The streets were empty and gray, mirroring the sky

A/N: Okay, peoples!! Here it is- my AU South Park fic!! DUMDUMDUMDUM

I know this idea will be kinda hard to get. It's basically Stan, Cartman, and Kyle, back in World War Two. It's a love triangle- and boyxboy, so if you don't like that, don't read. This chappie isn't slashy and is kinda boring, but the next chapters will be better. I promise. This will be a really cool fic.

Btw- all the occurrences and non-south park people in this fic are real, historical people and events. Just a fun fact. 

The streets were empty and gray, mirroring the sky. The whole world seemed to be drowning in deep depression, and it seemed to Kyle as if he wasn't the only one who knew that. Every passer by's face was angry, or nervous, or pissed.

Wouldn't anybody smile? What was up with Germany, anyway? Kyle had moved there from America in 1928, when he had been seven- a full nine years ago. Then, Germany had been recovering from World War One. It hadn't been the happiest place, but it had never been like this.

Kyle pulled his jacket tighter. It was very chilly. He really had to stop walking to school and start riding his bike, but he couldn't help himself- his best friend, Stan Marsh, lived in the dingy alleyways of downtown, where no bike could pass through. And he wasn't about to give up going to school with Stan just because of the cold.

Suddenly he gulped. A man in a crisp brown uniform was striding by- an officer of the SA, more commonly known as a Storm Trooper. He could tell the man was pretty high up by the bright red cloth with the black swastika displayed prominently on his arm and the various gold medals pinned to his front breast pockets.

After last week's 'Bloody Sunday' riots in his hometown of Berlin, even the sight of a swastika made his blood run cold. His uncle had been injured in the riots. Kyle still remembered how he had staggered into the Broflovski's gargantuan mansion, spilling blood onto the plush, pristine white carpet. Kyle had only caught a glimpse of his uncle's mangled face before his mother let out a shriek and his father pushed Kyle and Ike out of the way, ordering them to go to their rooms.

Kyle shuddered at the memory and tried to push it away. But instead, his eyes set on the Storm Trooper walking placidly in front of him, and he stared in an odd fascination. Did this man really hate him? …But how could he? He had never even met Kyle. How could you hate someone before you even met them?

Kyle didn't even realize he had passed Stan's door, so intent was he on the Storm Trooper. It was only Stan's voice, loud and ringing, that shook him out of his stupor.

"Kyle! Kyle!"

He spun around, embarassed. Stan was running to catch up with him, his black hair flying and his brown jacket unbuttoned and trailing behind him.

"Are you ditching me already?" asked Stan good naturedly. "You completely ignored me, I was calling your name for ages…"

"Oh. Sorry, dude. I was spacing out."

"Dude. No problem, dude," responded Stan, and the two laughed. Stan was constantly poking fun at Kyle's habit of using the word 'dude.' But Kyle couldn't help it- every time he spoke his boyhood language of English, which was usually only to Stan, who spoke it at home, he took advantage of using the word. It made him feel so… American.

A comfortable silence washed over them. The two fell in step, walking side by side.

"Kyle?" said Stan finally, breaking the silence.

"Hmm?"

"Would… would you judge someone for something they can't help? Something they were… maybe born with, or just grew into?"

Kyle looked at him, bewildered. "If you're talking about being Jewish-"

"Oh, no, of course not!" said Stan hastily. "I mean- if someone told you something about themselves that most people look down upon, would you judge that person?"

"Would it be something like killing.. or drugs?"

"No. Not- not like that."

Kyle's expression softened. "No, of course I wouldn't. I don't judge people, Stan."

Stan didn't respond, but Kyle saw him let out a breath Kyle hadn't noticed he had been holding. Relief was clearly written in his bright blue eyes.

"Stan?" he said softly after a while, when the other boy remained quiet. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

Stan turned a delicate shade of pink. "Yeah," he said vaguely. "Yeah- of course I know."

Kyle nodded and flashed him a smile. Stan returned the grin.

"Oh- did you do your homework? I didn't fin-"

Kyle wasn't paying attention. Stan seemed to notice this, as he stopped mid-sentence and followed the redhead's gaze.

Kyle's eyes were glued to a storefront. In the window, a large poster hung. A drawing of a rotting, graying face of a man with an oversized nose graced it, along with a picture of a louse and large block letters that read "ZYOZI WISZY- TYFUS PLAMISTY," Polish for 'Jews are lice- they cause typhus.'

Kyle's eyes widened, and he stood stock still, stung. And also a little… afraid. He was noticing these signs for a while now. And while his father told him it was nothing, he saw the glances his mother shot her husband when they thought he wasn't looking. They were fearful glances, looks that hardly meant 'nothing' was going on. Gerald Broflovski had already lost his job as a lawyer, and, while the family was very rich and could live comfortably for the rest of their lives without work, the very fact that his father had been forced to retire becathuse he was Jewish scared Kyle. And their were already talks, more-than-whispers about the camps- dreadful places they sent mostly Jews, along with handfuls of gypsies and gays, to be worked and then slaughtered.

Stan started talking soothingly. "Kyle- don't worry, it was probably some sicko who hung that up. It's fine. Don't be af-"

"I'm not afraid. And it's not fine."

Kyle saw Stan look at him sympathetically and frowned. He hated pity.

"I'm okay. We had better hurry or we'll be late for school."

Stan nodded his understanding and the two quickened their pace, Kyle's eyes set determinedly on the ground. He did not look anywhere else until they reached the drab brown

building that served as their school.

Kyle and Stan walked past the sign declaring the place to be the 'Berlin School for Boys' and entered the building. They elbowed their way past the crowded hallways, not stopping until they reached their classroom. Stan made his way to the front and dumped his bag on the floor, while Kyle headed for the back, where he sat.

He felt hurt stab at him again. He was Jewish, so he had to sit in the back of the class with the rest of the Jewish kids. Not that there were many left; most had gotten frustrated with the racism of German schooling and had switched to strictly Jewish schools. But the Broflovskis were very intent upon not being threatened by anyone, and Kyle's mother had continued to send her two sons to German schools in defiance.

Why do I have to sit in the back? He thought bitterly. I'm a straight A student. Everyone knows I'm a model student. So why?

Why, why, why?

But he knew why. It was made very clear.

He shook his head and cleared his thoughts. It was Monday today- he had a meeting with the rest of the members of the Baum Group today. The Baum group was a Jewish resistance group, founded by a young couple, Herbert and Marianne Baum. Kyle had been a member even in the group's incipient stages, in '36- last year. He had been a little frightened boy, barely fifteen. But 'The Germans don't seem to care how young they're killing us,' he could hear Marianne say in her fiery voice. Nobody cared how young he was, as long as he was willing to fight. And he was.

The group met weekly in the Baum's home to discuss politics and plot strategy. Members also informed and educated Jews about important matters and developments. Kyle knew that although it wasn't much, the group definitely did it's job in being a pain in the Gestapo's ass.

He couldn't wait.

The room was small and cramped, overflowing with documents and files. There was just enough room for the twenty or so members to sit, squeezed in between assorted paraphernalia. There was no natural light, as the room's windows were boarded up to prevent anybody looking in. Instead, there was a small oil lamp sitting on the bare table, giving off a dim yellow light that cast eerie shadows on the members' young faces.

Kyle was sitting right next to Herbert himself, as he was a trusted, active member of the group. His eyes were sharp and piercing as they roved over everybody's faces, smiling occasionally at someone he recognized.

When the last person filed in, Herbert got up from his chair and poured himself a drink. Presently, he started to speak.

"A right-wing labor party, Stronnictwo Pracy, has been established in Poland. It is virulently anti-semitic. Please, inform any relatives in Poland of the party. Make sure they know who their enemies are."

Herbert took a swig from his glass and wiped his mouth with his hand. His deep voice was sometimes a little frightening, but his youthful face was warm. He was not menacing in the least, with his deep set eyes, finely shaped lips, and slightly large ears. His dark hair was straight and combed back, and now he ran his hand through it, apparently a bit anxious. Kyle noted this with growing anticipation. That probably meant they were going to do something big.

"Also, in Hungary Ferenc Szálasi set up the Nyilaskeresztes Part-Hunagrista Mozgalom, or the Arrow Cross Movement. It is dedicated to anti-Semitism. They are rioting, shooting, and publishing anti-Semitic newspapers. Again, tell any Hungarian relatives to be wary."

That couldn't be what he was so nervous about, Kyle thought. There had to be something else.

"Friends," said Herbert after a short pause. Here it comes, thought Kyle. "Some of you may have noticed that our good friend, Hella Gryn, is not here today."

Kyle started. Hella? The spunky fourteen year old with the bright blonde hair? He hadn't noticed her absence. But now that he looked around, he realized she wasn't there.

This is what has Herbert nervous, he immediately understood. We're not going to do anything.

"We regret to inform you all that… Hella. She's dead."

A collective gasp rose up from all the members. Kyle heard Marianne sniffle. After a minute, she wasn't the only one. Men as well as ladies were pulling handkerchiefs out, dabbing at their eyes.

Kyle felt sorrow rise up within him as one dark haired man whispered, "Baruch dayan haemes." God is the true judge. A sentence said by Jews when informed of someone's death.

Kyle's eyes started to well up. Hella had been particularly bright, he remembered with a pang. She had also been very pretty… very German looking, with bright blonde hair and electric blue eyes. She liked to say that God had given her Aryan looks just so that she could prove to the German bastards that they were wrong about Jews all being ugly and big nosed and dark haired.

"How?" a lady asked. "How did she die?"

"She acted foolishly," said Herbert quietly. "She broke into the store selling copies of Der Sturmher and started to set it on fire."

Kyle gasped. Der Sturmher was an anti-Semitic, vile, base newspaper bordering on pornography, that published outright lies about Jews. And while he could see how Hella chose the store as her target, didn't she know that the newspaper was a Nazi favorite? The store was watched day and night. It was even rumored to be bugged. Breaking in was out of the question. It was insane.

A lone tear ran down his cheek as Herbert continued talking, telling everyone about how the SS had burst in on Hella and had dragged her through the streets, kicking her to the center of town, where they brutally murdered her by first riddling her arms and legs with bullets before finally shooting her fatally in the head.

He hastily tried to wipe the tear away. However, after a while he gave up, and just let the tears flow freely. He watched as several other member did the same.

He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. Kyle looked up to find Herbert standing by him, his dark eyes understanding. I feel your pain, his eyes seemed to say. And I'm with you. We'll be fine, you'll see.

No, we won't, thought Kyle suddenly. Rage bubbled inside of him. Whoever could torture Hella so cruelly… whoever could kill an innocent fourteen year old girl like that was messed up. They were murderers, and they were dangerous.

No, we won't be fine.

"Get out of Germany, you dirty Jew," came a loud voice from behind him. Kyle's breath caught in his throat and he turned to see a dark haired German youth in uniform standing confidently, a hand lightly resting on his hip. He was obviously a member of the Hitler Youth.

Kyle pressed his lips together and ran his hands through his red curls, trying to control his mounting rage.

"You heard what I said," the boy said belligerently. "You fucking Jews should all leave. And you know what? You people know it, too. You know you're dirt- that's why you're not answering me. You stupid Jew rat."

Kyle couldn't contain his rage anymore. He let out a scream and fell on the boy, pummeling him with his fists, raining down blows hard and fast. The boy gasped in surprise and tried to fight back, but he was no match for Kyle. Fear leapt into his eyes, and he seemed taken aback. He started yelling in panic.

Almost instantly police swarmed around Kyle, forcing him off the boy and helping the boy up. They pushed Kyle to the floor and drew their guns, aiming at him.

This is it, thought Kyle wildly. They're going to kill me. Just like Hella. Herbert will tell everyone in the group and that will be it.

He braced himself for the impending shots, screwing up his eyes tight. Any second now…

"No!" said the dark haired boy loudly. The police officers paused and turned to the Hitler Youth, their looks questioning.

"It's fine," the boy said. "He's with me. I'm taking the dirty Jew in for questioning. It's taken care of."

"Are you sure?" asked an officer, eyeing Kyle disdainfully.

The boy nodded confidently. Kyle felt his jaw drop open. The boy lied so naturally.

Wait- why was he lying in the first place? The Hitler wannabe had just saved his life!

Why?

He hated Jews, that was for sure. He had verbally abused Kyle because he has seen the yellow star of David Kyle was forced to wear. There was no logical explanation for him to save Kyle from being shot down like a dog. After all, Kyle had just attacked him. So why…?

It had to be God, Kyle thought after a while. There was no other way to explain what just happened.

The police officers gave him one last kick and started to leave. Kyle got up from his position on the floor and dusted himself off with dignity. An awkward silence fell.

"Why did you do that?" Kyle finally asked, not one to beat around the bush.

"What do you mean, Jew?" asked the boy. He was obviously humoring him.

"Don't play games with me," Kyle spat. "I hate you, you hate me. So why the hell did you just save me?"

"If you're that upset, I can kill you. I merely thought to save your dirty little ass. I regret it already."

Kyle shot him a look of pure hate, but didn't make any comment. Silence fell again.

"So that's it? I'm free to go?"

The boy looked at him disdainfully and nodded. Then he seemed to soften for a minute.

"I'm Eric Cartman," he said. Kyle gaped at him, He was actually being… civil?

After a minute of staring at the boy, unsure of his motivations, Kyle threw all caution to the winds.

"I'm Kyle Broflovski," he said.

A strange emotion passed over the boy's face. "I know," he said, and then turned and walked off into the night.€