A/N Wanted to try something for South Park for a change. Because I'm pretty sure not doing anything for your long time OTP is some kind of fandom sacrilege, although Chris and Greg's relationship at this point is platonic. That still counts, right? This one-shot was primarily a way to see where I stand with my writing, so I'm not -too- proud of this. Anyhow, a few of you might have seen this on tumblr. I apologize for the repost!

South Park belongs to our lords and saviors, Matt and Trey. The only thing I take ownership of is a South Park calender and a Cartman plush toy my younger bro bought for me yesterday. Eeee.

The whole idea had become a total disaster the moment he allowed Stan and the boys on a rescue mission to free Terrance and Phillip from the USO compound. That had been his first mistake. One that he couldn't have afforded to make, as even slightest of wrong decisions could provoke a number of terrible outcomes. Like failure in achieving their cause. Or, you know, death.

To be honest, the Prince of Darkness himself ascending from Hell to reign over the Earth for a thousand years wasn't on his list of possible worst-case scenarios, but that was a point he'd get to later.

The thing is, in the midst of a revolutionary war, mistakes can, and will be fatal. He'd learn that much from one of his many...mission training sessions with Mole (they weren't "play dates", Mother, honestly). Gregory had insisted on it becoming routine, largely to sate his own need for adventure, and it fortunately didn't take much convincing to bend Mole to his will. Their misadventures became as second-nature as the french boy's love for digging pits into his backyard, and Gregory couldn't be happier that this put them on vital common grounds. Along the lines of their mock missions, he had comfortably situated himself in the role of the planner and Mole the initiator. Together, Gregory determined, they were a formidable force.

As it were, Mole was nowhere to be found. It was kind of hard to live out his fantasies of glorified heroism without his other half. Therein lied part of the problem, his lapse in judgement. Gregory was never the official leader of La Resistance, the small group being founded on democratic principles, but he was far too lenient with children that needed proper guidance. Through one poor decision, he'd gone and lost track of his friend. Possibly set him in danger.

Of course, there was also the possibility that Mole grew tired of being roped into Gregory's ambitious plannings and trudged back home to wait out the rest of his punishment. If that were the case, well, he guessed he couldn't really blame him there.

But on the chance his suspicions turned out to be true...

No. He was letting paranoia get to him. Gregory was above fretting over little things like a child. He was eight, he must learn to handle things like a man now.

He still may have stomped his foot in the snow when Stan failed to come back with his Canadian prisoners (not to mention his mercenary). He faltered when said prisoners were shot to death right before his very eyes, splattering the surrounding revolutionary children in speckles of blood. And he may have felt a possible stroke of fear when Satan in the flesh suddenly appeared to proclaim his rule over the planet, but really, could you blame him over the last one? Gregory was well aware of South Park's infamous reputation for attracting the supernatural, but he was still no native to the area.

Gregory had never been acquainted with Satan (and he hoped he never would be), but he learned the demon-lord was considerate enough to know that his arrival warranted some kind of explanation.

He bit his lip in worry when it turned out these strange turn of events were incited by the death of the men he was supposed to rescue. The fate of mankind rested on the palm of his hand, and in one wrong move he managed to let it all slip. It was the theory of human error and its consequences coming to reality.

Gregory was not a boy used to the weight of failure on his shoulders. Regret piled on regret, a whirlwind of "what if"s and "should have"s plaguing his conscious like an avalanche of stones, and Gregory had never felt so overwhelmed.

La Resistance had been a complete joke to begin with. He wished he never associated with the children of South Park. He never needed their help in the first place.

Who he needed now was a foul-mouthed, short tempered, nine-year old French delinquent who happened to be his only friend in this freezing hellhole. Whose resolve stood unwavering when Gregory's would crumble in a bout of weakness, in which case his friend would tell him to "quit acting like a little beetch" and man up because this was a war, a real war, and it was no time to sob like a child. And the poor boy, all spitfire and bluntness, honestly had no tact when it came to pep talk, but it was the sort of Mole-prescribed remedy that managed to worked.

And all of this he could only conjure up in his head, of course. Perhaps that was his problem. Perhaps he really lived too much in his fantasies.

Demonic shadows escaped from the confines of hell and whipped through the air like vultures, terrorizing the already devastated souls of soldiers who had seen and suffered too much from the battlefield. Satan's reign was beginning, and Gregory did what any reasonable eight year old with a sense of self-preservation would do when hell quite literally broke loose. He ran.

...he wasn't running away, oh no. Hell would freeze over before he-well, to put it in other words, Gregory is simply never desperate enough to flee from his problems.

He acknowledged his error and progressed, like any rational adult would do. The English boy wasn't ready to give in just yet, so he sought out his next best solution.

He was going to look for Mole.

Gregory bent over to catch his breath as he slowed to a stop at a dilapidated wire fence outlining the USO compound. He sprinted the entire way here non-stop, not that the compound was too far off. He was vaguely aware of the theatrical blood red hues slowly spilling over the skies within his peripheral vision (rooting from an obvious place behind him). It was avoiding the explosive flames, hopping over the countless dismembered bodies of dead (and not quite dead) soldiers, climbing through a few trenches and evading Satan's pint-size hellions that presented more of a task.

He couldn't help scanning the fields for someone of a much smaller stature. Perhaps an out of place shovel that had no business being in the ranks of more practical and deadly artillery. Fortunately, he hadn't come across any signs that rose flags among the war-torn terrain. At least, not along that particular path.

Wincing at his own cynicism, he regarded the ruins of the abandoned sheds and what remained of the stage show. Truthfully, there was very little that indicated that Mole would remain in this area, but running circles at the demon hot-spot/exploding war-zone seemed like a open invitation for getting killed. Gregory needed a set destination to begin his search, and the location where he first sent the boys was as good as any.

He jogged the perimeter of the compound, minding the sound of his movements and surroundings in case any more of those obnoxious demon creatures popped up to harass him. They were like Hell's version of chihuahuas, some of them. If he encountered a mass murder scene and these little rascals the victims, then he was to be certain Mole was nearby.

A gust of bitter wind nipped at his ears, and running had caused his nose to do so as well. Save for the cold mountain drafts, the compound was in all sense of the word, dead. Signs of life deserted the area upon the first wave of attack from the Canadians, leaving behind what was essentially akin to a ghost town.

The lack of anything to arouse the senses could drive any boy mad with impatience, but Gregory wasn't satisfied with his investigation yet. He thought, that if maybe calling out Mole's name would draw a response. It was so easy, it made sense, and Gregory was about to proceed with this obvious course of action, but stopped himself short. Mole had once stressed, that under no circumstances, should they ever announce their names and location in the middle of enemy territory. It was a rookie move that could get them both captured and killed. He had proclaimed it in such grim seriousness when they were eating lunch after an afternoon of building forts.

Gregory softly kicked the snow for the second time that day, then promptly chose to ignore that bit of knowledge. He was finished making enough bad decisions for one day. But what else was there, the only other sound they could rely on was-

No. Oh no no no. He was not resorting to imitating a dying giraffe.

More determined to find Mole through less demeaning means, he staked out for one last side of the perimeter. The ends of his trousers had become wet and torn from all the running around the wreckage, and Gregory could practically feel one, no TWO strands of hair out of place. He was definitely a disaster to look at. Once again, he will reiterate: this whole plan was an absolute disaster from the start.

Finding nothing but snow, dirt, and splintered planks of wood from the ambush, Gregory was on the verge of surrender. He was wasting his time here. The next logical place he should search was his home. He was not looking forward to that meeting, if he was indeed there. No doubt Mole had a major chewing out in store for him, even worse if he was in the middle of watching Animal Planet. The English boy acknowledged himself a stubborn fellow, -embraced it even-, but he always came at odds when trying to coerce Mole away from the screen.

A flapping of wings drew his head to attention, and Gregory went still. It wasn't a bizarre sound in itself, Gregory knew what a bird was, but a sign of life after a period of morbid silence shook him out of his thoughts. The crow flapped and descended to the ground several meters away from him, obscured by several of numerous outposts marked on the area. He glanced above, noting a couple more of the creatures flying silent circles.

It must have been instinct, the urge to investigate, because he couldn't attribute the sudden nagging in his head to anything else. He set his lips on a firm line, eyes filling with fierce determination once more, and set for the path. The snow was thick in this portion, and Gregory drew high, heavy steps, moving diagonally from the sheds to get a better look to where the crow had landed.

It had perched itself atop a solid form half buried into the ground. One, Gregory estimated, that was much too small to belong to that of a man. Gregory's eyes widened; the effect was immediate.

His legs moved less by conscious will and more out of necessity, one mechanic foot over the other, until he nearly hit a sprint. Something terrible in his chest coiled and threatened to break free, as if to escape the overwhelming despair that threatened to overflow. Gregory's face remained cold and unfeeling.

The bird flew away when its comfort zone was breached, and Gregory stopped at the fragile form, eyes glazed over the familiar dirt colored hair and scarred skin that belonged to no other than his friend. The body's lips were slightly parted, and to Gregory it was a bizarre sight to behold, more so than the devastating amount of blood pooled around his person; Christophe always held his guard around people, maintaining an invisible barrier that left no side exposed. He can't recall ever witnessing him in a vulnerable state; by his appearance alone, he wondered if he ever slept. It seemed as if though he should shake him awake and everything would go back to normal.

But Gregory knew better than that, as well as he knew the consequences to war. His knees crumpled to the ground, and Gregory stubbornly fought back the tightness in his throat. He had to stay strong for Christophe. There may have still remained some shred of hope in him -or perhaps just instinctive procedure when one was at a loss to do- as he lightly pressed a trembling gloved finger to the side of his ruptured throat. It was still, but Gregory didn't anticipate otherwise. The moment carried a finality that shattered his soul, and left his body as cold as the other.

He supposed it was only appropriate. Up until this point, he never realized how much of his emotional being he had invested into the boy. They carried a friendship, that much Gregory liked to believe, as much as the other appeared to only indulge him. In return, Gregory pretended to indulge himself. Such were their pretenses. And still, in an act of spite, it felt as though Christophe managed to drag Gregory down with him. An eye for an eye. That was just as well for Gregory.

He settled his hands on his lap, finding himself more disturbed at his friend's lifeless, torn body, yet unwilling to budge from the spot. Gregory's thoughts started. He would prepare a burial for him. A proper one. Given his love for the dirt, surely Christophe wouldn't be opposed to it. He would have to talk to his mother about it. His mother, how would he even explain this to her...

And the English boy drowned himself in his ideas because he didn't know where else to turn, how else to cope. To leave Christophe's side was unthinkable, and the world without his friend seemed incredibly daunting. He felt like nothing more than a helpless child, and for once in his lifetime Gregory shared a glimpse of understanding in Christophe's hatred for God.

Christophe's corpse seized with a sudden jolt. It turned over near Gregory's lap, releasing a series of heaving coughs that sounded more animal than human, thick blood spotting the snow and Gregory's trousers. The latter grew paler, and trembled slightly.

The fit subsided, and he raised his head to eye Gregory with something resembling confusion and severe distaste, as if he'd just roughly woken him up from a comfortable nap. Gregory could practically see the fire rekindling in his eyes, a life bursting forth after being extinguished. Blood and grime still clung to his person, and the overall result made the nine year old a terrifying sight to behold. Gregory wasn't in the right mind to be frightened by his appearance, however.

"What ze fuck are you doing here?"

His voice, hoarse and dry, was no less feral than the rest of him appeared be, and it suddenly occurred to Gregory that he had given him something to be pissed about. Up to the point he'd been too wrapped up in awe and shock, which, considering the circumstances, dwindled to mindlessly grasping for answers, that perhaps this entire thing had just been a nightmare, or Satan's idea of a cruel joke.

"You're crying," Mole continued, although the edge around his voice softened. He'd given up on waiting for an answer.

"I'm not."

The response was automatic, but the two words came out as a croak devoid of any meaning. His throat constricted almost painfully. He hadn't spoken since he ran off from La Resistance group.

Mole seemed mildly disappointed. Coming from him, he expertly wore the look of a mother who caught her child in a lie, although Mole only had one year over him. It was effective enough to make any kid their age anxious.

Raising his arm, Mole pressed a callous thumb to the other's face and rubbed away at his cheekbone, no doubt leaving a trail of smudge in its wake. The gesture was not exactly a gentle one, and Gregory lifted a hand to the spot, brows furrowed. He couldn't feel the moisture on his cheeks through his gloves.

"Oui, oui, and I am still dead," Mole carefully aligned himself to a sitting position, testing the flexibility of his muscles and joints. His gaze no longer rested on Gregory. "You do not have to play bullsheet pretend games with me; it is incredibly unbecoming of you."

Words were impossible, and it had little and little to do with physical barriers. Between thinking himself a failure and an unworthy friend, the latter overpowered the other, stripped him of his pride, and made his goals seem of miniscule importance. Holding up the facade in front of Mole seemed a little pointless now, and judging himself irrelevant.

Before Mole had the grace to oppose him in any way, Gregory lunged and embraced him in a hug. And goodness, from this proximity he smelled something awful, of sweat and nicotine and dried blood, but most importantly he felt real, so none of it deterred the English boy from burying his face in the crook of his shoulder to stifle a sob. Mole went dangerously tense, hands indecisive as if to find purchase on Gregory. Which meant he made no move to shove him away or deliver a cutting remark, so just this once, Gregory permitted himself a few more seconds of comfort.

He was the one to break away first, sniffling as he wiped his nose with the sleeve of his orange sweater.

He supposed he was bracing himself for mockery of some sort, for some biting rejection through the usage of Mole's favorite words in the entire English dictionary. Instead, Mole only stared in utter bewilderment, trying to understand an act that was more foreign to him than the both of them put together. And it made Gregory smile, because rare was the moment when Mole was at a loss for anything. At the same time, a little bit sad because it indicated towards something he might have been lacking in life.

Mole reverted to his usual trademark snarl and muttered something like "beetch" under his breath, although it was uncertain whether he had directed it to Gregory or his own delayed reaction.

While the brunette fidgeted through his clothing for his pack of cancer sticks, Gregory brought himself to his feet to offer a helping hand. It was only then that he sensed the fog of oppression lift from the air, the clouds having parted to reveal a blue sky as clear as a crisp spring morning. Birds chirped sweetly from god-knows-where and grass fresh with dew appeared at his feet. To top it all off, he could have sworn he heard singing in the distance.

"How positively corny," Gregory lightly remarked. Mole only grunted an affirmative beneath him, followed by what sounded like "fuckin' South Park".