A/N: I had about 4000 words written out on this thing when OpenOffice bitched out and deleted it. Now I had to rewrite it, and I am severely angry right now. Don't badmouth the computer though, it gets angry and decides to fuck me over. Okay, let's try this again, shall we?

For the long wait, I am granting you a long chapter! It's a beast, this time. I also didn't have time to edit, so if you find something confusingly wrong (like it just breaks off in amiddle of a sentence and switches POV) let me know, because I'm editing TOMORROW. ~THG

The corner street bookstore reeks of mothballs and drunk spiders. The cashier broke her concentration to glare at us, then went back to her withering romance novel, pages dog-eared. Ike rolled his eyes at her when she looked away, then wandered off to the classic literature section. My eyes swept over the poetry shelves, but they were all books I already owned and had pawed through thousands of times. I practically knew all of Edgar Allen Poe's work by heart. The carpet had wine stains on it, I noticed, when I crouched down to further look at the selection. I subconsciously sucked on my tongue piercing, mind turning. I sighed, moving on to a different section, and happened upon the self-help section. The books often had stock photo covers of a person holding their head in their hands, having a very remorse face, and a subtitle that proclaimed, "You can do it!" What bullshit. A few pages encouraging you only have the bonus of raising your hopes, a dangerous prospect.

The cooking section had various sub categories, vegan cooking, diet cooking, cooking for dumbshits, Chinese cooking without rice, etc. My eyes happened upon the Jewish cooking, which shows various kosher meals. My mind clicked back to Ike's little sighs whenever he eats pork, slight guilt. He's such a stickler for rules. I flipped through the book, seeing the different recipes.

"You burn cereal, Shift," Ike said, suddenly behind me. I jump, book fumbling in my hands. I pretended I knew he was there all along, sticking out my tongue at him and putting the book back. "What were you looking at? Goth cook book?"

"None of your business," I said, without bite. "What's in your hand?"

"Oh." He produced a small leather bound book, with loopy letters on the front in gold. "The Complete Works of Ernest Hemingway," he read from the book.

"I thought it would be something about soccer, or hockey, or something," I said, getting up off the floor and pushing hair out of my face.

"My mom used to read it to me," he said, flipping through the pages.

I raised an eyebrow. "Who the fuck reads Hemingway's stories to a child?"

"You've met my mother, answer that yourself." He pulled out his wallet, counting the bills. "You ready?"

After some contemplation, I decided to buy the fucking Jew cooking book. We paid for the items, the cashier pounding the keys with red nails. I pushed open the door with my side, the bell dinging as we got out onto the street. I immediately lit a cigarette, cupping the flame with one hand. Ike pretended to disapprove of my smoking habits, but really, he never cared. We walked down the sidewalk, feeling the signature San Francisco fog bite at our faces. Ike leaned into me without thinking, having forgotten his hoodie. My trench coat kept the frost out, but goosebumps raised on my arms. I felt Ike's hair brush against my shoulder, his cheeks going red from the cold. I squirmed under the contact, but he just moved closer to me.

"Don't you dare push me off. It's cold and you're warm."

"I am?" I asked. The streets were scattered with people who ignored us, something I wasn't used to. In South Park, people would flinch and take a step away from the goth kids, muttering something like 'why are those girls dressed so scarily?' Here, they couldn't give a shit, as long as you didn't try to jack their stuff.

"Well, your heart's ice cold, if that's reassuring. But your body heat. Warm. Get what I'm saying?" Ike poked my sleeve, which jerked me from my train of thought. I nodded once, and he looked away. I watched his eyes wander to a colorful sign proclaiming that they sold icecream there, his tongue jutting out and licking his -quickly turning blue- lips. I sighed, nudging Ike with my elbow. He paused, blinking up at me.

"We're gonna get icecream," I said. He furrowed his eyebrows, gazing upward at the white sky. He shivered, meeting my eyes again.

"It's freezing."

"So?" I kicked his shin gently with my boot, sneering at him. "I'm doing one of those conformist nazi boyfriend things, taking you out to icecream. Stop being a jerk and appreciate it."

A grin spread across Ike's face, and he grabbed my hand, tugging me in. No other customers were there, them being much wiser than us. Ike pressed his hands against the cool glass containing the different flavors. I glowered next to him, secretly enjoying the childlike way his eyes lit up. This cashier didn't glare, she looked rather amused at Ike's antics. He took great care in choosing which kind he wanted. "The green tea tastes unique, but the rocky road is my favorite. Oh, but that has so many calories..."

I scoffed. "Don't be such a chick, you're plenty skinny."

Ike broke his concentration, smiling at me again. "Thank you."

I punched him lightly in the arm. "Don't take it as a compliment. I hate you."

In the end, I got plain vanilla and he got double chocolate with sprinkles. While paying, the cashier smiled at us, saying, "You guys make a cute couple." I glared at her, and Ike said thank you before dragging me to the window table, staring at the people walking past the shop. It was a sea of trend zombies, swallowing the media's every wish by the gallon, just to be the cheerleaders they deserve to rot in hell-

"Who deserves to rot in hell?" Ike asked. "You were speaking out loud." I met his eyes. He tilted his head, eyes full of concern. "Are you okay? You've seemed distracted."

"I'm always distracted by the utter need to all be one mass of conformity," I grumbled, but losing the heart to it and taking a hesitant lick of the icecream, hoping it didn't smear the lipstick. We lapsed back into a comfortable silence, Ike hypnotized by the lure of the frozen treat. The streets were winding down, people retreating into crowded cafes to eat. I lit another cigarette, setting my icecream on a napkin.

"Hey, you," the cashier said, pointing at me. "You can't smoke in here."

"Watch me," I said, deliberately blowing a wave of smoke in her general direction. Ike chuckled behind his hand, deeply amused.

"Fine," she said, putting up her hands. "My shift gets off in five. But then Lenny comes on. And trust me, you don't wanna meet Lenny." her voice had a crisp Hispanic accent, and she smirked as I inhaled another drag. She goes back to the crossword puzzle on the counter, rapping her long lacquered nails against the smooth surface. Ike breathed in, managing not to cough from the secondhand tobacco. His icecream was almost done, and he's on to just biting it.

"Do you miss your goth friends?" he asked, his attention on me. I've completely forgone the makeup worries, digging into my dessert like there's no tomorrow. I tried to read his expression, but it's nothing but curious. For a second, my heart twanged, worrying that maybe I've been neglecting Ike. But that thought vanished, because first of all, that's such a lame thing to think. Secondly, all of my attention has been on him for the past year. He's tied to me, whether I like it or not. And in private, quite a while ago, on the roof of a car, I decided that I liked it very much.

"No," I said forcibly, taking a chunk of my icecream and sliding it down my tongue. Ike motioned for me to elaborate, and I sighed, pushing my chair back an inch and leaning back, sticking the fag inbetween my lips and inhaling deeply. "Sure, they're my allies and I respect them, but I don't miss them. Once they graduated they left me behind, ignoring me or claiming that I was always 'too young'. It shoved me into solitude, and eventually had less and less contact with them. Of course, they sent me letters in ink back in South Park, but I rarely responded. Then I met you."

"Then you met me," Ike echoed, and a small smile fluttered across his face. I ignored it, going back to my cigarette and my thoughts.

(CHRISTOPHE POV)

"Ze shittiest apartment available is your apartment?" I asked, completely appalled. Jeff smirked, unlocking the door and attempting to open it. It jammed, and Jeff grunted and slammed it with his shoulder.
"The chief likes to mess with people by saying stuff like that. You really think the police could afford to house you downtown?" he flipped on the light, flooding the living room. Furniture was pretty scarce, only a thrift store green couch with frayed armrests, wooden crate box across from it, and tiny TV set casually on top of it. "You have the couch. Sorry there isn't anything really here; I'm usually out doing gumshoe police work that takes up a massive amount of my day."
"Eet ees okay, I guess." I kicked off my boots, dirt exploding out of them into a scattered pile. I strap off my shovel, holding it's weight in my hands, balancing it with inner glory. Ah, my shovel. My valuable possession, gotten in my small village in France after some haggling skills with a stubborn shopkeeper. I was seven, and he doubted that I could even pay for it. Thanks to my mama's (I say this name with disdain, not affection) money she gave me daily to get me out of the house, I plopped the bag of various coins on his counter. The man had twisted his small greasy mustache in a scowl, snatched the money, and pushed the shovel in my hands, shooing me off. I had run home, carrying my prize with no small amount of pride. The memory was one of the few that filled my unsympathetic heart with warm pleasure, and this is why my shovel has stuck with me. The feeling of triumph.
"Can you stop being so...fond of that shovel?" Jeff asked, thoroughly creeped out by my wave of love for an inanimate object, eying me with suspicion.

"Of course, beetch," I said, pointing a dirt encrusted finger at his fat fucking face. "As soon as you destroy your gun, yes?" Jeff made no move, and I smirked. "See, we all have our pride and joys. Mine is this shovel. Eet is, apart of me, no?"

Jeff shrugged, spreading his case files across the small kitchen table, and I glanced over them with disinterest. I shoved a cigarette in my mouth, lighting up and breathing any smoke out my nose. "Got any wine?"

Jeff sat on a fold out chair, chewing on a pen, thinking. "Uh, I'm not sure. People give me wine all of the time as presents, but I'm not much of an alcoholic." His voice is very distant, completely concentrated on the case. What a loser. I rummaged through his cabinets, finding a few bottles of whiskey, which I set in my imaginary 'maybe' pile. They're always good for a nightcap. My hands felt a smooth bottle in the very back, and I gripped it, shoving other things out of the way to get a look at the label.

My heart nearly stopped.

"Bordeaux," I whispered, gently brushing the clear green glass. Too many memories of being a young boy flood my mind, and they were unwelcome.

"What?" Jeff asked, eyes not breaking from his work. I sneered, flipping him off, even though he didn't see.

"Nothing, you nosy beetch."

Despite what the asshole Americans think, not every Frenchman was born in the suburbs of Paris, a view of the Eiffel Tower right outside their window. No, I was the exception, a boy born in the wine oriented town of Bordeaux. A frown flitted across my face, and I go through the wooden kitchen drawers to find a corkscrew. They were jam packed with plastic forks and corn holders, but at last I found an unused one, and popped open the wine. The smell was intoxicating, it still needed to breath, but nonetheless it flooded back the scents of home.

Home.

Home doesn't exist. What does exist is that I am sitting on a countertop, harsh florescent light beating my eyes, and a cocksucking pussy licking American cop is slouched a mere few feet away from me. Home is for the coward who cries for mommy.

I am not a coward, I think, taking one long gulp of home.

SHIFT'S POINT. OF. VIEW.

Coming back to the apartment, Ike seemed to be exhausted. I didn't blame him, we did a lot of shit today. He was leaning on me, eyes drooping. He looked like a child, especially when he clutched at the fabric of my jacket. I rolled my eyes.

"You want me to carry you to the bed or something?" I scoffed.

"Yes," he said nasally, slowly sinking to the floor.

"That was a joke. The bed's literally eight feet away."

"Please?" His eyes widened, using the deadly puppy dog look. I rolled my eyes once again, so hard that they might have just fallen out of their sockets.

"Fine, but probably only because it's slightly ironic." Or something. I begrudgingly bent down, swept his feet off the floor, and carrying him in my arms bridal style. "This is so gay," I muttered. "I mean, this is how people carry each other to bed for sex. We're not even going to have sex! What the hell. So. Gay." Ike murmured something along the lines of pot calling the kettle black but I was disinterested. After plopping him in the bed, I placed the books on the end table, and shrugged my jacket off my shoulders, sighing.

"Read me a story?" Ike's voice carried from the bed. He was sitting with his legs criss crossed, head in his hands, tilting his head.

"Oh goddammit," I groaned. "Are you stoned, or something?"

"No. But I know you have your awesome gothic soothing reading voice." His hands clasped together, and his lips quivered. "Please?"

"Fucking—please don't say you want a picture book. Because I am not ready for six year old Ike."

"Nope. The Hemmingway book, read me a story from it."

Dutifully, I got the book, making my way back to the bed and crawling in the covers, and Ike did the same. He curled up next to me, and I growled, wanting to get this over with. He took the book from me, flipping a certain page.

"Read this one," he said, pointing at the title. HILLS LIKE WHITE ELEPHANTS.

"Isn't this about abortion?" I asked, examining the page.

"Yup," he said. "It has nice descriptions, though. Makes me weirdly relaxed."

"Alright." I cleared my throat, draping my arm over Ike's shoulder as he wriggled closer. "The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white..."

As I continued to read, Ike's mouth slowly pulled into a smile, and he closed his eyes. "You do have a nice reading voice. So calm...," he mumbled somewhere in the middle, sinking into my arm. I smirked, continuing on. Pretty soon, as the moon was high in the sky, Ike was fast asleep, still smiling. His weight was heavy on my shoulder, but I managed to place the book back on the end table. Snoring softly, Ike stirred a little, probably dreaming of some weird Canadian crap.

I cautiously reached for the lamp, desperate not to wake Ike, and clicked off the light. I paused for a few seconds, mind swirling with thoughts and ideas. The tiny rectangular window in the upper corner gave way to beams of moonlight.

"Forever...mine..." Ike murmured from his sleep, clutching my shirt a little tighter. I chuckled softly, gently tracing the features of his face with my pinky, before I rolled to my side and closed my eyes.

"I love you," I whispered softly, before drifting to the darkness.

…...

…

..

.

christophe perspective

Riiiiiiiing.

Riiiiiiiing.

"This is John Smith, from Briefcase Selling Realty. How may I help you?" Came the monotone voice on the other line. I rolled my eyes, fully expecting the greeting but still having no patience for it.

"Damien, cut ze sheet. It's-"

"Christophe, hello. No need for clarification, I can tell by your dramatic French accent." A small chuckle from the other end. I leaned against the balcony railing, pulling out a cigarette. "How are you? Haven't seen you since you were dead. I mean, I say that every time we talk over the phone, but it sounds like I'm a cool motherfuck."

"What?"

"Like in a creepy way. I was trying to be creepy and mysterious, because you're so goddamned serious all of the time whenever I talk to you. You know what, forget it."

"I 'onestly do not know what you are talking about, Antichrist, so I am just going to move right along, yes?" I cleared my throat, staring up at the starry sky, wondering how I'll piece together what I'm going to say. "Do you know anything about Satanic cults?"

Long pause, then some shuffling on the other end. "Yes. I'm not saying I'm particularly versed in people sacrificing animals to win respect of my father, but I do have some knowledge on the subject. Where are you right now?"

"America," I said regretfully, bracing myself for the response.

"WHAT? What happened to you vehemently claiming you would never go back to that, and I quote 'piss drinking country of brainless bitches'? I thought you'd be taking names in Africa, or something."

"..Are you okay? You do not sound like yourself. You sound like a teenager at a party, which I despise. Can I stop talking to this Damien now, and get the intelligent one?"

"Well, I mean, like, I was hunting down someone through the streets, right? So, like, get this, there was this guy, and he like, offered me this cookie? And even if I don't trust anyone, I was hungry, so I like, ate it, and now, it's just, whoa."

"You are getting more and more incoherent by ze second. Can't you just use your magic powers to erase ze poison in your system? I am guessing you were poisoned."

"Oh! Right!" Some wooshing sounds came from the other line, and heavy panting. "Alright, I did that. Sorry, I don't know what came over me. Satanic cults, right? Well, if you're looking at tracking one down, I can help you with that. I can't search specific ones, only see where they are located. My father gave me this device to do that before I left, to help. It was one of the few things he did do to help, actually."

"No need for ze father son angst, zank you. Just tell me where ze are locating."

"Fine," Damien said shortly, growling something about respect to superiors, which I didn't pay attention to. Beeping sounds, loud and rapid. "Hmmm...that's odd."

"Speet eet out, Antichrist."

I could practically feel the eyeroll coming from him. "There seems to be an unnatural gathering in the city of San Francisco, California. You heard of it?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes momentarily. Fuck my life. "Oui, I 'ave 'eard of zis San Francisco. What does zis mean?"

"I don't know, it could mean nothing, it could mean everything." Pause. "Oh, and there's a slightly smaller, but still greater than usual, amount of cults in...how about you guess? Which is the one place that can still be even crazier than San Francisco? Come on, take a wild fucking guess."

I sighed, groaning and hitting the rail with my fist. "Fucking South Park. Zis means I'm going to 'ave to investigate there, aren't I?"

"Investigate?" a stream of course words came from the demon's mouth. "Is this phone line wired? Who are you working for now?"

"Shut ze fuck up, goddammit. I can't stand your paranoid fucking psychoness right now. Listen, yes?" I didn't wait for a response, before launching into an tangent. "So, I got caught-"

"Well, everyone, bring out the trumpets, because the impossible has happened," he said in a dark tone. "The great Mole has been captured!"

"And I managed to get out of jail by doeeng some investigation where satanic cults may be murdering those who do not fit with ze ideals of zere culture. Got any ides?"

Damien hummed softly, and Christophe recognized the song as a melody from ancient folklore. Something about a princess drowning because she didn't obey her mother. "Get to South Park, then. I'll meet you there."

"What? Where are you?"

"I'm in Finland. It's pretty peaceful here. I went fishing, like a human. I ate it raw and everyone stared. Also, I'm assuming you're in San Francisco, because I have a tracker on you."

"You have a-"

"Sh. Shhhh," Damien cooed, and I could feel him smirking too. Demons are such pains in my ass. "If you're investigating, you have someone else working with you. Have him or her take care of San Francisco, then come to South Park in three days. We'll have a spying mission and find out what they're up to. Just like the old days."

"Why are you doing zis?" I asked suspiciously, narrowing my eyes.

"Because, part one, I am bored with trivial mortal duties. Part two, this sounds interesting, I want more information. Part three, I miss my little Christophy woffy poffy noffy!"

"You are still 'igh, aren't you?"

"No, I'm just a dick."

"Goodbye, Antichrist."

"See you in a few days, Mole."

shift point of view.

THUMP.

"Fuck the what?" I garbled, sitting up in my entanglement of the blankets. My vision focusing, the very hunched over figure of a man in his twenties glaring at Ike and me. He's holding a cardboard box full of the dusty books from the shelf.

"Sorry, I meant to disturb you with more force," the man said calmly, dropping the box.

THUMP.

"What a charmer," I grumbled, not fully yet appreciating being woken up at- "It's five a.m.! Who are you?"

Break and enter man ruffled his midnight black hair, his face not betraying any true rage, but more of a "you-fuckers-need-to-die-so-I-can-move-on."

Ike smacked his lips, stirring awake.

Really? He didn't get up with the dead raising noises this man made?

"Who are you?" Ike asked, peering at the black haired man. "You look familiar."

"Have a flipped you off before?" the man asked cynically.

"No."

"Well then." He stuck up his middle finger. Ike was unfazed. He lives with me. "My name is Craig Tucker. My grandmother died here, and you've probably been fucking on her bed." Again, no actual rage. Just passive hate.

"I know you!" Ike shouted, making a move to get up, but instead getting wrapped up further in the blankets and tripping onto the floor. "Crap..." he muttered, getting up and facing this Craig person. He stuck a finger close to the man's face, a huge grin appearing. "As I was saying, I know you! You knew my brother! Kyle Broflovski!"

Imagine this. There is a boy lying in a bed, wearing a black wife beater (which you will not MENTION HIM WEARING) and some boxers, desperately wanting coffee and to go back to sleep. He just witnessed his boyfriend (read: also do not mention that this is Ike's title, it will get him happy) falling catastrophically onto the wooden floor flat on his face, in front of a man. This man has just been told something very ground breaking, because he has the perfect "oh shit" face on, clenching his hands and furrowing his brows. The boyfriend mentioned previously is shirtless, but with boxers on, so no horrors there. The man is wearing a blue sweatshirt, black pants, and other things that no one really cares about. Everything is so still you would swear time just froze right there.

Now.

Imagine you were the boy lying in the bed.

And the blue sweatshirt man just uttered, "Guinea pigs."

I ask you this:

Would you be utterly concerned? Or would you bury your face in the comfortable pillow and wish that you would die?

Yeah, both.

I was enjoying stuffing that cotton brick in my face, groaning and collapsing back on the mattress. Ike's smile faltered, lowering his pointed finger. "What?"

"Nothing. I hate your brother."

"Join the club!" I said, my voice muffled out by the pillow.

"As I was saying," Craig said scathingly, eyes narrowing. "Get off the bed. I'm taking everything that was my grandma's." He places his hands on his hips, knuckles white. I reluctantly roll off, not in the most pristine mood to argue. He yanked the mattress off, curling his lip in disgust. I stood next to Ike, who was worriedly twiddling his fingers. I rolled my eyes. Craig moved the mattress to the back wall, along with a lot of boxes containing Ms. Tucker's stuff. Apparently he's been here for a while, and June let him in without questions. I knew this place would have just divine security systems.

"You know...I think I dated your sister at one point," Ike said nonchalantly. I raised a very curious eyebrow at him, mouthing, Really? Not as a "you did?" way, but in a "you would mention that NOW?" way.

"And look who you're with now," Craig said casually, eyes flickering over to me.

"Says the man who's probably never seen the genitalia of either genders since he was out of his mommy's vagina." Five AM, and I was still kicking ass with the scathing remarks. I bet this Craig thinks he's the king of shit hill with comebacks, but I claimed that title a long time ago.

"Don't be rude, his grandma just recently passed," Ike whispered to me.

I scoffed. This guy was probably the one who offed the old lady. "Ike, babe?"

He stared up at me with wide curious eyes, blush creeping on his cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Put on a shirt."

Ike smacked his forehead with his palm. "Right!" he scampered off to the suitcase, because we never got around to cleaning out the senior's closet of moth ball smelling clothes that had seen the light probably a century ago. It gave me the chills and Ike nightmares. Ike came back, pulling on a faded World Cup shirt. Craig kept shuffling around, taking stock and emptying out our apartment.

Soon, he was gone, and the apartment was empty, spare our suitcases, coffee machine, and a few appliances. The bed was still there, because Craig said he wouldn't "touch the old hag's resting place with a ten foot pole".

Ike sighed, crouching on the wooden floor. "You know what?"

"What?"

"His sister was kind of nice. She turned out to be a lesbian though."

I smacked my palm against my forehead, sighing. Why would he mention that now? "I fucking hate you, Ike."

"Love you too."

CHRISTOPHE POV

I was up at 5AM, eyes cracking open and watching the sunlight stream in through the dusty window blinds. For brief seconds, I wondered who had attempted to kidnap me again, and my eyes darted around to find an escape. But usually my abductors have more lavish rooms, to make up for their small dicks. My shoulders relaxed, remembering the situation I was in. I smacked my lips, grabbing my shovel from its resting place against the wall and buttoning my green jacket. I had my gloves pulled on, and I was ready to make a swift leave, before Jeff came shambling out of his room, purple half moons under his eyes and hair sticking out in random places.

"What the hell are you making all of this noise for?" he asked, voice heavy with exhaustion.

"I am geeting ready to leave, fucker," I said, strapping on my shovel to my back and lacing my boots. Jeff's eyes widened, and he fumbled for a gun on his waistband that wasn't there.

"You can't escape," he panted.

I rolled my eyes, opening my bag and taking a cigarette out. "I am going on my morning exercises. You know, jumping from building to building, running on ze bridge rails, all of zat sheet."

"You do that every morning?"

"Eet is 'ow I stay so toned, or whatever eet is."

"Okay, look." he groaned, rubbing his eyes. "You can't leave my sight. Besides, you need to get ready for school."

"Not that sheet again," I groaned, lighting the cigarette.

"Yes, we talked about this. Even though this Shift character seems to be disconnected from this case, it stands to reason you could find out more information on cults, and maybe investigate to find a few more people who might know some things. I mean, there could be more people like the descriptions in San Francisco, right? Why not at the college?"

Thinking back to what Damien said last night (they seem to be locating there...)I nodded, grumbling something incoherent.

"Are you tired, or something?" Jeff asked, getting a comb from the kitchen and trying to tame his bed hair.

"Non. My body ees set to wake up at five o' clock sharp, every gooddamn morning."

"That's rough, buddy," he said. "But after I'm ready, we're getting in the car and getting you to school."

"Fuck."

(JEFF PERSPECTIVE)

Focused on the road, I tried to figure out how this could work. Christophe is still charged with criminal acts, and even though we caught him, many are still informed to keep a look out for a Frenchman who smokes heavily and carries around a shovel. Although, the first part of the description is pretty much every Frenchmen, Christophe's shovel could be a dead giveaway. Also, the accent...

"Can you speak in an American accent?" I asked the boy, who was still smoking away. His lips were blue, and his hands were cupped around his cigarette. Before I inquired about his temperature, but he insisted he was sensitive to the cold, which made me doubtful. You would think mercenaries could handle any condition.

"Of course I can, bitch. 'aving lived around you cocksucking pigs has unfortunately made me used to your accent," he proclaimed.

"Well, show me," I said impatiently. This kid was going to drive me off the edge of a cliff, I swear.

"Alright." He took the cigarette out, coughing once and clearing his throat. "Hello, I am a stupid faggot," he said crisply, even if a tad over-pronounced. His pitch was a little low, too. "All I do is sit around all day and eat burgers, because I think heart disease if fun. Also, I pay prostitutes to love me because no one else can, according to my tiny dick." he smirked, looking up at me. "Was zat up to your expectation, offizzer?"

"It was pretty good," I said, albeit regretfully. "You're also going to have to look nice, and refer to yourself as Chris."

"Zat is ze worst name, ever. I may not be thrilled by ze panzy name my mozzer gave me to torture me, but at least it iz better than Chris."

"I know. But you're gonna have to deal with it," I said, pulling up in the parking lot of the police station. A few earlier morning shifts were coming in, a grimace plastered on their faces. The kid sighed, tapping out a few more ashes on my carpet, which I had just cleaned, and I seriously considered murder right then and there.

"This the new kid?" One of my officers asked as we walked in. He was combing his mustache. I have always admired that man's ability to grow that gorgeous fur on his upper lip. It's a very coveted trait around here.

"Yeah, I guess he could be called that," Jeff said, and he heard Christophe mutter very defiantly I am not a fucking kid! before they went into the back room where the detectives worked on disguises. It was a useless room, I regularly thought, mostly because it seemed ridiculous to dedicate an entire room to silly costumes. My twin sister was bitten by the theatre bug, but I usually played card games in the library in high school.

"Uh, 'ello? Ze Earth to Jeff?" Christophe said, waving a hand in front of my face, breaking my thoughts. I scoffed, like I was even more immature than him, and browsed through the boxes and racks for something suitable for him to wear.

"Can I help you with something?" A young man asked, twiddling his thumbs and smiling pleasantly. He looked to be about 20, and his brown locks weren't yet tamed. "I'm the new intern, and-" he noticed Christophe was inspecting him, nose almost pressed right against the sleeve of the boy's shirt. It was amusing, because even if the boy was clearly a year or two younger than Christophe, he still towered over him like a giant.

"'ave you passed a background check?" Christophe asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Of course," the boy said. "I'm Mitch, by the way. I'm a Humanities major at the University, but have been thinking of switching to Law Enforcement. And you must be the Christophe kid. I was warned not to give you your shovel."

"Those uncle fucking ass licking-"

"Oh-kay!" I said loudly, clamping a hand over Christophe's mouth and nodded at Mitch. "Thank you, but we're fine on our own."

Mitch shrugged, and disappeared back into the offices. I felt sharp teeth pricking at my skin, and I pulled back in surprise at the contact. "Did you just bite me?" I asked incredulously, inspecting the where his teeth had punctured it. The skin was broken, and a tiny pool of blood was forming.

"Don't you ever put your filthy cop hands over my mouth!"

I stared at the ceiling, sighing and again contemplating homicide. "For that, you're getting the good Christian boy outfit."

(SHIFT PERSPECTIVE!)

We walked to the courtyard, and Ike turned on his heel to me, tilting his head. "Shift. I have a mission for you today."

"Don't punch anybody who listens to Bieber in the face? You ask too much," I said, trying to smooth out my hair from cowlicks. We were limited on furniture after Craig's visit, so it was a rush to get to school.

"No. I need you to make new friends," Ike said, almost regretfully, breaking eye contact and fiddling with the zipper on his bag.

"Why such a torturous task?" I groaned. "This your new fetish?"

"..." Ike's mouth opened, then closed again, shaking his head. "Anyways, you need to make new friends so you won't be bored with I take work today." He always had that haughty voice whenever he said "work", like he was so goddamn proud. I really was working on finding a job, but most of the publications in San Francisco were about spreading peace, and that wasn't really my thing.

"Fine, but

French class. Despite having several relatives completely fluent in French, I never cared enough to bother remembering everything I was taught. Which wasn't much; the South Park school system hired the nearest man with a mustache to teach French, who spent his time sewing quilts and speaking German. I drew a Nazi symbol on my final and got an A+. So that's how I'm sitting in a college level French class, knowing little more than 'bonjour'. I'm screwed.

The teacher came out, who told us to refer to her as Madame D. What the hell did Madame mean?

Then she immediately started her lesson entirely in French. The other students kept nodding at random intervals, writing notes furiously, as I sat there blankly, pondering if the French were more open to cigarette smokers everywhere.

"Hey, man," a rough voice said to me, enunciating each word. I turned my head forty five degrees, seeing a short, tiny, but very muscular man sitting next to me, dirt smudged on his face, hair greasy, but otherwise in very crisp clean clothes. He looked like he was about to ask me if I had "heard the good word" then would proceed to hit me in the face with his Bible and take my kidney. I was kind of drawn to that.

"Hello," I said briskly. Even if I was fascinated by him, I wasn't going to fucking talk to him. He's probably another conformist, just faking the difference.

"Having troubles?" he asked, noticing my inattention to the lecture. I tapped my pencil against my pad, contemplating writing another poem. But I had no inspiration for anything other than cheesy love poems or raunchy sex ones, if the latter even existed. Not like I would actually write it.

"That's none of your business," I informed him curtly. The guy bristled, and his teeth ground together, before he tensed, relaxed, and breathed through his nose.

"I'm having problems, too," he said, crossing his arms behind his neck, putting his feet on the table. His sneakers looked brand new, and he stared at them with utter distaste. "French isn't my best subject."

"Oh really," I deadpanned, pointedly looking at his notebook. The page was littered with French phrases and sentences in neat cursive, jumbled together with a number at the top, 65227. I suspected it was the number of this course, which I hadn't bothered to look at.

He quickly closed the notebook, sheepishly shoving it in his tan bag. "Disregard that."

"Right." A few awkward moments of long, drawn out silence. The teacher babbled on, nose high in the air and fingernails raking the board. I sighed, leaning back in my chair and hoping to get a few more minutes of precious uninterrupted sleep. There didn't seem to be any grumpy twenty year olds around, so maybe...

"I'm...Chris, by the way," the guy said, chomping down on his tongue afterward. I opened one eye, glancing over at him.

"Are you unsure of your name?" I asked, closing my eyes again.

"No you insolent little-" he paused, taking a deep breath, and narrowing his eyes at his feet. "No."

"Alright, be psycho and rip the heads off of toddlers when you're forty and still in the closet. I'm Shift."

After class, I invited Chris to walk with me out to the campus for some coffee, because Ike had been insisting lately that I make some friends so that once he takes up coaching I won't be "lonely". He finally got a position and was starting at four. We were trekking across the quad, the sprinkler water splashing at our feet. I asked Chris questions about hobbies and the like, and he usually said weird crap like "digging" or "hunting" I inquired about what kind of animals he hunted, and he responded with a cold "the bad ones." Chills ran down my spine, and I resolved to try to not make friends and become very solitare.

"Hey, Shift!" someone called, and I turned slightly, clutching my backpack, expecting to see Ike chasing after us, when I spotted Mitch approaching. He clapped me on the back, pushing some hair from his face and giving the two of us a big goofy grin. What an asshole. "How's freshman year so far?"

"Expensive," I muttered. Mitch gave a booming laugh, tapping his pencil on his pant leg while he walked. Chris said nothing, just chewing on a dirt encrusted thumbnail and studying Mitch closely. I thought about something right then; Chris didn't look like a freshman. Actually, he appeared to be in his early twenties, despite the short stature.

"I hear you," Mitch said. "Hey, want to go to the coffee shop? I have some gift cards, I could pay," he said, pulling out a mangy looking wallet, held together by duct tape. He paused, noticing Chris. "Oh, hey man. You look familiar. Have I seen you...?"

"No, you haven't," Chris cut in forcefully, holding up a finger for emphasis on his words. He teeth clamped together, and he mumbled something about idiotic Americans.

Mitch's eyes widened, seeming to have realize something very important. "Oh! Shit, sorry man. I guess...I guess I was mistaken." Then his eyes betrayed a knowing look to Chris, and he nodded once.

"What?" I asked, thoroughly confused.

"Nothing," they both chimed. I shrugged, now absolutely sure I wasn't cut out for having friends, and we made our way to the coffee shop.

christophe POINT. OF. vacation!- thought I was going to say 'view', huh? well, it's not his vacation, or anything. I just wanted to entertain you.

The time at the coffee shoppe was awkward, to say the least. I never drank coffee anymore, I'm still convinced that was the reason my stature is still ridiculously small. I was sitting across from Mitch, who I kept glaring daggers at, to which he responded with a goofy smile which I detested. He was a people pleaser, the worst thing ever.

"So, how are your classes, Shift? What's your schedule?"

Shift launched into a tangent about how decidedly horrid all of his teachers were, and how he'd like to burn them all, with Mitch nodding and sipping his coffee. I surveyed our surroundings, searching for clues on this case The cashier was asleep at the counter, drooling on the tile, which was stupid, seeing how she worked in a caffine factory.

I was never one for irony.

The ruffling of a newspaper in front of me stirred my attention. A few tables down, someone was watching us. Well, watching Shift, to be precise. Her eyes were rimmed with kohl, or what appeared to be kohl. If it was actual kohl, she would die of lead poisoning. Her fingernails were drawn with sharpie, and were quickly rubbing clean from her saliva, due to her biting them. She's a smoker, I could tell from the tar smears on her teeth. Her outfit was strikingly similar to Shift's, although this girl was revealing much more cleavage. Call me old fashioned, but I do not believe you should see part of a woman's nipple because of her outfit. Not that her exposure did anything for me, it only made me want to look away.

But still, the feverence she held for Shift was intriguing. In between short responses to the other two's questions, I stayed silent, sipping my tea (shut up) and watching the girl.

"Hey! Shift! You made friends!" a black haired freshman squealed, in a blue hoodie with a mound of textbooks in his arms. The boy immediately hugged Shift from where he was sitting, planting a wet kiss on his forehead. Shift seemed utterly horrified, growling and pointing for Ike to sit down. The girl appeared extremely interested in this exhange.

"Ike, this is Chris, and Mitch," Shift said begrudgingly, pointing to the both of us respectively. I gave a short nod, lighting a cigarette with my lucky lighter.

Ike giggled incessantly. "Well, Shift, you didn't stray too far from your personality!"

"Pleased to make your accquatence," Mitch greeted. "And may I be the first to say, you both make an adorable couple."

Ike blushed furiously, hiding his face behind his textbook, while Shift grumbled,"You're not the first..."

The girl had begun taking notes with a pen, that had a skull glued on the end. I kept my peeking inconspicuous, but still-

"Who are you watching?" Ike and Mitch said in perfect union. I turned uprubtly, cursing to myself.

"I am so sick of hanging around obsevant people," Shift griped.

"No one," I said quickly, ducking my head.

"Oh, I think Chris has a crush!" Ike crooned, twisting his head around obviously to look at my target. The girl quickly ducked her head behind a newspaper.

"You accuse me of a 'crush', and I will rip out your balls and juggle them," I growled.

Shift glared. "Hey, only I get to make agressive threats towards the Canadian," he said defensively.

Ike rolled his eyes, sipping the mocha he had purchased. "Calm, Shift. I'm used to it, hanging out with you. He's just defensive that I figured out his love." Ike made a huge goofy wink, which I detested.

"Shut it, I am not in love with a girl!"

"Oh, so maybe it's a guy...?" Ike said, looking around for anyone else in the cafe.

"You. Wish." I furrowed my eyebrows, still hoping to catch a glimpse of that girl. Maybe she's tied to my case...

"Fine, fine. Hey, why don't we go bowling?" Ike said, standing up. Shift shrugged, gathering his backpack. Mitch nodded enthusiatically. I pushed my chair back.

"No thanks, I, uh, have some homework to do," I said quickly. Ike smirked.

"Yeah, uh huh, right. Go on, flirt with her. Nice meeting you!" Ike said, and Shift tugged him out, whispering he doesn't seem like the type you actually want to piss off.

And I am alone. The girl unfortunately gets up and walks off, following the trio. My eyes quickly dart around, before I make my way over to the table she was sitting at, inspecting the area. I tuck the newspaper she left behind in my back pocket for lab analysis.

What's this?

I leaned down, inspecting the floor. Few pieces of rock were left behind. I took them gently between my fingers. They looked like the ones from the crime scene.

Asbestos.

UNKNOWN PERSPECTIVE.

The echoes of the screams vibrated in my memories, which I pushed back into the depths of my brain. My under servants were frantically searching through various maps and social networking profiles to find future victims. I cared about none of this. I sat on the edge of the shore, crouching on jagged rocks and simply watching. My hair flew freely to my side, waves of black tangles just becoming one with the wind. I am all powerful. I am the Goddess to all of these lost souls, only committing to the popular because they do not have me to guide them. If they are unwilling, then what choice do I have than to kill them mercilessly? It's the price of being an all knowing beautiful creature of the shadows.

"We have information," Necro piped up behind me, his hair falling into his eyes, and a long scar crossing over his face that I believed traced the map to his true evil.

"Oh?" I asked with faux disinterest, keeping my focus on the sea spread out before me. "About the possible traitor?"

"Yes. Broflovski. We hacked into the university's servers, which only came up with one name matching. Ike Broflovski. We of course sent informants to track him, but our results were surprising. This Ike was very unlike us, a conformist. He was certainly not what we were looking for."

"Then why in the name of crows did you inform me of this?" I snapped, sending an acerbic glare his way. He didn't flinch, which was one of the reasons I kept him as a number two. He simply straightened his black silk jacket, pleased with himself.

"We thought we had lost the trail, when he came upon someone who was very apart of our culture. He matched the descriptions of the witness' statements who had seen him originally perfectly. We overheard him saying something about South Park, Colorado. I think this boy is our target. We also believe that he is the 'significant other' of Ike Broflovski."

"South Park..." I mumbled, chewing thoughtfully on my black polished thumbnail. "Alright. This is what will take place. We kill this Ike; he's obviously useless to us now. Then we have one of our members befriend this 'significant other' character, and find out what he knows."

Necro tilts his head. "I apologize for being blunt, but-"

"Apology not accepted."

"But I believe that would be unwise to kill the conformist. I do not see how we could possibly befriend the possible traitor if his loved one has been murdered. I suggest we proceed with stealth, perhaps?"

I sighed, placing myself back on the rocks. "Very well, we'll do it your way." I then stood up again, trudging my way back up to the building. "But while you are organizing that, I am embarking on a trip to South Park."

"Would you like me to inform your mother you are coming home?"

I stomped my foot, a few pebbles tumbling down the cliff and into the ocean. "Don't be mental, of course not. No...this is a business trip. There is no other way I would come home if it was not."