A/N: Apologies for the delay, as well as the short chapter. To those who favorited/followed me and my story, sincerest thanks! I truly appreciate the support. :) Reviews absolutely welcomed!

"What the actual fuck just happened?" Kenny tosses his Nokia carelessly into my lap before reclining in the plastic chair to prop his sneakers atop the mattress.

"Well, let's see. First Stanley-the-categorical-shit-fiesta visited, so unfortunately interrupted by ice-ice-baby-Wendy with Bebe and ever-adorb-Marjorine..." His head tilts just slightly left as he strokes his hairless chin, feigning deep thought.

"No shit, Sherlock. I mean, what's with Stan? He never broke up with Wendy before; he's unhealthily obsessed with her. Speaking of Wendy, Kylie? Really? Where the fuck's that from? Nevermind you and Butters-"

"Marjorine," Kenny's sharpness prompts several beats of silence. I caution you, the South Park from which you left and the South Park to which you return will have a handful of critical differences.

"So he's...?"

"She's."

Something within me disputes "Marjorine's" existence. Perhaps her awkward carriage, her hushed tone? Butters always seemed somewhat feminine; he infiltrated the girls' slumber party in fourth-grade without question. I almost anticipate him, appearing a duplicate from my memory, returning to giggle along with Kenny at my gullibility. But Kenny's sternness, along with Wendy's, Bebe's, and Stan's casual acceptance of her, seem beyond just a prank. I caution you...

"Ky..." sighs Kenny, straightening up. He crosses his arms, immediately uncrossing them, shuffling his feet as he picks dirt from underneath his fingernails.

"You know I hate that nickname." Neither scolding nor teasing. Just a statement.

"Should I call you Kylie?" mumbles he, to his fingers.

I wrinkle my nose.

"Kyle, you... I don't think..." Kenny nibbles his lower lip, prompting blood. "'Critical differences' meant more than Marjorine." Pausing, he shifts focus to the ceiling, then adds: "And Stan."

"Who then? What then? Show me, Ken." He stares intently into my lap, when I remember his Nokia contentedly resting in my lap. Scratches mar its cheap exterior; a sizable dent obscures the bottom-right corner. Beneath the coarse hospital-gown fabric, my heart stirs. Tha-thump. I randomly tap some numerals; the screen brightens, revealing Marjorine, her head tilted marginally backwards, eyes closed, and jaw slack with silent, endless laughter. To her immediate left, Stan's tongue pokes between pursed lips as he concentrates entirely on his nose. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. I scarcely recognize the third and final teenager. Tangerine ringlets extend past the picture's view. Plush, charcoal lashes. Wide, mossy pupils fixate upon Stan. She beams, thin lips glossy and rose-hued, entranced as though he encapsulates her entire universe. Freckles lightly dot the bridge of her nose, disappearing beneath the healthy blush highlighting her slender cheekbones. The screen darkens, but Kenny's background sears beneath my eyelids.

Marjorine. Stan.

Marjorine, Stan, and...

And...

…

"Kenny?"

…

"Kyle."

...

That's me.

Marjorine, Stan, and Kyle...

Except I'm not.

Not anymore.

Kenny stands. I watch him amble closer and pry my fingers from his phone, tossing it nonchalantly into his chair. "Breathe," commands he, albeit delicately, massaging circles into my shoulder blade. Inhale, exhale. He hums tunelessly, seating himself next to me. Inhale, exhale. Refreshing. Had I held my breath this entire time?

"Who am I, Ken?" And there it is. That unanswerable question, resounding behind my temples, deafening other thought. Where's my niche in this frustratingly dissimilar South Park? Who's friend, enemy? Though Wendy, Stan, and Kenny seem more-or-less continuous with their specters in my memories, Marjorine proves as unfamiliar as they familiar. What of my parents? Ike? Cartman? Thousands of suddenly-irrelevant details – exact lengths and locations of cracks in the pavement, the unusually steepled grass blades framing Stark's Pond – formed the South Park etched behind my eyelids. I feel hollow and misplaced, straining to preserve my South Park. How'd Sparky's bandana feel? What color lipstick did Mrs. Cartman wear? I struggle to recall, answers increasingly distant with each attempt.

"You're Kyle Broflovski." begins Kenny. "Well, technically Kylie Broflovski; though, everybody aside from Wendy knows you as 'Kyle'. You're Stan's super-best-friend, and my regular-best-friend, and Eric's kind-of-sort-of-friend, I guess. You enjoy Wendy's competition and companionship, and Bebe's spunk, and Marjorine's kindness. You're intelligent and dedicated, you created the Park County High School boxing team freshman year and play Borderlands with Stan, Eric, and I on weekends, you..." Kenny continues long after sunset blackens the room, emphatically stressing the similarities between this South Park and mine, between Kylie's body and mine. Though he speaks fluently, his saccharine words obviously memorized, only the neverending dissimilarities between here and there register in my ears. He's "Cartman", not "Eric." Bebe and I never spoke. I played basketball. When Kenny finally quiets, voice trailing off mid-sentence, I strain to distinguish his lanky figure in the darkness. But moonlight silhouettes his knee; he's perched opposing me, back resting against the footboard, legs folded beneath him.

"I want to go home, Kenny," state I. He coaxes me into his embrace, sniffling. My shoulder dampens.

"I know," he replies. "I know."