one of the homescholed children, honey, so you can understand the program a bit better."

Pulling on the heavy-duty khaki jeans, and black long-sleeved shirt he snorted. "The homeschooled kids are now public schooled—gyah!"

Eavan bit her cheek to keep from laughing at her son, trying to pull the sleeve of his brown sweater over his head. Smiling broadly she pulled it off and helped him adjust the turtleneck the correct way. Giving her a sheepish look he went about tugging on two pairs of socks and his winter boots.

"Yes, the Cotswold children are now public schooled, but I wasn't referring to them. Anyway, we already know Mark hated it, and little Rebecca was utterly in love with being isolated," she said with a short laugh as she helped Tweek into his jacket and zipped it up for him. He pulled on his mittens and grabbed a black fluffy toboggan with cat ears sewed on for decoration, something he only wore if his ears were threatened with the prospect of frostbite.

"Then who?"

She smiled, ushering him out of the room with soft shoves. "Oh, you'll see dear. Go downstairs and get your scarf and the keys, alright? I'm going to head your father off before he goes to work."

Tweek sighed as he toed each stair before tramping down them and did as he was told. Did he really want to go meet some stuck-up homeschooled kid? Not particularly, but did he have a choice? Absolutely not.

Cramming the keys into his pocket he darted glances around and edged into the kitchen, as if it was a sin. Tongue between his teeth he stood on his tippy-toes and searched the counter blindly for some sort of snack. If he knew his parents correctly, sitting out in front of the third coffee pot was always a box of Granola, if only—"Chyes!" he smirked, knocking the box onto the floor. Grabbing it up he took one of the bars and ripped the foil open with his teeth before skipping back into the hallway, grinning at his accomplishment. He stopped dead, almost missing a step and tripping at the sight of his parents…kissing.

"Mom, Dad! Ew, gross! Jesus Christ, you'll get AIDS, or pregnant! Oh God, we can't have another kid, there's not enough air for that! Gyah, why didn't you guys think?"

Richard grinned boldly as he placed hands on Tweek's shoulders, stopping him from bouncing up and down. "Now Tweek son, your Mom isn't pregnant. Why would you think otherwise?"

"Because you were," he shuddered despite the layers of clothing, "kissing, and that's gross, and so is pregnancy, so it all fits."

Richard shook his head and fluffed Tweek's hair despite the protest and mumbles of transmitting AIDS. Leaning down to kiss his son's forehead he was smacked in the face with flailing limbs and glared out harshly. He just flashed coffee-stained teeth at the pouting boy. "Have fun with your new friend, alright Tweek? And Eavan dear, give him a little talk, okay?"

The woman nodded briefly as she put on her coat and took Tweek's hand, leading them both out into the garage. Sliding hurriedly into the seat Tweek set the heater, twiddling with knobs and slides so when Eaven turned the ignition the hot air would immediately begin its tedious job. They sat in comfortable silence as the heater whirled, engine warming up, Tweek humming Jingle Bells under his breath.

Looking through the rearview mirror at him Eavan sighed. "Tweek honey, I think we need to talk about a few things."

Cocking his head he looked up at her, ringing his hands nervously. "Like?"

"Well when two people are in love they—"

"I know about sex, Jesus Christ Mom!" he shouted, eyes clamping shut as a chill racked his body, cheeks flushing at the topic set out for them. Why couldn't his Dad explain this to him? It seemed impure for his mother to be spouting about sexual relations.

"Then you know that's how pregnancy occurs, yes?"

"Yes! The man sticks his fireman in the woman's china and nine months later after becoming the size of an elephant the woman is a mother. I know. But no kid wants to see his parents, or any adults for that matter, kissing!"

She smiled smugly at that, considering the teens that delved in porn. "It's just what people in love do, honey."

Yanking at his hair in thought he hmmed. "So I should kiss my friends on a regular basis?"

"Not that sort of love, that's different than pure emotional love."

"Gyah, what is love then?"

Looking uncomfortable she turned left on the main street leading into Windtrea, the neighborhood her friend lived in. "It's different for everyone, there is no one definition. Some people believe it a chemical reaction, others feel magic, then there are some that believe love no know bounds be it age, distance, race, gender, social class, anything."

"Oh. Then how do boys have sex with each other? There is no china, so there can't be any babies."

Coughing politely Eavan turned into the well kept driveway of a peach house and shut off the heater and engine. She turned to stare hard at the curiosity held in those chocolate eyes gained by his father and shook her head. "When you're older I'll tell you, okay?" Without waiting for an answer she hopped out of the car and strode toward the front door. Grumbling, Tweek followed, making sure to avoid the patches of ice and snow that had cascaded onto the sidewalk.

As the door swung open he stopped dead, the visage of a woman a few years younger than his mother appearing. Dark hair framed her face, held back by a white headband so the sparkling grey eyes were very visible against the pale olive coloured skin. Dressed in a navy sweater and long crème skirt she seemed more dressed for a day of staying indoors without company, but as she grinned and hugged his mother Tweek knew better. He mumbled a, "shit," as the woman ushered them in, took their coats, and insisted they make themselves comfortable.

Seeing his mother take off her snowboots he followed suit, leaving them in the side closet by the door, feeling somewhat out of place in such a cultured home. Knickknacks and oil paintings littered the walls, along with miniature statures of woman angels. And everywhere he looked, there was something written in French. He faked a smile looking up at the woman, fingers entwining at the hem of his jacket.

"And you must be Tweek, ah, 'ow I 'ave 'eard so vairy much about you! I am Madame DeLorne, and et ez such an honour to finally meet you!"

Tweek smiled wearily, offering a hand. The accent he knew instantly, and as far as he knew the only French family living in South Park consisted of this woman, and The Mole. He'd ehard the horror stories associated with the crazy chain-smoking Frenchman and did not want to be 'friends' with him. It was on his list of things he never wanted to do, the two above it being getting shot and flayed.

"Ah—it's—it's nice to meet you too," he squeaked at Yvette, snatching his hand back. She smiled as if satisfied that she heard him speak.

"Good, good, but you are not 'ere to chit and chat wiz me, now are you? Non, you are 'ere to talk to my son. Christophe! Christophe, come down and meet our guest!" She placed hands on her hips, lips pursed as if expecting some coy, rude remark to be thrown down the stairwell. And when there wasn't, she seemed surprised. "Christophe, sil vouz plaît, descendent ici."

Christophe was more intimidating than he'd imagined as he slunk down the stairs, a hand grasping the railing—tall, yet slender; chocolate hair unkempt, spiked and matted; cameo gear giving him an air of authority and willingness, steel-toed boots dust encrusted and worn, a baldric strapped across the narrow chest, shovel blade threatening over his shoulder. What really made him look menacing were the blue eyes, tinged with gold, flecked in violet and brown. The mix was startling, but the hard look he gave Tweek while he looked the blonde up and down caused him to freeze, a sneer drawing his lips back from nicotine-coloured teeth.

"Maman, what ez Twitchy doing 'ere?"

"Christophe! Be nice to our guest, now come 'ere right now!"

The Mole sneered and continued to slide down the stairs, clunky boots hardly making any noise, alerting anyone that cared that he was either rolling his weight with the steps to evenly distribute, or he was walking on the arch of his feet. At the bottom he slid under his mother's arm, muttering an inaudible curse under his breath.

With a nudge from Eavan, Tweek took a step forward, eyes darting for an escape route. "Ah, er, gyah—Hi?"

Christophe licked his lips, sporting a disinterested look. "'ello, Twitchy."

Yvette clapped her hands together and gave Christophe a shove. "Now why don't you show 'im up to your room, cherie? Talk and get to know each ozer, yes? Eavan and I will be chit and chatting in ze living room, okay boys?"

Christophe rolled his eyes, huffing as the woman walked away. "Yes, yes, make me come down only to force me back up, zank you vairy much Maman." Turning on his heel he headed back up the stairs, growling, "Follow me, Twitchy, but do not touch anyzing or I'll fucking rip your balls off."

Tweek swallowed hard, tempted to dash off to the adults, but was curious as to how Christophe lived, and followed him up with several steps between them—despite his interest, he was going with "safe" over everything else. After all, even though his mother was nice and the pink walls betrayed the mercenary's intimidating behaviour, it still was The Mole.

Kicking open a door with scuff marks on it, Christophe led them into what appeared to be a normal nine-year-olds room, painted a rich brown with charcoal carpeting. The bedding and curtains were deep green, the other furniture made out of a black wood that shined red. The walls even had several posters; John Lennon, Kyo, and a rather random Salvador Dalí artpiece. However, the ropes, knives, medical supplies, laptop, other assorted weapons and goods gave the room an eerie, nearly torture-device feel, and the hint of blood hidden under the vanilla Glad plug-in was doing nothing but supporting the idea.

Tweek jumped as the door was slammed closed and whirled around to face Christophe. The brunette ignored him as he went about kicking various items under the bed or into the closet in a poor attempt at tidying. When he was obviously satisfied with his work he finally gave Tweek his full attention with a frown.

"I'm going to tell you right now, I'm ze fuckin' slave driver; when I say 'jump', you fuckin' do et wizout question, when I ask you a question, you answer to appease me or I'll zrow a dart at your eye, understand?" Tweek gave a quick nod, wanting to desperately keep his eyes in tact. "Alright zen, let's test zis, yes? Why are you 'ere, Twitchy?"

Cracking his knuckles he glanced around. "Mom wanted me to talk to someone homeschooled to get a feel for it, I swear, that's it! Jesus Christ, not my eyes!"

Christophe cackled, lips turning into a teeth-baring smile as Tweek shielded his eyes. He plopped down on his bed, biting his cheek to keep from laughing at the whimpering and lay down, head over the edge so the world was upside-down.

"So you want to know about ze 'omeschooling? Et's sheet. Sure, et ez better zen sitting in a classroom wiz a bunch of ozer sheetheads, but et fucks you up, sets off ze socialism aspect of life. I wouldn't recommend et unless you 'ave zings you can do in ze meantime."

"I have no choice," Tweek murmured, glancing down at a stain on the floor.

"So why 'aven't I seen you wiz ze boy zat likes to flip people off? Feuding?"

"No reason." He looked up in time to see a play dart flying at him, the tip metal and very sharp looking. Squealing he ducked, or rather threw himself flat on the floor, the dart stuck in his hair. He glanced up at the grinning face of Christophe, eyes wide at the knowledge this kid was fucking crazy. "Jesus Christ, what was that for?"

"Ze answer wasn't vairy appeasing, Twitchy, now try again; why 'aven't I seen you wiz ze flipper?"

Turning to face the wall Tweek closed his eyes and sighed, ignoring the intense stare he was gaining from above. "I'm different and Craig doesn't like that, okay? Happy?"

Turning over on his stomach Christophe reached a hand downward, plucking the dart from the blonde's hair, entwining a lock between grimy fingers in the process. "Ah, so 'e does not approve of change, not many do. Et causes unstableness, lack of security, and many just do not wish to tread zere."

"I don't fucking need you to tell me that!" Tweek snapped, bolting upright, and slammed his fist into Christophe's astounded face. At impact a crack resounded in the silence and blood flowed from the brunette's swollen lip. After the initial shock Tweek lowered his gaze, clutching the bottom of his sweater with shaking hands. "I'm—I'm sorr—"

But it was too late for apologies. Howling Christophe was on him, slamming the blonde to the floor roughly with his foot, only to grab him by the collar of the shirt and shook him violently. Tweek clamped his eyes shut, gasping as tattered fingernails bit into the skin through the heavy cloth. Feeling one hand pull away and the other tighten, he opened his eyes to see a clenched fist hurtling toward his eye. Time seemed to crystallize as Christophe yelled a foreign curse as he let go of Tweek completely and smacked him hard with his knuckles. Letting out a shriek of dismay the blonde fell back onto the floor, hands scrambling at his now throbbing eye.

"What on Earth is going on in 'ere?" Yvette shouted, slamming the door open. The two adults took in the sight, Tweek on the floor whimpering behind his hands, Christophe standing over him, seething, blood falling onto the carpet from his lip. Eavan let out a gasp and fell to her son's side, grabbing his hands and pulled them away, so the extent of damage could be seen. His eye was now swelling and painted in a colourful bruise rainbow, a small cut seeping ooze and blood above his eyebrow from a ring the French boy wore. "Christophe!"

As if realizing just then the adults had entered, Christophe slowly turned to face his mother, movements slow and deliberate. He shook with build-up rage, and now fright at seeing his mother's smoldering look. He lowered his hands, fist curling and unfurling at his thighs, gaze a little left of his mom's,

"Christophe, what 'appen 'ere? What 'ave you done!"

Tweek lifted his head, catching Christophe's flashing gaze, knowing very well in that instant the French boy wouldn't tattle on him. He gulped as Noémie advanced on her son, knowing he couldn't let Christophe take all the blame and not have a guilty conscious.

"I-I hit h-him fi-first," he stuttered, biting his lip in a desperate attempt to seem smaller. Eavan brushed his bangs from his forehead, calculating his response, knowing Tweek wouldn't lie out of fear or consequence.

"Is this so, pumpkin?"

"I-I didn't mean to, I-I just sn-snapped! I'm s-s-sorry, r-really, I di-didn't m-me-mean to…"

The French woman threw Tweek a sympathetic look, a small smile forming on her lips. "Et ez alright, Tweek darling, Christophe knows better zen zat." She turned to face Christophe, eyes narrowing, a finger stuck in his face like a disobedient dog. "Did ze zerapy teach you nozing? Do we need to continue wiz et, increase sessions? I zought you learned to keep under control, you were doing so well, what went wrong?"

The Mole stared at the floor, eyes hidden by frothy hair. Always disappointed, he always felt he was a burden, or surprise puppy not wanted with the tone his mother held. He let out a shuddered sigh, and if Tweek didn't know better, he would've thought the brunette in tears.

"Je suis désolé, Mamen, je n'ai pas—"

"Do not apologize to me, I am not ze one you 'it!" she hissed, smacking him softly on the cheek with the back of her hand. Christophe made a noise, a cross between a whimper and grunt as he turned to face Tweek, raising his head slowly. The blonde got to his feet, intimidated on the ground under the hard look of The Mole, though kept his hand in the firm grasp of his mom's.

"I am sorry for 'itting you, I don't know what came over me," he grumbled, outstretching a hand that shook. "Forgive me?"

Tweek looked it over, grimacing slightly at the short, cracked, dirt encrusted finger nails, a breeding ground for germs. Grudgingly he shook The Mole's hand, pulling out of the grasp a little quickly, resisting the urge to wipe it on his pants. "I forgive you," he finally said, though it seemed all for naught. "And I'm sorry."

"Unf."

Yvette placed a hand on her son's head, fingers entwining in the mess of hair as she smiled apologetically at Eavan. "I am terribly sorry about what 'as 'appened, I do 'ope you are not too upset wiz us about et."

Eavan squeezed Tweek's hand while she pet at his hair as well. "No, it's quite alright, dear. Boys will be boys."

"Yes zey will, apparently. Per'aps zey should stay apart for a while?"

"I agree, until they calm down some they should stay away from each other."

Tweek felt his stomach drop at such a thought, though he was completely unsure as to why. He glanced to the scowling Mole, cocking his head to see the brunette better through his one, not throbbing eye. Despite the furrowed brows, crossed arms, predatory-like stance, and snarl, he seemed lost, lonesome.

"Let me walk you two to ze car," Yvette offered, ushering them into the hallway. She turned, not hearing the scuffling o boots and eyed her still son. "Are you going to come and say good-bye to our guest, Christophe?"

"Good-byes are for God fucking pansies," he muttered, glancing up just in time to see his mother's boiling look and hand coming down on his face. He yelped as her palm brushed his lip, right-cheek stinging as blood rushed to the surface of the skin. He lowered his gaze instantly, staring at his mother's black slippers instead of the hard grey eyes.

"I'll talk to you later about zis," Yvette hissed, closing the door in his face with force and smiled tiredly at the Tweaks. Tweek clutched his mom's hand tighter, seeing the visage of a Hell-spawn demon standing before him, complete with horns and fangs, while the red lipstick increased the picture of blood. "I'm sorry about zat, I do not know what 'as gotten into 'im today!"

"It's quite alright, Yvette," Eavan said kindly as they reached the bottom of the stairwell, retrieving their coats and boots. As Tweek reached hurriedly for the door she said, "Do call, I'd love to get together with you again."

Yvette kissed her on both cheeks and smiled. "Blessed be, stay safe."

Trudging into the snow, wind brisk and icy, Tweek shuddered. There was no way in Hell he was going back willingly with that woman in the house.

---

After dinner Tweek was sent up to bed, grounded for three days, but he didn't mind. With no friends there was nothing he was really missing out on in the outside world. That wasn't the problem, though, he was too preoccupied curled on the bed, nestled in a corner to keep view of the room, trying to decipher the mystery of Christophe DeLorne. As the sun drifted behind the Rocky Mountains, casting a pink tinge across South Park, the stars glittered in the sky. Arcade Fire played softly from the CD player, making concentration easier.

Christophe was in therapy, but for what? Something to do with keeping in control, but of what? His temper? That had to be it, which then escalated into physical harm, and perhaps yelling. But why did he lose control, and why did he need therapy for it?

Tweek sighed, pulling the sheets farther to his chin, and turned to look out the window. The sky had melted into a stunning blue colour, wispy vibrant pink clouds stretched across the vast expanse like fluff pulled apart. The stars were brighter, twinkling mercilessly, the Northern Star dancing brilliantly behind the strenuous clouds. It reminded him of Christophe's eyes, how they warped colours depending on his mood; lightening when angry, golden brown standing out more, and darkening drastically, coloured with violet when upset or scolded. Lonely.

Which brought on another bought of questions; why was he homeschooled in the first place? Were the rumours true, had Christophe whacked off his teacher's nose, or had he done some horrible deed at private school? Why did the other kids avoid him so, start such silly scandal? More importantly, why had he listened? Of course, being punched in the eye on the first meet wasn't something he particularly loved, nor looked forward to in the future.

Future, why did he consider Christophe a part of his future? Did he really want to be friends with him, in some twisted, Curson-induced part of his mind? Did he see something in the French boy that had potential, that wouldn't dick him over?

"Friendship weaved in violence, wrenching pain; acceptable, dare you not say?"

Tweek groaned at the answer, yanking on his hair hard enough to tear strands out. He'd had a mind of his own for so long, hearing the snickering purr of Curson was unnerving.

"Gyah, fucking Christ I thought you were dead!" he moaned, falling back into the pillows, clawing at the bedsheets to relieve tension.

"Death hails as legion, merry meet, hardly! He is as you are, pretty treasure among a collection."

"I swear, as soon as I get better I'm taking the pills again if it keeps you away from me," he muttered softly, shutting his eyes.

"Ice yourself, numb from cold? Acceptance you wish, but none shall be grant, either gift from the 'Mole' or Luffins."

Tweek had to chuckle at the nickname given to Craig, taken from his middle name, Louis. It was a particular hot, humid summer day the gang had been bored out of their mind at Lake Jefferson, and decided they'd just start saying really really gay pick-up lines, and somehow "Would you like to butter my muffin, Luffins?" was incorporated into the game. From then on out Craig was known as Luffins.

"Be a lot better than arguing with myself," he said, rolling his eyes and sat up as a knock sounded on his door.

"Tweek, Tweek are you still up?"

"Yeah Dad—gyeh—come in."

Richard poked his ginger-haired head into the door, smiling softly at Tweek, trying to untangle himself from the bedsheets. Crossing the floor he grabbed the blankets, pulling them away from his son's face and sat on the edge, pale eyes appearing like velvet.

"Your mom told me what happened today." Tweek flinched, looking down at his lap, knowing well what his father was implying. "Why'd you hit the DeLorne boy?"

"Oh God, Dad, he just—he just reminded me of everything! That I'm different, that everything has changed, and he was like the fuckin' portrait of a tempermental snappy Craig, and just—gyah!"

"Tweek, calm down," Richard said sternly, placing a warm hand on his shoulder, seeming to burn through the cloth. "One thought at a time, speedy. What does Craig have to do with this?"

Biting his lip Tweek curled his fist, cursing himself for mentioning it. He'd forgotten he'd yet to tell his parents about that little incident, and what was really wrong with him.

"Craig doesn't like change, and, and he called us off forever man," Tweek squealed, wringing the blankets in his hands. Richard raised his brows, eyes widening slightly at the wording. Seeing his expression, Tweek blushed furiously and slapped him on the knee, grunting at such a thought. "Not like that, he called us off being friends, and 'cause he's the head dog that means I have no friends anymore."

Mr. Tweak gave him a coffee-stained smile and patted him on he shoulder. "Well you've always got coffee in the morning, like a lover's sweet caress it—"

"Dad, the fuckin' metaphors!"

"Oh, sorry son, and watch your language." Richard rubbed his head sheepishly as Tweek twitched, vibrating the bed. "What about the DeLorne boy, why not be friends with him?"

Tweek snorted, looking up to his father with a brow quirked, the movement hurting his swollen eye. "Christ, and get hit again? No way, dude." Crossing his arms he drew his legs to his chest, chin resting on his knees. "Dad, why does the Mole's mom hit him?"

Shifting uncomfortably Richard cleared his throat, a hand running through his course, ginger curls. How was he supposed to explain that? "You see, Christophe was—is his father's son. Yvette finds it difficult to deal with, and hates how Christophe acts, and tries to keep him in line, or rather, revert him back to his old self. She's disappointed in how he acts, and herself for letting it happen."

"So she doesn't love him?"

"No, Yvette loves her son very much, she just doesn't understand how to particularly show it." Seeing his question, Richard shook his head. "They've been through a lot, speedy, just drop it."

Tweek sighed as his father ruffled his hair and got up, closing the curtains and increased the heat. As Richard went to plug in the nightlight, Tweek bit his lip and said, "I want to try. To-to be friends with him. I want to learn why they all hate him. I want to not hate him."

Richard hit the switched, flashing a gentle smile from the doorway. "I hope you do, I'm sure you'll teach each other quite a lot. Goodnight Tweek."

---

A week in a half steadily passed, with it bringing a snowstorm, covering the ground in three feet of snow and slush. The temperature had dropped considerably—how that was even possible it took wonders to understand—and a breeze had picked up, brought on by the Canadian front. Loose snow floated through the air in the torrent of winds, needle sharp to exposed skin, rubbing it raw in mere minutes. Overall, it was a gloomy, depressing wasteland.

This, however, didn't damper Tweek's joyous temperament. School lessons began, most held online while his mother watched over, lecturing on several things needing to be covered by the program as classes went on as normal. At first the schedule had been difficult to pick up on, seeming tedious, but as the days went on it became routine and easily adaptable. At first he'd complained about having school every day of the week (Sunday classes in the afternoon and shortened, due to sabbath), but knowing he'd get a week off after three weeks was satisfying.

His stomach healed three days after being sucker punched, allowing him to once again swallow his horse pills, but he did so enthusiastically, much to his parents' dismay. However much emotion was stripped on them, it was better than the incessant babble of the King of Deceit. And, quite truthfully, it gave him some for of sick gratification knowing he had power over the Bat King. But Tweek knew Curson lay curled in his own private layer of his psyche, chained to a remote corner so he couldn't wander. He could feel the mental tug when the Bat tried to escape the clutches or the neurotics, and the swelling anger that occasionally flashed across his vision in the form of red. Otherwise, Curson remained quiet and unknown, trapped. And it was during such times Tweek would lay on his bed and delve into his psyche, to the corner Curson occupied and would sit, taunting the demon. Occasionally he created weapons, barriers, anything to perhaps intimidate the otherwise unimpressed Bat King. And it was such acts that caused Curson to draw back his lips from pointed, yellowed teeth as Tweek was sent spiraling back into Reality and Awareness, showing who was really in charge.

Christophe never left his thoughts, since the night he'd talked with his father. Richard had yet to tell his wife of what happened behind closed doors, and Tweek wasn't going to volunteer information unless asked. At first he didn't comprehend why his dad would keep silent about it, until he realized Richard wanted to see the reaction Eavan would have knowing Tweek wanted to work something out with a boy that very well meant harm. It showed signs of maturity doing so, and even that his paranoia and fear of pain and rejection was lessening. Secretly Tweek thought his dad was just proud and showing off that Dr. Rizzo really did know what he was doing, but he never voiced his opinion.

The morning he'd trotted down the stairs to deliver the message that he wanted to go see Christophe, Eavan was astonished. It wasn't like her son to be straightforward about anything, and to want to confront the person most likely to kill him? Absolutely preposterous! The first thing out of her mouth was the infamous question, the unanswerable: why? After a briefing she'd agreed, only if he stopped drinking coffee with the pills.

It was a small sacrifice for friendship.

---

Sidestepping patches of slick ice, Tweek hurried to the door, pulling his hat down around his ears, hands stuffed fruitlessly in his coat pockets as the wind ravished around his body, chilling him despite the layers he wore. South Park truly was a desolate place when it was colourless and cold, and sometimes he stopped to wonder why anyone would dare live in the town, or even Colorado for that matter with such unruly conditions. But he had to admit, he couldn't see living anywhere else, let alone somewhere it didn't snow for eight months out of the year.

Not wanting to deprive his hands of their warmth, he banged his head against the door, yowling at the impact on the cold wood, and the now tingling sensation spreading on his forehead. He glanced around the street, seeing no children out (though they were most likely in school), or cars. His mother remained in the car, waiting to see if the French family was even at home, considering Tweek had been in such a rush they didn't have time to call before hand. Jumping back and forth on his feet he hoped Christophe was home.

A metallic clink echoed behind the door before it was opened, slamming against the wall as the wind caught hold of it. Looking sleeping and shivering Christophe looked down on him in surprise, squinting against the sudden cold, but he didn't seem to want to budge from the doorway.

"What are you doing 'ere?"

"I wanted to apologize again…I've felt r-really bad! And…and I think we could be friends, y'know. We're r-really alike, and I-I think it could work. We're both outcast and no one likes us, so why not st-stay together? I m-mean, what choice do we have, who do we have?"

"No one."

"Exactly! We need each other more than y-you think…HOLY FUCK IT'S COLD!"

Christophe's lips twitched into a small smile as he stepped out of the way and motioned the shivering blonde in. Tweek yelped at the invitation, turning and waved to his mom before running indoors, hands now successfully numb as Christophe called out, "Maman, we 'ave guest."

Tweek stopped dead, eyes widening. "Oh Jesus, I-I just barged in without being asked! Oh God, oh God, oh God—"

"Shut up before I staple your mouz closed and we fall back to square one," Christophe said with a sadistic yellowed grin, bushy brows cocked upward. Tweek bit his lip and gulped, nodding, while Yvette waltz in from the kitchen, phone held limply in a hand. She seemed taken aback, but not too surprised to see him standing, layered in winter clothes on the small section of tile.

"Tweek, darling, your muzza called from ze car and told me you were 'ere, but I did not believe! After what 'appened, I cannot understand why you would willingly walk into ze wolf's lair, but oh, I am so glad zat you 'ave! You are such a sweetie, petit fils, why 'ave you done et?"

"I want to be friends," Tweek replied uncertainly, ringing his hands as they tingled from the heater's warmth.

"Isn't zat nice, Christophe!"

The Mole snorted, nodding to appease his mother, though he wouldn't describe it as "nice", but rather "astounding". No one had tried to understand and communicate through the stubbornness besides his one other friend, Gregory. Maybe it was just a blonde thing.

"Why don't you two go up to chit and chat? I am sure you boz would love to get to know each ozer better now! Up, up, and Christophe, be nice!"

Stripping off his coat, scarf, and boots, Tweek set them in the closet and skipped up the stairs after Christophe, frustrated at how the brunette took two at a time. Shaking it off he ran to catch up, walking into Christophe's room and plopped down on a newly added cameo beanbag chair next to the headboard, while The Mole sat amiss the pillows. Tweek watched as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from under his pillow and lit one up, the smell of tobacco curling his nose as Christophe took a deep drag and let out a breath lovingly.

"How can you smoke?" Tweek shrieked. "It's sick!"

"You're sick."

"…Point taken."

Smiling cockily around the cancer-stick a long, slender finger pointed to Tweek's head. "I like your 'at."

Blushing furiously the blonde yanked it off, shoving it under his butt as if it didn't exist. How has he forgotten to take off the silly thing? "It keeps my ears warm, shut up," he hissed, embarrassed. Christophe just chuckled.

"I was being serious, I like ze 'at. Zat ez somezing you 'ave to work on, you're self-conscious paranoia. Confidence ez ze key, Twitchy."

Tweek gave a brief nod as they fell back into silence, Christophe nibbling the end of his cigarette wetly, tapping the wall with mud-encrusted nails. Yanking on his hair the blonde asked, "Do you have any friends?"

Christophe gave a nod, putting out the smoking stick in an ashtray next to the wall. "Gregory Freemont, you might 'ave 'eard of 'im, I zink 'e goes to your school." Seeing Tweek's bobbing head he continued. "We went to zis private school togezer for a few grades, when I first moved 'ere to America. 'e was interested, oh, you could tell 'e wanted to ask a bizarre of questions about my native 'ome, France, and multitudes of ozer crap. He stared a little bit too much, so 'e got shot in ze eye wiz a rubber band.

"But nooo, zat did not appease 'im, and we got into an argument, that escalated into a free-for-all brawl. We boz got called to ze guidance councilor's, principle's, and zey agreed on two weeks of detention. Gregory, he wouldn't let it go and continued to ramble off questions, demanding why, and I 'umoured 'im by saying et was because 'e was staring. 'e 'ad none of zat and wanted to know ze real problem. 'e was ze first American to actually care and want to understand, so we clicked, despite constant arguing and fights, and we are still friends. What about you, Twitchy, do you 'ave any of your own?"

He could have lied, bullshitted the French boy, but that wasn't his style. Frowning he shook his head. "No, no one is my friend."

Instead of asking "why", the brunette just hehed, running a hand through his greasy hair. "Yes, my muzza told me you're on ills for craziness and it's 'ad adverse affects on friendships. But zat ez alright, az I see et, we're all born insane and remain zat way until we find somezing to keep us sane, and we go insane wizout et. Ze doctors, zey love to 'umour us by giving us pills to make et seem like we're going to get better, but non, zey make us worse. Oh well."

Tweek looked up at the brunette oddly, a twitch in his eye irritating. Christophe was strange, but rather informed in his opinions and ideas, and he didn't seem to be the judging type unless it effected him directly. Silence descended once more before he asked, "Do you, like, Jesus Christ, do anything for fun?"

Sitting up Christophe looked over the edge of the bed, crossing his legs Indian-style. "Well duh, you silly bimbo, I dig 'oles, I plot, I go out in ze snow and 'ave fun, or 'ike up ze slope into ze grove be'ind Stark's Pond. I play video games, non I take that back, I play DOOM II, and sometimes I draw, zough not vairy well. What about you?"

"I draw too, and, and I sometimes write poetry."

"Oh goody, I'd like to see zem one day, yes?"

Tweek nodded, cheeks tinting a soft pink. He continued his list, ticking each item off on a finger. "I drink coffee, spaz, play cards with myself, watch the ceiling fan, clean compulsively, and sit by the Pond and just think."

"What music do you listen to, zen?"

Falling back into the comfort of the beanbag chair he considered the question with a slight smile. "Anything soft, anything that doesn't make me want to bang my head on the wall! Calm stuff, mellow-out stuff."

"Could I assume you like Iron and Wine?"

Shooting up into a sitting position once more Tweek nodded viciously, grinning. "Yes, oh God, I love them! Spoken words like moonlight…"

"You're ze voice zat I like." They both grinned at each other before breaking into giggles at how Christophe's accent butchered the rather clean-cut vocals of the song. The blonde was rather amazed at seeing The Mole's tittering giggles and small gasps for breath as his cheeks turned pink in an attempt to contain himself. Tweek smiled to himself, hiding it behind a hand—seeing Christophe like this was nice.

As they both wiped at their eyes Tweek asked, "So where is your dad?"

Christophe stilled, eyes narrowing at the nail was hit on the head. But that's what Tweek had wanted, to bring up the iffy subject. "Where's your fazza?"

"At work, he works at Harbucks. He usually doesn't care who I hang out with anyway, he's, he's disappointed in me, because I'm not a good boy, I'm not good in anything like sports, because holy shit, I don't want to get hit by the balls! Can you say 'coma'? We're not as close as Mom and I, like you could imagine. So where is your dad?"

Christophe tensed, feeling his eyes prickle dangerously. He didn't want to say, he didn't want to launch into such a painful story, or he'd end up crying, which would ruin his reputation. But he felt some sort of obligation to Tweek after all the blonde was trying to do for them both. "'e's dead, and 'as been for several years. Papa and Maman, zey lived in America, in Pennsylvania, for years. Papa, 'e was in ze Army, and so proud to serve for a country zat saved 'is own, France, in ze second World War. 'e got stationed zere in France, while Maman was pregnant, and I was born zere and we lived in Orléans, as bases and military zat is not French isn't allowed in French territories, alzough Orléans was a communication centre. We stayed until my first year of schooling, in which Papa was stationed 'ere in America once more, and wanted to settle in a small, remote place to raise ze family, a place not likely to be ridden wiz wars, which was 'ere in Souz Park.

"Zat year 'e was shipped off to ze Middle East as Operation Desert Shield and Desert Storm took zeir tolls. 'e sent letters when 'e could, wich was ze only reason I know 'e was such a brave, well-to-do man, besides ze awful stories Maman tells me. But 'e died at ze end of it, by a suicide bomber, a last attempt of ze Iraqis to keep Kuwait under Suddam's power.

"When my muzza told me, I was shocked, and denied such an accusation. 'ow could Papa die when 'e was doing so much good? We 'ad a funeral, and Maman broke down, and I knew et was true, my fazza was dead. Maman became a Bible-toting Jesus lover, falling 'eavily onto ze Roman-Catholic faith for comfort since 'er family was still in France. Me, I 'ated God for taking Papa, a man zat could 'ave easily stuck up 'is nose at ze opportunity to serve a country zat wasn't really 'is own. Et made me 'urt.

"And I snapped. I became ze fazza Maman 'ad told me of, ze loud, tempermental General zat treated people like 'is troops. I became my number one priority, yelling or acting out at anyone zat zought ozerwise or even looked at me funny. Maman knew why I became such a 'assle, and took me to zerapy for et, but as you know, et doesn't work well."

Tweek looked up at Christophe, face hidden behind shiny, mousy bangs, though the tremour running through his body steadily said everything that needed t be. Getting onto his knees the blonde placed a hand on Christophe's knee; comfort wasn't really something he was trained in, and being around miserable people made him uncomfortable, but since he'd insisted on knowing, it was his duty to at least try.

"Mole…why don't you cry?"

Good going, Tweek, now expect to get kicked in the face, you're on that level.

Christophe looked up, visibly straining to keep the water from spilling from his glassy eyes. His fingers clasped hard to the material of his pants, knuckled going white. "Why should I?"

"He, he was you're dad, and you just told one heart-fucking-wrenching story! He'd want it!" Tweek squeaked, flinching slightly as his left eyes twitched closed at the pained look The Mole gave him.

"Dead ez better, but not for 'im, NOT FOR 'IM YOU FUCKING COCK SUCKING, DOUCHEHOLE BASTARD!" Christophe shrieked at the ceiling, raising two middle fingers that would make even Craig proud. He slumped forward, tears streaming from eyes bruised from lack of sleep and sobbed. Tweek threw his arms around The Mole, not knowing what else to do, and rested his chin on the brunette's trembling shoulder.

Dead is better.

But for who?

---

The incident was never mentioned again. Christophe explained he would never believe in a deity that could take innocent peoples in spitewas no deity that deserved worship and praise. It did seem logical, after all, God would be no better than his arch enemy, Satan, if he did such a thing, correct? Though the French boy saw Jesus walking down the street several days of the week, he still remained a non-believer. Even as the Christmas lights were hung, carols were sung, and the town decorated in red and green (save for the Broflovski residence), Christophe held firm on his ground.

Christmas Eve in the Tweak residence was spent by the fireplace drinking Eggnog and singing old Irish folksongs that had nothing to do with the seasonal cheer, though the Christmas tree drowning them in technicolours added some sort of flare. Red from drunkenness Tweek giggled as his parents sung back and forth the parts to Huntingtower, felt himself nearly overcome with tears of thoughts of Christophe when his mother sung Johnny Has Gone for a Soldier, and joined in happily with Dabbling in the Dew.

"O where are you going, my pretty little dear,

with your rosie red cheeks, and your coal black hair?" Eavan sung, voice thick with her accent as Richard chuckled deeply to himself.

"I'm going a-milking, kind sir, she answered me,

And it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair," Tweek squaeked, busting into silly giggles, cheeks tinted red, pupils a pin-prick in the chocolate of his eyes. It didn't take long for them all to forget the lyrics in their incredible intoxicated state, Tweek soon falling into half-unconsciousness, the Christmas lights dancing across his eyelids and down into the darkness of his Self, Curson's tittering laughter the only sign that he was indeed no longer awake.

Christmas morning he awoke in his own bed, went downstairs and took several pills chased with scalding coffee before opening his gifts, moaning about a headache. His parents only smiled sheepishly, embarrassed they'd all gotten so wasted on Eggnog. He was pleasantly surprised to get new bedsheets (the last had taken much abuse with coffee stains all over them), a white board and dry-erase markers for the to-do list he'd been advised to make, sketch paper and new crayons, a poster of Salvador Dalí's "Hallucinogenic Toreador", several CDs (The Decemberist, The Bees, True Love Always, Arcade Fire), and a shitload of clothing. The merriment of shredding paper was cut short as he was handed the phone to argue with a growling Christophe about the Christmas gift he'd gotten him. Despite the French boys incessant whining about the holiday he'd felt a need to get him something since they both had lived through three weeks of friendship without more than a slap or pinch. Though hearing a muttered "zank you" was enough to make the Hellacious few weeks worth it.

Six days passed, and the New Year's partying started up. If he'd thought his parents were drunk on Christmas Eve, Tweek was sorely mistaken. Shoved into the cold of near-midnight at the town square watching the Ball fall in New York, he was amazed at the wavering drunks, shouting slurs of the countdown, the crowd screwing up at four and counting back up instead of down the three. As soon as the Ball hit confetti showered the crowd and the adults let out whoots of joy before shuffling into the bars, while the children grumbled and trudged home alone or took the opportunity to reek havoc in the form of TPing.

The cleanup was, as anyone could imagine, a labourous, shitty job. It was astounding the mess that town took overnight, litter and vomit, vandalism and stole merchandise. It was worse than the year before, breaking the disaster record. The whole event had a total of seven casualties, two human, the rest furry little creatures running out in front of drunk drivers.

Two weeks passed with more grievous lessons taught by the computer and TV set, and test in every subject. Tweek passed them all like cake, fully in the routine of schoolwork and playtime. He took his pills and Curson remained chained up, though he'd learned how to confine him in a box about as big as a WallMart's garden centre so he could flounce about and walk. He felt proud at the trick, locking his mental partner into a cage, per say. Curson, though, showed his resentment at such actions by acute headaches and violent images being thrown before his eyes. When it happened mental-Tweek would grab a bow-and-arrow and shoot the Bat King in the head. Overall, it was intensely pleasing.

As those two weeks passed, Christophe and Tweek got together more often, opening up little by little, until there was no threats and raised fist. The brunette took him out one day, to Stark's Pond while the other children were back in school from Winter Break, and taught him how to ice-skate. Or tried, anyway. After an hour of showing the poor blonde ways to keep balance that never failed, Tweek still ended up defying all laws of ice-skating and ended up sliding along the ice on his back toward the snowy bank. Christophe couldn't figure out how the boy continued to end up slipping within three seconds of standing onto his butt, back, or face, and eventually gave up his efforts.

So they sat in the snow and talked about weird quirks of their personality. The Mole launched into a tale of his hate for guard dogs, stemming from his own long-dead mutt. It'd been when they first moved to South Park, they got a dog, a German Shepard to keep Yvette and him safe while is father was sent off. It snapped one day and went after Christophe, snarling, foaming with death in its eyes. Luckily his father was still with them and ended up killing it before it killed Christophe, though the boy gained a serious gash in his side and had to get rabies shots.

Tweek's story of his intense fear of telephones was entirely different. It stemmed from a joke Craig had played, calling with a horse voice that breathed death into the receiver before saying, "I've come to get you…to sex you up…to kill you," and a knocking rapped on the back door. Tweek had freaked, diving under the coffee table as the knocking intensified and loud, pounding footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs. The receiver spoke as the footsteps got closer, "I know where you are, and I'll skin you alive, oh, the scent of death is strong…" and boots had appeared in front of Tweek's eyes. He'd nearly shit himself as Craig's face appeared grinning like a fool and shouted, "Gotcha". Christophe had only watched him throughout the story with a stony face, cheeks reddening until he burst into side-cramping laughter. Only when The Mole complained of a sore-throat from gulping winter air was Tweek satisfied.

Two days passed, marking it a Wednesday, and Tweek was found sitting in Denver's Department of Pediatrician Psychology. He was on the floor, headphones over his ears to drown out the sounds of squealing children, and Jenny's constant questioning. The nurse had told him to draw the one thing most important to him at that moment while he waited. He held a black crayon poised above the blank sheet of paper, tongue between his teeth in concentration. He had no idea how to illustrate what he wanted, but if he turned in nothing, Dr. Rizzo would yell. Sighing he pressed the crayon down and drew what made the most sense to him, music swirling.

"I carved your name across my eyelids, you pray for rain, I pray for blindness. If you still want me, please forgive me, the crown of love is not upon me."

There were seven people illustrated when he was done, in a circle with hands linked, as if looking upward to the camera. Clyde, Craig, Token, Kyle, Kenny, Christophe, and Gregory looked up at him from the picture, each showing signs of happiness in their own way. Craig and Christophe were given the most detail a nine-year-old was capable of, the Nommel with a coy smirk, tongue turned upward at the corner of his mouth, while Christophe grinned around a cigarette between his teeth. He coloured around the ring of people black, done hard enough to threaten tearing the paper, while inside the ring his own face grinned upward, cocked, left eye squeezed shut, though he noted with raised brows that he'd illustrated himself with longer, pointy ears and also fang-like teeth. Growling he knew it was some work Curson had implanted into his subconscious, but there was no time to fix it as the nurse came out and called his name.

He grabbed the paper and jammed the crayons back into their box before following after the smiling face of the nurse, one of which he'd never seen, which meant Janine had got laid-off. Oh well, boo-hoo. Huffing he scrambled after the new nurse into Dr. Rizzo's office, hating that his mother had to stay out of the room. The man looked up from his paper work to flash a brilliant smiling, dazzling like his soft, intelligent eyes. Tweek glanced around the office as the door was shut, and nervously slid to a chair before pulling himself up into it, hand still clasped around his drawing.

"There's my favourite blondie, we have a lot to catch up on! I hope you've been staying warm this winter and didn't drink too much Eggnog," he scolded with a very unprofessional wink.

"Yeah, I've stayed warm," Tweek answered, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. It was a belated Christmas gift from Christophe, imported from France, and it was perhaps the coziest thing he owned; he didn't go anywhere without it.

"Good, good, let me see that drawing, kiddo." He handed it over almost reluctantly, staring at the floor as Dr. Rizzo looked it over, brows furrowing. "I thought the nurse old you to draw one thing that is most important to you?"

"She, she did, and I did. It was just…hard to draw an emotion, but I d-did my best—oh Jesus!"

Ethan gave the boy a pat on the shoulder, letting the draing flutter to his desk. "What were you illustrating, Tweek?"

"Acceptance."

It all fell into place, the boys circling Tweek, looking joyful, and the blonde grinning like he was the happiest person on the Earth. But it still didn't make complete sense. "Why are you friends, Token, Clyde, and Craig on here, then?"

"They aren't my friends," Tweek replied, staring at the desk's legs. To the left of the front panel of the desk was a long, jagged scratch he'd never noticed, and below it a blemished spot a tad lighter than the rest of the wood, as if someone kicked it.

"Oh? Why not?"

"They just aren't."

"If you don't tell me, Tweek, I can't help you."

The Tweak boy looked up with narrowed eyes. "I don't need help, I understand it perfectly, thanks."

Dr. Rizzo shrugged gracefully; what could he do, push the boy into telling him? That would be unprofessional, and of course Tweek was the one paying him—if he felt over his friends' refusal, he wouldn't argue otherwise. Instead he pointed at the pictures of Kyle, Kenny, Gregory, and Christophe. "Who are these boys?"

Tweek lifted a finger and pointed to the green-skicapped boy. "That's Kyle Broflovski, he's the only Jew in our town except his family. He's nice enough, if you don't provoke him," he twitched at the memory of an encounter he had with the red-head. "Because of his faith he's different too, and left out of stuff at Christmas, so sometimes he hang out. That," he moved his finger upward to point at the only hooded one, "is Kenny McCormick. He's poor and has a sick sense of humour, and loves porn and all that weird sick-o stuff, but he gives good advice when people stop and listen." He shifted his finger to point at the curly-blonde Brit. "That's Gregory Freemont, he's from Britain and is cocky. He thinks he's better then everyone, but he can be useful. And that is The Mole, a French boy that I'm friends with."

Dr. Rizzo lifted a brow, pen poised on the pad of yellow paper he'd been scribbling on furiously. "The Mole?"

"Yeah, The Mole. That isn't his real name, it's like, his undercover name. I have no clue where it came from, actually, but he did sort of explain it from some happening at private school," he said, scratching at his head, wishing he'd listened a little closer. "His real name is Christophe DeLorne, and as I've said, he's French so he has a funny accent and everything. We're friends 'cause no one else likes us, so that like, pulls us together and stuff."

"What are you're feelings about this, Christophe?"

"He's cool, different, a mystery yet an open book, and I like him for that. He's everything I'm not, most of which I want to be."

"And toward Craig?"

"Who cares, he needs to get shot in the face," he scoffed, glowering at the floor.

"And yet you want to be accepted by him, yes?"

Shit, he'd forgotten about that little fault. Grinding his teeth he thought about lying, actually considered it, consequence and all, but sigh and just nodded as Dr. Rizzo's pen scrawled on the notepad. "I want acceptance from them all, my friends, because it always sort of seemed like they thought they had to associate with me, and I want them to do it because they're just my friends." He looked up, seeing the almost sympathetic look behind half-framed glasses. "Why do you always single out Craig?"

Not particularly liking the tone Tweek was using, Ethan crossed his legs, resting an elbow on the desk and asked, "Why are you so caught-up with me supposedly singling out Craig?" Trapped, Tweek cursed under his breath, again finding the floor very interesting. With a half smile, Dr Rizzo continued. "Have the medicines been working, do you think?"

"Hold on," he said, closing his eyes as he bent down to fake tie his shoe. Within his mind he walked up to the cage holding the King of Deceit, watching with an amused look at the demon sprawled across a sofa, the only thing in the confined space of his mind. He shook his head as Curson stretched very cat-like and wandered to the edge of the cage, only inches away from Tweek. He gulped nervously, looking up at frowning, stony face and dancing scarlet eyes.

"Familiarity, I do see. Or should I say, 'Hello Clarice'?"

Tweek shuddered at the perfect intimation of Dr. Hannibal in the movies. "I see the pills are working if you're still in your cage, goodie."

Curson snorted, baring pointy teeth as a half-finger touched the solid barrier and wrote in flaring red letters, "REDRUM". Tweek squealed at the devilish look as the clawed hand that had wrote the message continued through the barrier, reaching toward his throat. In reality he bolted back upright, eyes flying open and took a shaky breath before saying:

"They're working, but not good enough."

---

Class still sucked, Mr. Garrison yelled and quarreled, handed out math assignments no fourth-grader would be able to accomplish, and ranted himself into hysterics over the Baldwins' deaths. Class, however, was more tensed and certain things that had to be taught were replaced by what MAC saw fit. But who really cared if the test for memorizing the planets and their moons was replaced?

Craig didn't. The war was an excuse not to do homework, despite nearly all the kids being grounded for skipping school to watch Terrence and Phillip: Asses of Fire. He still didn't understand why their mother's were so pissed off at the Canadian government for showing a film; it was ridiculous, when most of the world's graphic movies came out of the United States.

"Craig, I know my poster of Alec Baldwin is very interesting, but answer the question!" Mr. Garrison's voice commanded. He blinked, rubbing at his eyes as he focused on the teacher.

"Uh…what question?"

Rolling his eyes Mr. Garrison placed hands on his hips. "Why is the United States military going to us MK-47's?"

"Uh…'cause they kill people?"

"Wrong, the answer I was looking for was because they'll blow the head's off of those Canadian bastard's so I can get some poontang. Anyway children, let's go over some vocab." It was when he turned to the board the recess bell rang, and the children hightailed it out of the classroom. He let out a breath and plopped down into a chair. "Looks like it's just me and you Mr. Hat, what can we do all alone…?"

Out on the playground Craig smacked a second-grader, stealing the ball clutched in his grasp, much to Token's amusement. Grinning cockily he took up post by the slide and chunked it hard at Token's face, whom squealed in surprise and ducked, the ball bouncing off of Marcy's toosh. She turned, giving the grinning Craig a dirty look before kicking the ball hard at him and stormed off.

"Touch my balls more often, Marcy baby!" he called as Token doubled over in laughter. As Token struggled to recovering, the Nommel boy bounced the ball on his foot in time; one two three, one two three, one two…

"Luffins, you're one sassy bitch, you know that?" the Williams' boy said as he got to his feet, wiping tears and snow from his face. Craig shrugged gracefully, tossing the ball up to waist-height before kicking it at Token, who caught it, wincing at the sting in his hands.

"Yeah, well, that's why you all love me."

Shaking his head Token threw the ball up and passed it on his forearms, the ball falling short, but Craig extended his foot and kicked it back as their game of volleyball-soccer continued. Soccer was the one sport he was proud of, and excelled in over others. But he hated being told what to do and what position to play, rules were foreign to him.

Whirling cut through the child's play atmosphere, mechanical clanks sounding from above. Confused Craig turned his head upward, missing the ball as it came his way. The clouds were parted, streamed across the blue-blue sky as military airplanes voomed by, circling the school before breaking mach-3 and turning in the direction of the base on the edge of town. He shook his head, turning back to retrieve the ball.

"What if we die?" Token asked, shoving the ball out of Craig's hands and tossed it to an eager third-grader. "This is serious. I mean, you don't realize it's serious until an F-22 flies over the school. What if we die?" he repeated.

"If we die, then don't regret a damn thing," Craig replied seriously, cramming his hands into his pockets. He'd never seen Token so worked up before, and it wasn't very flattering. Token, though, didn't seem impressed by his answer.

"But our Dad's! They're the ones fighting, what if they die? They have the jobs, what would happened then?"

Craig shook his head; he didn't know. His father was enrolled in the army as well, more for access into the USO show than anything. But what would happen if he died? His mom would be widowed with two children; how would she be able to take care of Tracie and him? Suddenly it hit him how shitty war was.

Sensing Craig's internal battle, Token grabbed his wrist, pulling him over to a group of kids conjugated around Gregory, high up on a crate. "Let's see what's going on, okay dude?"

"The American government thinks it has the right to police the world. Your government is going to kill two Canadian citizens, an action condemned by the UN. Home of the free indeed!"

Pulling out of his struggle of wits, Craig snorted; what did Gregory think he was doing? He'd been a backdrop at the school for so long, and yet now he was taking a stand, giving himself a name? It was bogus, and despite the intelligence the British boy held, he was going about it entirely the wrong way.

"Let's play tetherball!' Clyde yelled, turning his back on the speech toward Token and him. The crowd let out a cheer and Craig threw him a smile for his genius suggestion. Anything to get Gregory to shut up…

"This is about censorship, about freedom of speech! Can't you guys be more political, like Gregory?" Wendy squeaked from the back, everyone turning to face the flustered face of the school's resident hippie. Her cheeks were red, eyes narrowed, leaning slightly forward to make herself seem more intimidating and stubborn. Craig blew a raspberry, strutting passed her rolling his eyes.

"Who wants to be like stingy old Gregory? Sorry, Wendy, but your new guy is a total fag," he said with a wink, noting the giggling of Clyde and bright-white grin of Token. They'd broken up, reason: I can't take that whiny voice any longer! Craig had to applaud his friend's decision, besides Stan and the girls, who could really stay around her without the person's ears bleeding?

"You asshole, if you have nothing nice to say get out of here!" Wendy squealed, pointing off in the opposite direction with a scowl etched on her face.

"I was going before you had to stop me, asslicker," he replied with a snort, sliding under her arm before he was once again stopped, but by the annoying voice of Gregory.

"That is no way to talk to a lady!"

"Oooh, stand up for the missus, huh? Well then, looks like there really is a vagina in that couple, but watch out, tiger, or Stan will tear you new peehole." He flashed his famous smile at the appalled look on Gregory's face and trotted off with his friends in toe, listening to Wendy ask Stan his opinion, and the gargling, stomach wrenching sounds of Marsh yarfing all over her. It was satisfying, having Wendy projectile-vomited on, and made him giggle.

"Craig-Luffins, you kinky sonuvabitch," Token said, shaking his head and shuddering as the barfing-noises hit his gag reflex. "You get off to knowing Wendy was just puked on, don't you?"

"You found me out, Williams, now Clyde is going to have to beat you at tetherball."

"Hell yes!" Clyde exclaimed, running over to the pole and grabbed the ball, whacking it with the palm of his hand. Token howled and ran over, hitting the ball back, barely in time. Their game became heated quickly, throwing curses back and forth, hands turning red quickly from the impact of the ball. Craig snorted as he watched, shaking his head and turned away, spotting the other kids staring at Cartman as he danced around singing "Kyle's Mom is a Big Fat Bitch", Kyle smoldering in anger as everyone joined in.

"What the Hell is wrong with our school?"

"What do you mean?" Clyde asked as he hit the ball rocketing at his face with a closed fist.

"I mean, I wonder if any other school in the country breaks out into song at recess, or is South Park just fucked up."

"You even have to ask?"

"True." He chucked at the thought, eyes widening as Cartman was hauled away by Sheila. He let out a hoot of joy as the fat kid struggled in Mrs. Broflovski's grasp, Kyle following slowly behind his Mom. Suits the assrammer for calling an adult a bitch. "Hah, Cartman just got in deep shit!"

"Huh? Really?" Clyde questioned, rushing over to Craig's side and howling at as well in amusement. "Damn fatfuck got what he deserved!"

"Looks like you're the fatkid again, Clyde," Token said with a half-hearted smile, smacking him on the shoulder. Clyde scowled, glaring.

"I'm not fat!"

Before Token could respond Craig threw his arms over their shoulders with a giggle. "Who cares, you guys? With Cartman gone, Mr. Garrision will be in a great mood, so he won't even notice if we leave. What do you guys say, we skip and get some pizza at Whistlin' Willies?"

"What if our parents catch us?" Clyde asked, uncertain.

"Our Mom's are all busy with meetings and crap, and our Dad's aren't even in town! Come on, what could happen?"

It was simple: they would go over to the corner of the recess courtyard that couldn't be seen by anyone else, and jump the wall. That wasn't a problem, Token scaled the eight-foot wall first, turned with his belly on the ledge and feet sticking out toward the front of the school and reached down to help up Craig. Feet planted on the wall Token held Craig's wrist as he scaled the flat wall, until he could pull himself up, and Token dropped to the ground while Clyde went through the same process.

From there they walked the edge of the wall to the back left corner and cut out across a snowy field to the left, bailing into a small grove of stripped bushes and trees. They walked through the shrubbery until the backroad came into view, and followed it until it swerved into the cemetery. There they walked down the hill and straight into town, singing Some Fantastic (Ivory and Ivory). The few adults walking the street gave them looks as they danced around, wiggling their hips, Token going as far as wrapping a leg around a lamp post and ground his hips into it as he leaned backwards to bat his eyes at the other boys. They giggled all the way to Whistlin' Willies after nearly giving an old lady a heart attack after seeing Token and Clyde get very close and fake-makeout.

As they sat down in a booth in the back, they were still giggling like school girls, faces red from lack of oxygen. "God, did you see that lady's face? It was all OMIGODBOYSTONGUINGOHLORDNOTINMYDAY!"

"Yeah but you guys gave a good show," Craig winked and they smiled bashfully, reminded entirely too much of the dead Kenny.

"That's what you call talent, my fine friends, pure talent," Clyde boasted as Whistlin' Willie walked up to the table with a notepad in hand.

"What will you boys be havin' today at—" he whistled out Whistlin' Willies and looked at them expectantly to do the same. The boys, however, just looked at each other and grinned.

"Cheese pizza," Clyde said firmly.

"With stuffed crust!" Token demanded.

"And don't bitch us out on the amount of cheese or we'll write complaints," Craig added, snapping his fingers as he remembered drinks. "And bring us some Shirley Temples, stat!" Whistlin' Willie trotted away grumbling something about 'fucking snot-nosed brats' and came back with their drinks. They each took them up and sipped, sighing in wonder at the fizzy cherry drink.

"These things are like, orgasms in glasses," Clyde said as he snuggled into the sticky leather booth. The others raised eyebrows at the analogy.

"There something you haven't been telling us, Donovan?"

Flushing Clyde kicked Craig's shin from under the table, scowling. "No! I heard about it from Kenny. And isn't there something you should be telling us with how you've been acting? All the sexual innuendoes and that sly let-me-feel-you-up voice?"

"A man is who he is, boys," he said, shrugging, though his eyes glinted, saying he knew exactly what Clyde was talking about.

Leaning onto the table and swirling his straw Token shook his head. "I can tell you what you are, Luffins, you're hot for Red. Let's talk about that, hm?"

"Fuck you! I'm not hot for Red!"

"That's why you lick your lips when you stare at her in class, right?" Clyde asked, imitating Token by leaning across the table and lowered his eyelids, doing his best to look sexy while interrogating.

"And throw things at her?"

"Make fun of her friends, but never her?"

"Write notes but never deliver them?"

"And—"

"Shut up, dickholes, she's been checking out that red-Goth kid, what's his face?"

Token snorted, chuckling as his eyes widened a tad in entertainment. "Markus, she's hot for Markus? The super-king of Goths, crappy poetry, and the electric guitar? The chain-smoker Markus? Get out of here."

"Yeah, shitty choice in dudes, isn't it?" Craig muffed, gulping his Shirley Temple.

"Oooh, is that jealousy I hear, Smutmuffin? Wow, I never would've guessed."

Luckily at that point in time Whistlin' Willie appeared with their pizza, harassing them to whistle for it. Once done the cheese glued their mouths shut so Craig didn't have to endure any more taunting. Him hot for Red? Puh-lease! The television crackled as the news flashed on.

"…and here, reporting about the new V-chip, is a midget in a bikini!"

"Well Tom, 'Mothers Against Canadians' have just recently, within the hour, tested a new prototype to keep children from swearing! It admits a small shock when an obscenity is said, conditioning the child not to curse! The doctors will start equipping children with the new device in a week, isn't that great, Tom?"

"That is great! Now to the weather…"

The boys moaned around their pizza, swallowing hard and glared at the TV, saying in unison:

"Fucking Cartman."

---

Heat swelled in the town square, causing steam to rise above the buildings as any and all Canadian paraphernalia was burned. The bonfire was huge, flames licking upward above the Mayor's courthouse, crackling as ash and ember was sent scattering into the wind. Craig coughed as smoke billowed into his throat, scratching at it. Where the fuck were Clyde and Token? He'd told them to meet him here, next to Tom's Rhinoplasty. Glancing through the dad's dressed as soldiers and fire he spotted Clyde saying something heatedly to Stan and Kyle before stomping away in his direction.

"Yo, Rover! Donovan! Clyde!"

The brunette turned to face him and wandered over, arms crossed across his chest. From the frown and twitch under his eye he could tell Clyde wasn't in a very good mood, and pissed off Clyde wasn't something t mess with.

"Where's Token?"

"At home, Shelly Marsh is his sitter so there's no way he's getting out."

"Want to go down to Terryall creek, then?"

"No," Clyde replied harshly. "I'm going home before I get into any more trouble with Mommy. That old lady from the other day turned out to live a few houses down and told Mommy I was skipping. I'm grounded for a week now."

Craig scoffed at the news, waving it off. "Come on, it's not like we'll be in town, no one will know. I promise. Anyway, your mom is too busy with MAC right now."

"No way, dude, I'm going home to watch some TV before she takes that away." He turned and began walking away, not even stopping when Craig yelled:

"Don't bitch out on me, Donovan!"

---

The computer was reality outside of reality, you could find information on anything, talk to friends, play games, even watch TV. It was absolutely "the shit". Night had fallen over South Park, the bonfire glowing still from the town, warming the temperature a few degrees, setting it around eighteen degrees Fahrenheit. Craig sat cross-legged in the plush computer chair of his dad's office, his mom out at a PTA meeting, leaving him in charge of his sister, who for all he knew was still sitting on the couch watching a movie. He clicked the AOL, deciding that retrieving the telephone would cause havoc if he had to go by his sister. Instantly a conference room popped up.

Joining Conference sweetlove69969; invited P.I. williams10, decaf-skittlezes, flipoff-er101

P.I. williams10: hear about the meeting tonight?

flipoff-er 101: wat meeting?

P.I. williams10: hold on, lemme c/p..okay: "Want to help Terrence & Phillip? Sneak out after you get tucked into bed tonight and meet at Carl's Warehouse. …punch and pie. This is top secret. The password is…"

flipoff-er 101: the password is wat?

P.I. williams10: the password: IS

flipoff-er 101: oOoOoOoh. You goin?

P.I. williams10: yeah, so are you. meet me next to Anderson's bar, ok?

flipof-er 101: only if you tell me who decaf is

P.I. williams10: …/

P.I. williams10: it's Tweek, but he hasn't actually said anything for, like, an hour so it's all good

flipoff-er 101: oh ok…so around 10 15 at Anderson's?

P.I. williams10: yeah, see you there. Mom's home so I gotta go, later Luffins

flipoff-er 101: later

P.I. williams 10 has signed off

Craig shut down and swung around in his chair, stretching with a yawn, a hand ruffling through his hair as he got up. When did Tweek get a screenname? From what he remembered, the caffeine-addict was afraid senseless of computers. Ah well, some things changed, he guessed.

I told you, I can't take you like this. It's too difficult to deal with right now. I'm sorry, really, but fuck you, Tweek.

He sighed as he slumped down the stairs, scratching at a place his mother didn't condone. Maybe he'd gone a bit overboard with Tweek…what, he was guilty now? No way! He couldn't very well just deal with an unemotional, drugged up Tweek. A crazy Tweek. A Tweek that wasn't Tweek. What kind of friend would he be then? A bad one, he told himself as he jumped off the last stair and walked into the living room where Tracie was curled up under a blanket on the couch, watching Lady and the Tramp. She looked up at him with sleepy hazel eyes, hair a mess and down, and stifled a yawn.

"You gonna throw me offa the TV, Craigy?"

He glanced at the clock on the wall: it was already 9 50. He wagged his finger at her with a soft smile. "No, Trace, but I am kicking you up to bed."

"Aw, but I'm not tired!"

He shook his head as she yawned, chuckling softly at the self-incriminating evidence. He walked over to her and took her hand, pulling her up as he turned off the VCR and TV, worrying about putting the movie back in its case later. He led her up the stairs, catching her as she stumbled, half asleep. At the top he sighed and picked her up, carrying her into bed and tucked her in. As he turned to leave she spoke up.

"Where are you goin', Craig?"

"I have something to do, but I'll be back by midnight, okay?"

"You're leaving me alone?" she whined, clutching to her teddy bear.

"Yeah, Trace, but I'll lock the door so nothing should happen. Anyway, the soldiers are out patrolling, doesn't that make you feel safe? And Stan lives a house away, and you know how much Sparky loves you, he won't let anything happen to you."

"What about Rex?"

He smiled at the mention of Clyde's dog. "Rex won't let any bad guys come and get you either, okay sis? Now you go to bed, sweet dreams."

"'night," she replied feebly as he shut the door and trotted more hurriedly down the stairs. At the closet by the door he pulled on his shoes, jacket, scarf, and messily shoved his hair under his hat. Grabbing his set of keys from the bowl by the door he walked out, locked the door, and hopped on his waiting bike, rested up against the side of the garage.

The wind snapped around him as he rode through the dark streets, instinct telling him where to go, where to turn. Most of the houses were dark, he noted as he peddled by, although some were illuminated blue by the TVs LCD screens. He ticked off windows of houses he knew where the kids slept: Red, Kevin, DogPoo, Bebe, Jordan, all of which were dark and unstirred.

I can't be your friend if you're like this.

Craig shuddered as he passed by Tweek's house the last conversation they'd had in months play over and over in his mind. The window was closed, curtains drawn shut, but he could tell the light was on. He was tempted to throw rocks at the window, anything to get Tweek to come down, but he'd told Token he'd be at Anderson's in fifteen minutes, and he'd be damned if he didn't go.

Sighing he peddled faster, out of the residential part of South Park, into a hollata no where, in which he stood up on the peddles and leaned forward slightly to gain speed up the first hill in a series of three, the last an easy coast down into town. It took him maybe a minute to get to the top of the third hill, where he let out a hoot and zipped down Main Street, leaning right as he turned and peddled hard across Grocery Mart's parking lot, cutting over to the road behind it, Memorial Road. Two minutes of riding and he hung a left, seeing Token standing by the bar with his bike.

"You're a minute late, Craigers," Token called as he got on his own bike and circled over to Craig.

"Shut up and come on, we've got fourteen minutes to get to the real Treasure Cove."

Token nodded, taking up post by Craig as he navigated the roads with ease toward the sleazy, downtrodden part of town. It wasn't the redlight district of Colfax Point, but instead of the more trashy, poor part of town (as they often joked, Kenny's side of town), ironically named Treasure Cove. It indeed resembled the deserted state their Treasure Cove had when all of the parents were taken to jail for "molestering" their children, and because of that, had been given that name by the kids, which just stuck over the months.

Carl's Warehouse was a dirty building that no one had stepped in for years, save for the drug addicts, homeless people, flea-ridden cats of the city, and Lianne Cartman for a video shot with Crackwhore Magazine. Its sign hung sideways, the light outside faint and flickering on and off as rats ran by and through holes in the brick. The boys parked their bikes next to several others and knocked on the door.

"What's the password?"

"Is," Token answered as the door was drawn back, revealing Kyle and Stan. Kyle grinned at the both, welcoming them into the wandering crowd.

"Didn't expect to see you here, Craig."

"Tokes dragged me," he said, cramming his hands into his pockets, looking around at the turnout. "Huh, you guys have one helluva organization going on to get half the class here."

"Yeah, know anyone else that's going to show up, Clyde maybe?"

"Nah, he doesn't want to fuck around with his Mommy's orders."

Grabbing Stan's wrist, Kyle pulled him up in front of the crowd and coughed politely. When no one seemed to notice him the Jew shouted, "SIT DOWN!" They obeyed, eyes wide at Kyle's outburst. Craig laughed softly into his hand as Stan fidgeted nervously, pulling at the brim of his hat.

Leaning over, chin resting on Token's shoulder, his left arm snaking around his back he whispered, "How much you wanna bet Gregory will take over?"

Token turned, rolling his eyes and whispered back, "I'm not betting 'cause I know it's going to happen." By then two kids had walked out, disappointed that there was no punch and pie, like promised. Stan seemed little disturbed by that though.

"Uh, Terrence and Phillip are supposed to be killed, so we think we should…prank call a bunch of policemen! A-and have pizza delivered tot heir houses that they didn't order! Viva la resistance!" Craig sat on his hands to keep from smacking Gregory as he sighed heavily, making a rude noise to show his displeasure at the idea. "Uh…"

Dissatisfied Gregory raised his hand, "May I?"

"What?"

Without explaining himself the blonde Brit got to his feet and set up a large mapbook before pointing to the first page. "Terrence and Phillip are currently being held at the Canadian interment camp two kilometers outside of town. They're to be executed tomorrow, during a star-studded USO show for the troops."

Leaning heavily on Token still Craig grinned, shaking his head. "Told you."

"Shhh, let's see what Blondie has to say."

"Once the show begins, we should have about one hour to get Terrence and Phillip out of their cell," he turned the page and smacked the drawing, "into this clearing. There we will all rendezvous, and get together to take Terrence and Phillip safely back to Canada," he flipped the page once more, showing an arrow from South Park to the Canadian border. Craig snorted, not particularly interested; suer, he didn't want the two actors dead, but he didn't want to listen to his jackhole either. "You must meet me at the rendezvous point at precisely 10 p.m. Sneaking into the show and breaking out Terrence and Phillip will be the most dangerous part, so I'll go myself."

Wendy seemed to radiate at that, even the two friends could tell from behind her. Stan's face darkened as he caught sight of her smiling and sighing dreamily and grabbed Kyle, snapping, "No! We're going. We started La Resistance, we'll get Terrence and Phillip and meet you at the rendez-vouse point."

Craig could hardly contain himself as he laughed. Token finally clamped a hand over his mouth, giving him a look that said be-good-doggie-no-chew. How could he resist? This was the biggest male-ego war ever.

Gregory looked uncertain by Stan's proposition, almost put-off that he wouldn't be doing it. "This will be very dangerous, are you quite sure?"

Cartman, whom had been steadily quiet throughout growled, "Fuck that!" and was rewarded by a body-shaking jolt from the V-chip.

"Cartman, do you want that V-chip in you forever?" Stan demanded, receiving a shake of the head. "Okay then, we're going. Now, let's run through the plan."

The all gathered around a chess-like table set up in a corner of the warehouse with a box of army toys next to it. Stan and Gregory took up post next to it, taking out the toys and arranging them in proper formation, tsking at each other when it was done incorrectly and nodding with a smile when it turned out well. The Nommel boy sat in the back of the crowd next to a wall, yawning with boredom. Why did he could to this thing anyway? At least he was smart enough to not listen; he could figure out what was being argued later from Token, he was the kind of person that listened when someone talked.

Of course, when he noticed you weren't listening he'd have a heart attack. Token smacked him hard on the back of the head just as the two "commanders" got their model set up correctly and launched into more talking.

"After you have Terrence and Phillip, quietly make your way to this ridge," he pointed at the one he meant and continued. "We will be waiting for you there. We cannot wait for long, so if you're not there by ten, we will have to leave."

Stan nodded urgently with a grin. "Gotcha!"

Attitude changing Gregory smiled at the inexperienced Marsh boy. "You are indeed brave, but you will need help from someone that has done this sort of thing before. Here's the address of 'The Mole'."

Craig choked on his tongue, scowling at the name, even Token's vicious look not enough to keep him from speaking up. "The Mole? He's a fucking pussy, why would we need him?"

Gregory shot him a look of hate and distaste, frowning at the indirect insults, but otherwise directed his attention to Stan. "He is an expert in covert operations, a mercenary for hire. Your first task will be obtaining him." He glanced around at everyone, making eye contact, lingering on Craig with a growl. "Get lots of sleep. Tomorrow, we will all be risking our lives…for freedom."

As the blonde moved away Craig could sense some sort of devil's work at hand, and moaned as Gregory glanced around, breaking out into song.

"God had smiled upon you this day, the fate of a nation in your hands!" he twirled, drawing a sword from only God-knows-where. "And blessed be the children, we, who fight with all our bravery, 'til only the righteous stand." He jumped up onto a soap box, swinging the sword expertly, the blade shimmering death at them. "You see the distant flames, they bellow in the night. You fight in all our names for what you know is right. And when you all get shot, and cannot carry on, though you die, La Resistance lives on!"

Craig shook his head; surely no other town broke into song twice within a week, and who knows how many other times if they counted the adults? Surely the whole town was crazy.

The other kids that had come shifted positions, creating a circle around Gregory and his soapbox, as they joined in the song, seeming hardly bewildered they knew the lyrics. "You may get stabbed in the head with a dagger or sword. You may get burned to death, skinned alive, or worse. But when they torture you, you will not feel the need to run, for, though you die, La Resistance lives on!"

Stan and Kyle stood by the back, looking at the children singing with their mouths wide open, brows raised. Craig slid up behind them, the same expression plastered to his face. "We're all nuts, aren't we?" he asked, receiving nods from both of them.

Somehow or another, singing the same tune could be heard from four other groups; the MAC members, the soldiers, Terrence and Phillip, and the burly voice of Satan. Yes, it definitely only happened in South Park.

"Blame Canada! Blame Canada! Because the country's gone awry, tomorrow night these freaks will fry!"

"Tomorrow night, our lives will change. Tomorrow night, we'll be entertained. An execution! What a sight! Tomorrow night!"

"Up there, there's so much room. Where babies burp, and flowers bloom. Tomorrow night, up there is doomed, and so I will be going soon!"

"Shut your fucking face, uncle fucka! You're a boner-biting bastard, uncle fucka! Looks like we may be out of luck, tomorrow night, we're pretty fucked!"

Sliding away from Stan's group Craig looked around, the other kids marching happily around Gregory who continued to wave his sword around, as if waiting for a cue. Cartman took up post where Craig had been, munching on chips, looking between them.

"Why did our mothers start this war? What the fuck are they fighting for? When did this song become a marathon?"

"I want to be up there!"

"When Canada is dead and gone, there'll be no more Celine Dion!"

As the kids danced around Gregory Token reached out, grabbing Craig and pulling him into the ring. He growled under his breath but joined in, almost compelled.

"They may cut your dick in half (tomorrow night). And serve it to a pig (our lives will change). And though it hurts, you'll laugh (tomorrow night). And you'll dance a dickless jig (we'll be entertained). Well that's the way it goes (an execution). In war you're shat upon (what a sight)! Though we die…"

"I want to be up there!"

"Tomorrow night!"

"La Resistance lives on!"

"Tomorrow we fight for La Resistance!"

The song came to an abrupt halt and Gregory jumped from his box, putting away all of the devices from the meeting, seeming completely oblivious of the strange phenomenon that just occurred. Shaking his head Craig bolted, saying rather loudly to confirm anyone's thoughts:

"That was fucking weird."

---

The day of the war was agonizing. Soldiers stomped around the streets, the platform the USO show was being held at was in construction, and everyone seemed antsy, nervous about impending doom. But who wouldn't be? Estimated deaths were in the seven billions, but in reality were actually in the hundreds. Deadly weapons were being carried in sight, and school was cancelled, and yet the children remained in doors, plotting for La Resistance's operation that night.

Which was why he was sitting beside Stark's Pond, on a snow-capped hill, staring at its frozen surface. The morning sky was painted soft pastel colours, clouds spread apart and seeming to be on fire as the sun passed through them, giving South Park a heavenly radiance. The mountains seemed softer in the morning light, and at the base windows from houses shimmered like glitter.

Tweek let out a shaking sighed, arms wrapping around his knees. His father was enrolled in the army, and he was afraid he was going to die. If that happened, he didn't know what they were going to do. His mom's parents liked in Scotland, and his dad's wasn't fond of Eavan at all. If his father died, they'd most likely have to move to the United Kingdom Isles. And what if the Canadian's dropped bombs on the town, and everyone died? What then?

He let out a sob, tears streaming from his eyes. He didn't want to die, he didn't want to let Curson win, he didn't want to be dragged into the very depth of his Self, raped, and sent away to the Afterlife. It was all too cruel.

"To the destination, violating is minimal amounts of worry."

He sobbed harder; that's right, he'd forgotten to take his pills, seeing no real use when he'd end up blown to smithereens anyway by the end of the day. "I don't, I d-don't wa-want to g-go to He-Hell."

"The pleasure of release, divinity the prize."

"I can't le-let you out! You'll do som-something b-ba-bad to m-me."

"Trust me not?" Curson asked, scratchy voice seeming softer, and he felt a gentle brush in his mind, making him shiver and sniff back a new storm of tears. He felt so violated already, used, like a puppet on strings being toyed with.

"NO!" he shouted into his arms, slamming an arrow into Curson mentally, the cage now thicker, a level further into his Self then before. He felt a hand on his shoulder and whipped around, intending to hit whoever it was before seeing Christophe with a startled expression on his face.

"Twitchy, is somzing ze matter?"

"We're going to die," he answered, wiping his running nose on his sleeve as The Mole sat in the snow beside him.

"Et ez war, many people die in war, I know zis best, you see. Ironic, esn't et, 'ow Papa zought zat 'ere zere would be no wars, and 'ere was ze best place to raise me, and yet a war starts in zis 'icktown."

Tweek cracked a small smile at Christophe's attempted humour. He'd learned over the two months of having the French boy around that he had a strange, factual humour that wasn't "haha" funny but "heh, aren't you clever?" funny.

"What are you doing out h-here?" Tweek choked out as he contained his sobbing to mere sniffles.

"I need to zink some about everyzing, you know? Ze war, my parents, zis silly country, and I remembered you 'ad once said you come 'ere to zink, and so I did as well."

"Oh." He looked up to the sky, wind blowing his hair back from his face, drying his tears. A fighter jet flew by overhead, loud and obnoxious. "I don't like the war."

"Who does? Et kills people, ze economy, makes people nervous and paranoid. War ez not good, Twitchy."

"I want it gone."

"So do I," Christophe replied lazily as he lay back in the snow, arms under his head, watching the clouds dance in the currents in the upper atmosphere. The rays of light shined down, and from his point of view, Tweek's hair seemed white as he was basked in the sun's warmth. He smiled as Tweek turned his face to the sun and let out a breath, catching a lone winter-flower from the breeze.

"Why does war happen, Mole?"

"Et 'appens to reduce population. Beautiful zings 'appen in reckage, carnage, grow from ze flaming embers and ash. Wizout deaz, zere ez no life, and wizout life zere ez no deaz. Et ez a balance between dark and light, yin and yang, life and deaz, ketchup and moustard, if you will. And zere ez no time wizout war, zere is a period of reestablishing armies and bases, but ze havoc is always reeked again in a few short years, or even monz. Et ez 'ow everyzing works."

It was, of course, true. Christophe had a brilliant way with explaining things, so they were the truth, but didn't have that baddass edge to it. Tweek shuddered as a brisk wind went by, blowing the flower from his grasp, sending it dancing in the direction of the town and destruction.

"What'll you do if I die?"

Christophe lit a cigarette and pressed it between his lips, inhaling the sweet taste, and let out the smoke in a silvery cloud. "I will visit your grave wiz flowers and leave zem zere, and come 'ere to leave a second bouquet in ze water, because you love zis place so. And zen I will move, because Souz Park cannot possibly be as fun wizout you."

Tweek bit his lip, overwhelmed. No one had ever said anything quite as nice, despite talking about his own death. His mind laughed at him for enjoying the mercenary's acceptance so. And when The Mole asked the same question of him, he nearly broke down into tears. He couldn't imagine this feeling, knowing someone liked him for him in his entirety, stripped away. And he knew if Christophe died, no one would ever accept him on the level the brunette did, ever.

"You can't die, you're un-dieable, you're my friend. You can't die. I'll, I'll go insane again, I—"

Sitting up Christophe stopped him from speaking, a finger to his chapped lips. "Non, Twitchy, do not speak like zat, like I will die, et makes et seem like you want me dead!" He gave a lopsided smile around the cigarette, wiping away the tearstains on the blonde's cheeks. "Twitchy, you are still insane, you 'ave yet to find what will make you sane and keep you like zat."

As Christophe drew his finger back, Tweek licked his lips, trying to warm the spot where the brunette's icy touch was. "But you keep me sane."

He shook his head, running a hand through his messy brunette locks. "You are mistaken, Twitchy."

"How do you know?"

Christophe just smiled, an I-know-you're-secret smile as he got to his feet and turned his face to the sky, leaves and snow-flower petals scattering in the wind around him. His words were soft, and seemed to echo on the breeze:

"Parce que vous me maintenez raisson."

---

It was nearly three the same day that he sat on his sofa, sipping a glass of tea and watching the so-called outrageous cartoons when the doorbell rung. He'd given specific orders to his mother to lie and say he was grounded like the other kids if anyone came, and knowing Gregory, he'd send people to recruit him. And it was thrilling, knowing he was going to be asked for involvement in the war, but after that morning, he didn't want to risk it.

Which was why he was in such a surely mood.

He listened in on the conversation taking place, but it really didn't register until his mother called, "Christophe!" and wandered in to the living room with a sympathetic expression. "I'm sorry, cherie, but zey really want to talk to you."

"Et ez fine," he said, slipping off of the couch and walked to the door, looking over the three boys standing on his stoop. The one in orange was taller by a few inches because of his hat, with wide curious eyes and freckles. Around his neck hung a Star of David visibly. The one in brown seemed the shyer of the them all, staring at the ground, hands ringing at his jacket. The third was a gelluous glob of fat, the red jacket making the fatrolls even more noticeable. Christophe shuddered, almost dropping the cigarette he was lighting.

"Hi. Uh…we're gonna go rescue Terrence and Phillip from the USO show and we were just—"

Already in a bad mood, being jerked around (although politely), and the image of Cartman was too much; he reached out and grabbed the shy-one by the ruff on the collar of his jacket and shook him, spitting out a harsh, "Shh! Who are you? Who sent you?" although he already knew.

"That Gregory kid, he said you could sneak us in," Kyle said, stepping away from The Mole as he turned to face the Jew, squinting nastily at him.

"Are you telling me you intend to break into ze USO show, filled wiz zousands of soldiers, and break out Terrence and Phillippe?"

Cartman spoke up, his voice full of fat, grinding on Christophe's nerves even more and hitting a gag-reflex. "I though it was a pretty stupid idea, too."

Stan rubbed at his neck as Christophe unclenched his fist, releasing the boy. "We're La Resistance! We wanna save Terrence and Phillip, and stop the war and stuff."

Christophe shrugged, taking a drag on his cigarette. If they wanted to jack around, he could as well. He sighed disappointedly, loving how the three's faces lit up in alarm at jus the exhale of breath. "I can't 'elp you, I'm grounded in my room for ze next zree days."

Kyle sighed, seeming calmer. "So are we, our parents think we're at home right now. Why are you grounded?"

The lie was so easy, it slithered from his mouth, sugar-coated and begging to be eaten. "Why? Because God 'ates me, zat's why. 'e 'as made my life miserable, so I call 'im a cocksucking asshole, zen I get grounded."

"So you'll help us?"

Christophe shrugged as he took two steps back into the house, internally grinning, and jerked a thumb behind him. "Vairy well, meet me in ze backyard in five minutes." He lifted a hand, thumb and pinky away from his other three fingers. "We'll show God zat we're not going to fucking take any more of 'is—"

"What? Christophe, get in 'ere!" Yvette shouted from the living room. The brunette grinned sheepishly and threw down his cigarette, smashing it out with the toe of his boot as he slammed the door into the boys' stunned faces. Hands behind his back he walked into the living room to confront his mother, hands on her hips, frowning. She bent down, tilting his head to the right as she sniffed his collar.

"Were you saying naughty zings about God? And smoking! Maybe you should be grounded, Christophe! Of course since ze day ez almost over, ze punishment will start tomorrow. You 'ave one day and night of fun before a week of nozing, you understand me?"

"Oui Maman. Can I go out and play now?"

She waved her hand, dismissing him. He went up to his room, grabbing several different papers and black inkpens before descending back down. As soon as he got to the kitchen he grinned boldly and walked out the back door, demeanor changing as he spotted the three boys sitting on his swinging bench, attached to the large oak tree. He grimaced, feeling pity toward the tree for having to hold the fatfuck's weight.

He strode across the frozen ground, kicking snow and said firmly, "'ello, boys, let's get zis straight. I don't like you, you don't like me. Wiz zat clear, let's go over zis again. You are breaking out Terrence and Phillippe and want my hep to get you into ze USO show, yes?" They all nodded. "Okay zen, ze first zing zat happens is zis; you all get to sign zese." He handed out forms done professionally and pens, pointing to a few blanks. "Sign 'ere, 'ere, 'ere, and initial 'ere."

"What for?" Stan asked suspiciously as he uncapped the pen and started his signatures.

"Et's basically a statement zat says if you die in combat or whatever I'm not liable and you cannot sue me, yes?"

"I don't wanna sign this piece of crap!" Cartman scowled, throwing his pen at The Mole. Christophe caught it between his fingers, it falling down, rolling between them.

"You eizer sign et, or I don't 'elp you, and I kick you in ze balls. Balls, sign, balls, sign, what's your choice, fatty?"

"Ay! I'm not fat!" Eric squealed, being smacked hard by Kyle who had already finished signing his papers. Scowling he snatched his pen back and did as he was told.

"Good, now ze ozer zing of importance ez payment. Because Gregory can be stingy wiz money, I'd like you all to sign as witness, persay, zat 'e was ze one zat sent you to me for 'ire." Again, they did as they were told, and he took all of the paperwork back into the house before reappearing to dazzle them.

"Alright, beetches, zis is 'ow we work. You listen to me at all fucking times, because I'm experienced and you boys are just fucking pussies compared to me. Zere ez a 'ill zat looks down over ze USO show, on ze West side—"

"Wicky, wicky, wick, wicky, wicky, wick, Fresh Cowboy from the Westside—"

"SHUTUP!" Christophe howled, lifting his foot and shoved it into Cartman's crotch. Eric let out a whoosh of air and double over, straining to say,

"I seri…ous…lah hate you…guys, seri…ous…lah."

Huffing Christophe crossed his arms, glaring daggers at Cartman, only a tad bit refreshed by the shocked faces on his friends. "Now, back to what I was saying. Zere ez a hill on ze westside of where ze USO show ez being 'eld, zat overlooks it entirely. We shall meet zere and continue on, unless eizer of you chicken out. If not we'll go down ze 'ill and cut ze electrical wire surrounding ze place, and pick a spot to continue breaching ze base, underground of course. Somewhere in zere we will split up, but I cannot tell you when until we are actually in zere fighting for our lives."

"…'kay."

"Bring a mirror and rope, and meet me on ze 'ill no later zen nine-zirty. If you're late I'll fucking stab somezing! Now go get ready, we 'ave a busy night a'ead of us all."

---

The night was crisp, cloudless, the moon hidden in the darkness, almost as if it knew they would need the cover of complete darkness. Cheers could be heard from the base where the USO show was being held, and spotlights flashed around the periphery. Christophe paced back and forth under a dead tree, kicking at the frozen ground, growling. Before coming here he'd gone to see Craig, telling him to stay the fuck away from Tweek unless he was dead, and left. It got his nerves working, gave him the edge that made him want to stabbity-death something.

Where were the others?

As if by magic they ran up, panting, Cartman tailing behind. Stan recovered first, wiping his hair back from his face. "We're…here."

"Yes, I'm not blind you fucking piece of sheet," Christophe hissed, throwing his hands up in the air for emphasis as he lit up, taking a drag to calm his nerves. He was excited about the whole ordeal, but one screw up like this could cause it all to come crashing down. "Come on, beetches."

They followed him, grunting up the hill to the top where they stopped to stare at the base with wide eyes. Even to him it seemed impressive, and he'd been glimpsing it for nearly an hour. "Zis is ze USO show, where zose military beeches intend to kill Terrence and Phillippe."

"Oh my God," Kyle breathed, either from the news or the sight, The Mole really didn't care.

"God? 'e ez ze biggest beetch of zem all," he said with a scowl, throwing down his already burnt out cigarette and started on a new one. Nicotine definitely helped keep his muscles from spazzing and pounding someone over the head with his shovel.

"We have to hurry, we rendez-vouse with the other kids at ten!" Stan urged, bouncing back and forth on his feet. Christophe glanced at his watch; it was already 9 40. He sighed and looked over to the three of them.

"You realize by doing zis zat we could be grounded for two, per'aps even zree weeks?"

"We're willing to take that risk."

Nodding he raised a brow, giving them (except Cartman) a few points for bravery; not many people would be hot for the job of infiltrating a base and helping the refugees escape. "Zen let's go!" he said, leaning his weight back and slid down the icy hill on the arch of his feet, musing at how the others just walked very fast to catch up. At the bottom the hill sloped, forming a ditch as a second hill started, the one the USO show was being held on. Christophe got onto his back, hardly minding if his clothing got dirty and snipped a few barbed wires carefully, gnashing on his cig at the same time.

"Be careful not to touch zis wire," he informed them as he slid under it with ease and rolled onto his stomach, continuing up the slope with an easy belly-walk, ignoring the cursing of the fat companion. At the edge of the slope he looked over and got to his knees, swearing. "Sheet! Ze USO show 'as already started! We are running out of time!"

"Can you see Terrence and Phillip?" Kyle asked, looking at him expectantly as the others caught up. He snorted, pulling out a Viewmaster and flipped through a few pictures, humouring himself. What did they think?

"Yes, but zey are 'eavily guarded. We 'ave to dig from 'ere as to not be seen. Come on beetches!" he howled, getting into a crouch and walked toward a small flat piece of land hidden from view in the shadows. Snapping his shovel from the baldric across his chest he slammed it into the ground, working at the frozen upper layer, and threw the dirt behind him. As soon as the first layer was stripped it made things easier and he was waist deep in the hole before Stan over.

"Hey, Mole, do you know where the clitoris is?"

He blinked, though didn't halt his hole digging. "Ze what?"

"The clitoris, I have to find the clitoris so I can get this Wendy girl to like me agai—"

Grinding his teeth he vaulted out of the hole, grabbing Stan by the shoulder and shook him. "'ey! You need to stop zinking wiz your dick! You 'ave to be on your toes, because I am not going to be grounded again! Not for you, not for anybody!"

Stan fell away, surprised as Christophe jumped back into the hole and continued digging, throwing a nice clod of wet dirt in his face purposely. He sniggered to himself as he rounded off the hole perfectly and struck inward, knowing that mountain soil was already packed tight, and during winter it was like concrete. With the correct maneuvers his tunnel would last decades before collapsing in, if it ever did. Nine meters into the tunnel from the original hole he yelled, "Come on beetches, and no flashlights!"

He heard them fall to the bottom of the hole and scramble after him on their hands and knees, giving him some sort of satisfaction. He stopped digging, concentrating on what he heard above him, and the type of soil. It was still packed hard, and the roof was soft, smooth. He dug farther , feeling along the roof until he felt it before rocky, harder than before. Tsking he backtracked a few feet, until the rocky soil was about two feet away from the smooth soil and went upward at a diagonal, letting the loose soil fall into the extra space he dug out. It took maybe two minutes for the hole to open. He poked his head out, taking a quick survey of where everything and everyone was before falling back down, yelling, "Sheet!" Looking back to make sure the other boys were right before him he pointed upward and to the left, counting down on his fingers. Three, two, one…"Move, move!"

They bolted from the hole, following Christophe blindly to a large building and stopped at the backside, hidden from any soldiers that might walk by. Looking around to make sure it was safe he turned to the dirty boys. "Okay, we will split up 'ere. Let's synchronize watches." He lifted his wrist, looking to them. "Well?"

Kyle shuffled his feet nervously. "We don't have watches."

"You don't have watches?" The Mole repeated slowly to see if he'd heard them right.

"Dude, you didn't say anything about watches!"

Irritated Christophe growled, grabbing the ruff of Stan's collar once more and shook him violently. These kids would be the death of him…"What do you zink zis es, kid? TV kiddy 'our where we all sit around and lick Barney ze fucking dinosaur's pussy? Euh? Zis es real life, wiz consequences you take to ze grave!"

"Dude, we don't have watches!"

Christophe howled under his breath, dropping Stan and pulled at his hair. Maybe he shouldn't have visited Craig after all. "Sheet! Did you bring ze mirror?" he asked mockingly, as if they were too stupid to comprehend.

Stan searched through Cartman's bag, nodding as he pulled it out. "Got it."

"And ze rope?"

"Check."

"And ze buttfor?"

Kyle's brows knit together as he looked to his best friend for help and finally asked, "What's a buttfor?"

"For pooping, silly," he replied with a twitch of lips, inhaling on his cigarette and exhaled through his mouth. Kids these days were just too damn gullible. He threw the cancer-stick to the ground, smashing it ot as he looked at the boys. "Now listen carefully. I will dig under ze stage, and wiz zat bedrock, I will need more time. Stan and Kyle, get near ze stage and stall ze show anyway you ca. Do whatever it takes to keep zat show going until I get ze prisoners." They nodded and he turned a steady gaze on Cartman. "Cartman, over zere ez ze electrical box. You must sneak over zere and shut et off before I return wiz Terrence and Phillip, or ze alarms will sound and I will be attacked by guard dogs. Got et?"

"okay."

"You must shut off ze alarms! I fucking 'ate guard dogs!" he yelled, ignoring Cartman's comment as he walked away. "If anyzing goes wrong, make a sound like a dying giraffe."

"What's a dying giraffe sound like?"

He cupped his hands over his mouth, opening the top one slowly to release the sound, creating a higher pitch. "Muuuuwaaaaa, muuuuwaaaaa!"

"…'kay."

Nodding Christophe grinned, swinging his shovel in an arch to hit the ground with a soft clink. "Let's go."

"Be careful, dude."

He raised a brow, grinning as he continued his game of jacking the boys around. "Careful? Was my muzza careful when she stabbed me in ze 'eart wiz a clozs 'anger while I was still in ze womb?" Only seeing widened eyes Christophe waved them away and sliced away the frozen ground, beginning once more his job of tunneling.

It was actually soothing, being underground, so close to the earth and away from irritating Colorado kicks. He shoveled away, feeling the roof occasionally to know where to start his diagonal upward. Rocky roofing usually meant there was a concrete building above, with pieces of it and the foundation crumbling into the soil. Smooth was a sign of flat land or nothing of real importance above. Soil with fibers signaled a tree on the surface, while soil with water piping running through it usually had moist, somewhat muddy soil.

He stopped, hearing a soft buzzing of electricity through the thunderous claps of cheering from the soldiers. He went upward, knowing well that Terrence and Phillip had to be right above, or in a few feet radius around him; he was scoring to the left of the hole. The upward digging was done quickly, knowing time was running short and smoothing out corners couldn't be done at the moment. Feeling the hard bedrock he cursed and planted the handle of the shovel to his shoulder and shoved upward with his weight, breaking through the paneling and popped out of the hole with the Canadian's indeed on his left. Anxiety ran through his body—he'd done it, he'd gotten through the hard part, now getting them to the rendezvous point wouldn't be hard.

"Shh, I'm 'ere to rescue you. After I release you, follow me through ze tunnel."

His lightheaded victory only lasted seconds as he heard the call, and was blinded by a spotlight. Scrambling he put a hand over his eyes, white flooding his vision still and multicoloured circles blossomed. "Ah sheet!"

"A spy, get him!" a woman's voice yelled to the left before snapping and growls could be heard. Christophe let out a squeal and dropped back into the tunnel, completely blind as to where he was going visually, although he knew every hole he dug like the back of his hand and traversed this one quickly. But not quick enough, he found out as a Doberman Pincher grabbed his ankle, teeth shredding the leather, biting through it to the bone. He yowled in pain, kicking it in the face and scrambled a second quicker, adrenaline keeping him from stopping. "Sheet, sheet, sheet! Fucking guard dogs, sheet!" he yelled as he stumbled at the diagonal upward, digging nails into the soil to pull him up. Teeth and claws tore at his body, tearing skin and ripping muscle from bone. The pain was horrible, but damned if he died in his own creation! He dropped a small bottle of Catimine oil and jammed his lighter open before dropping it as he pulled himself from the hole into the awaiting arms of the little Jewish boy.

"Ze alarm, zey went off!" he coughed, mucus clogging his throat.

"Yeah, that was my bad. Sorry," the piggish voice answered.

His vision danced, white bursting and then imploding inward, to explode out in a wash of colour. They were going to be the death of him, and with him gone, he was would be the death of them. "Hold me, it's…so vairy cold. Zere is no 'ope now, you must get out of 'ere."

"We can't leave without you!" Kyle yelled angrily, seeing that they were in deep shit now without him. He laughed, blood oozing from his nose, but even with Death upon him he still jacked them around.

"It's okay, I'm done for."

"No! We can't leave without you, we don't know where the Hell we are!" Kyle hissed, shaking him by the shoulders. Christophe winced, spitting up blood and wiped at his mouth for the effect of some decency.

"Where ez your God when you need 'im, euh? Where is your beautiful, merciful faggot now?" he pushed Kyle away, although the red-head still clasped his hand as if it would somehow keep him from dying. He snorted, thoughts going out to Tweek, and he smiled although the situation didn't call for it. "'ere I come, God. 'ere I come, you fucking rat!"

The passed two months played out in his head, his friendship with Tweek, punching him in the eye, Christmas, staying over at his house, their talk earlier that day. Maybe Tweek wouldn't go completely mental with his death…he only hope so. His vision finally stopped its twisted dance of implode-explode, the blinding white slowly fading at the edges.

Oh Twitchy, I am so vairy sorry, live well wizout me my friend. Oh God you assramming homosexual raging boner, you, you know 'ow to really screw wiz me, don't you? I 'ope I go to Hell you sonuvabeetch, et'd be better zen ever seeing you.

He took a breath, a song his father had taught him as a child running through his head. Why not?

"Now ze light, she fades, and darkness settles in. But I will find strength—"

"No Mole, hang on!"

"I will find pride wizin!"

"We'll get you home…"

"Because alzough I die."

"I can't face my mother…"

"Our freedom will be won."

"…Not alone."

"Though I die La Resistance lives…on?"

His eyelids drifted closed, heavy, and his vision cleared completely. He took a ragged breath and released it through burning lungs, and suddenly felt no more pain.

---

Tweek huddled by his window, alone, wrapped in a blanket, staring in the direction of the base. Seconds ticked by, turning to minutes quickly as impending doom was awaited. He glanced at his lava lamp briefly, his mom's Dido CD playing in the background making him sick. Or maybe that was the crawling feeling of Death mixed with Curson clawing at his mental shields. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes, falling into his mind.

"Stop it, it hurts!" he hissed at the demon, scratching claws on the blockade feverishly.

"Take the sight by force, repent."

Tweek shook his head mentally, glowering at the ecstatic Bat King. "No way, you aren't fucking taking my sight!"

"Naught to lose, Death awaits. A pinky promise for its return?"

He made an excellent point; if he was going to get bombed or tortured, why not just give Curson what he wanted. With a reluctant nod he lifted his mental pinky and extended it into the barrier. Pointy teeth flashed as he did the same, wrapping two inches of claw around his finger. At the touch Tweek shrieked, both physically and mentally, a burning sensation running through his eyes. He grabbed at his face mentally before the pain dulled, and he watched from his mind as his physical self opened his eyes, seeing everything in a different perspective.

Instead of being dark, it was incredibly light, although the colours were muted, and red transparent fog hung over the town. Everything was double, the first vision being holy, bright, the second dismal and dead, creating that middle, muted ground. His psychical self chuckled, the sound throaty and purring, unlike his normal voice, although the sentence structure was normal English; guess not everything can change.

"There in the distance, that's where it shall happen. The ground will split and the Dark Lord shall walk the Earth once more. Don't be surprised, sugarmuffin, I can feel it; he won't bother with you, you're mine, and Satan knows not to touch what is mine."

"Why is that?" Tweek asked timidly in his mind, looking to the place his body pointed.

"Oh, you aren't very resourceful at all! You've got it in your head—excuse the pun—that I'm a demon; how very wrong you are! Hell, been there, done that, pissed a few people off in my stay, came here, fucked around and fucked with you. Now that you have somewhere to start research, I think you should."

"You still didn't answer me."

He felt his lips curl into a sadistic snarl. "Because Satan is afraid of me."

The digital clock by his bed flashed 10 15 and he was tossed from his own mind, slammed into his body, every nerve pricking, and he swore he should feel the blood pump through his body. His eyes lit on fire, along with his nerves, tongue, ear canals, and sinuses as his sensory systems were turned back to his control. He screamed in unbearable pain, and passed out.

---

Love? Gyah! Love is just a chemical reaction by the brain engraved to increase the population! It's not real! It's not real!

You playing with us, Tweekster?

Who knows, we'll see, won't we?

Choose your poison wisely, there's no stepping back.

You're falling for your best friend.

You're sick.

But they're my friends.

One.

Your mouth met his, that's a kiss, end of story.

It feels wonderful.

Would you still like me if I was a girl?

What? No, no, no, no—

My head hurts.

Two.

I'm sorry, really, but fuck you, Tweek.

I want to be friends.

I have no choice.

Forgive me?

I'm on the pills.

Three.

Tweeky, calm down—

But you keep me sane.

Eternal slumber, this is not, wake up and greet you sweetness.

What's it like having a crazy son?

Because Satan is afraid of me.

Maman, what ez Twitchy doing 'ere?

Four.

I don't wanna go home!

The other kids, they pick on me a lot.

Twitchy, you are mistaken.

Maybe, or maybe I'm dying! Oh God!

Dude, you've gotta sleep.

Five.

What's our mission, Craig?

Don't touch Tweek.

Why not anger?

Dead ez better, but not for 'im.

I can't be friends with you anymore.

You're ze voice zat I like.

Craig doesn't like change.

The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.

--

Music, he heard music, the notes swirling through the choppy phrases assaulting his mind. At least he felt himself, some twisted part of his mind. He struggled, who was he? Tweek Tweak, local nutjob, friend of Christophe DeLorne, ex-bestfriend of Craig Nommel. He was dead because of a war. But he couldn't be dead if he was thinking, right?

He struggled, not knowing which way was up and which was down, so he sat floating, reconstructing his thoughts. He'd given Curson his body, and was slammed back into it, and passed out. What happened after that? Was he in Hell? No, the crazy bat-thingit said he couldn't go there. Then he was in his Self? That had to be it. He looked around, seeing the spiraling abyss above him, and decided that was down. He switched around, and swam.

What harm could it do?

--

Feeling came back to his body in stages before slamming into him like a winter gale. He moaned through a dry throat, eyes fluttering open to register his ceiling. How long had he been there? He sat up slowly, blinking and stumbled to his feet. A look outside the window showed it to be around midday, and everything looked normal enough. He walked out of the room, noticing he was still in the outfit he had been in when he passed out. Down the stairs he saw his mother, who didn't seem to interested that he was awake. Was he really dead? Was that it? He shook the thought out of his head and croaked, "Morning Mom."

Eavan glanced up at him and smiled, beckoning him with a wave. "Morning pumpkin, come down and get a glass of water for that throat."

He nodded, loping down the stairs slowly and entered the kitchen where she extended a glass of water to him. He eyed it, feeling like this was all too surreal, his vision playing out in quick moving pictures, like being drunk. He shook his head and gulped the water; maybe it was just a side effect from passing out. Just to make sure he was going to investigate.

"I'm going out, okay Mom?" he said as he grabbed is coat and shoes. She gave him a hug and sent him on his way, something odd of her to do. He shrugged it off and wandered the streets, looking back and forth between the melting snow and cars driving by. It was a weird change from the desolation of a day—or he imagined it to be a day—ago.

"Tweek, yo, Tweek!" a voice called out, and he spun on his heel, watching Kyle run up to him, panting. He smiled, eyes a bit widened to see the caffeine-addict out and about. His expression turned glum quickly though, as he remembered the news he'd come to deliver. "You hang out with that Mole kid, right?" A brief nod was the only answer. "Well, I have some bad news—"

Tweek smiled, imagining this to be some sick mind-game from the death. It was like a Geiko commercial, "Tweek I have some bad news, you're still unconscious and this is all a figment of your imagination to keep you from going crazy. But I saved a bunch of money on my car insurance!"

"He kinda of…you know…died during the war." His mind-game dropped as his stomach sank, the surreal feeling shattering, leaving Tweek standing in the road with clear vision, knowing exactly what had happened the previous night. "But since Kenny wished it all back he could still be alive, we just, never went to check so—"

Before Kyle could finish Tweek was racing off in the direction of Christophe's neighborhood, tears in his eyes. How could the French boy even think about doing anything related with the war after their talk? After what had happened to his father? It was reckless, dumb! Christophe was dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb.

No, he was dumb. He was dumb for giving into Curson, knowing well that South Park would some how deflect the population's death. He was dumb for being homeschooled and leaving his friends. He was dumb for listening to Christophe when he said he wouldn't die. He was just dumb because he was Tweek.

Heaving breaths he ran across the road, taking a sharp turn, a stitch in his side aching. But he wasn't going to stop, no, he'd be even more foolish to stop, considering he was standing in the middle of a four-lane road. He dodged cars and took a right, finally on Christophe's street. Had he really run the entire seven-minute drive without stopping? Standing in front of Christophe's peach house, he guessed so. Rushing to the door he hit the bell, panting puffs of smog as he double over, using the wall for support. The door opened, but he saw no one in the doorway, then again he was now staring up at the ceiling above the stoop. When did he fall over? But hew asn't on the ground, no, he felt arms around his shoulders, knees in the small of his back. He blinked as Christophe's concerned face appeared in his vision.

"You aren't…you aren't dead," he breathed with relief, tension dissipating immediately. The Mole snorted, a cold hand running along his cheek.

"No, but you might as well be wiz zat fever of yours."

Tweek rolled his head to the side, looking at the sky once more. It was soft pink with sunrise; had he imagined his Mom giving him water, Kyle running up to him, nearly getting hit by a car? His mind answered; yes. What was this, some new type of insanity? He knew that answer as well; no. Still same ol' same ol' Tweek, just not quite there.

"What were you zinking running 'ere from your 'ouse in ze middle of ze night?"

He let out a breath, closing his eyes as sleep grabbed at him. Maybe a nap would make it all better. He felt his cheek sting, the only sign Christophe had slapped him.

"Tweek, what were you zinking?"

"The answer was barely above a whisper, "I wasn't."

---

A/N: Whoo, overdue chapter! Sorry...again. I need to stop bitching around with other things. I must say, the ending on this one fucked with me, I don't even think I know what happened oo I'll have to reread that. And major props go to my DVD player, for not dying while I played scenes over and over of SP: BLU to get it right xD

Sorry again for adding in Christophe...I COULDN'T HELP MYSELF x3 But don't worry, this doesn't mean there's some segway into Christophe/Tweek...no No NO! Chris is like a reassurance pole, he tells you want you want to hear and is there just because. But since the whore didn't STAY DEAD this means there's another chapter before they all hit middleschool and get sucked into hormonalrages! Fun fun.

Length...I'll try to work on that. I swear. But I like it, it's like my trademark. People see a really small scroller and moan out, "FUCKING CORRIE! Writing 28 pages of bullcrap". That's right folks, twenty-eight. Maybe I'll beat IGB with wordcount! Yippie!