Chapter Text
Waking up naked and pressed between two warm bodies in an unfamiliar room was not something that happened to Kyle, ever. He was only seventeen, had nothing resembling a sex life and no memories of how he came to be in this position, and the fact that his best friend was one of the naked people who was clutching at him under the blankets was a very small comfort, because the other one appeared to be Craig Tucker.
“Stan!” Kyle said, shooting up in bed between them, his naked shoulders met with frigid cold. Stan and Craig both awoke as if to gunfire, springing into action. Stan threw his arm across Kyle's chest and scanned the room. Craig jumped up like a cat evading bathwater, his flaccid prick nearly slapping Kyle in the face.
“What is it?” Stan asked, still looking around the room frantically as he leaned over to dig something out from between the mattress and the bed frame: a gun. He pointed it at the four corners of the room like he expected to find someone worth shooting.
“What the fuck?” Kyle said, shouting now. Stan turned to frown at him.
“The way you said my name,” Stan said. He was breathing hard, the gun still raised. “I thought—”
“Did you have a bad dream?” Craig asked sweetly, crouching down to hug Kyle's shoulders.
“Get off of me!” Kyle said, and he lurched onto Stan, crawling over him. The room was filthy, littered with trash and crumpled clothing that Kyle tripped over as he made his way toward the door, searching for something that looked like whatever he'd been wearing before he got into that bed. There was nothing, so he covered his privates with his hands when he turned back to the bed, where Stan and Craig sat staring at him as if they were only mildly perplexed by the situation they'd woken up to.
“What the fuck is going on?” Kyle asked. “Why are we – where – is this my room?” It was only vaguely recognizable as such, olive green paint peeling off the walls and the carpet completely covered up by piles of clothes and trash. It was also freezing, cold enough to make Kyle's cock shrivel up against his palm. He could see his panted breath in the air.
“What the fuck did you do?” Stan asked Craig, grabbing him by the throat.
“Nothing!” Craig said, choking. He made no attempt to pull Stan's hand off or fight back, just dropped his shoulders back and peered up at Stan with wide, terrified eyes.
“Bullshit! You drugged him or something.”
“I didn't!”
“Then why is he freaking out?” Stan pointed the gun at Craig, who whimpered and shook his head, struggling for breath.
“Stop!” Kyle screamed, and Stan let go of Craig. “What the hell are you doing?” Kyle asked, his voice shaking from the temperature of the room and his resultant shivering, which was amplified by his fear and confusion, making his shoulders convulse.
“Get back in bed, honey,” Stan said. “You'll freeze your ass off.”
Kyle shouted in wordless exasperation. Cartman had to be behind this somehow, but Stan would never go along with some joke that fat ass tried to pull on him.
“You'd better be fucking sure about not knowing why he's acting like this,” Stan said to Craig, turning the gun on him again.
“Stan, I swear!” Craig said, starting to weep. “I'd never hurt you guys!”
“Oh, bullshit. You'd do anything those assholes ask you to, and everyone here knows it.”
“But they didn't ask me to, I promise! They know they'd be fucking dead if they tried to hurt Kyle! He's just sleepwalking or something!”
“Who trashed my room?” Kyle asked, shaking so hard now that he could barely speak. Stan groaned and got out of bed, pulling one of the blankets with him. There was a massive collection of them on the bed, and they all looked ragged and unwashed.
“Baby,” Stan said softly when he came to Kyle, and Kyle stood in shock, letting Stan wrap him into a blanket and rub his shoulders. “Are you awake now?”
“Stan!” Kyle's voice cracked pitifully, and he choked out a sob. “What's happening? Why is Craig here? Why are you – why were we—”
“Jesus, he's really freaking out!” Craig said, still blubbering a little. Stan gave him a hateful look.
“Shut up,” he said. “Put your clothes on and go downstairs. He's just fucked up from that stuff Larry gave him last night. You're okay,” he said, turning back to Kyle and stroking his face with gentle fingers. “You're just high.”
Kyle sobbed again, and let Stan hug him against his chest while Craig hurried to dress. The room smelled terrible, like rotten food and sweat, and something else that made Kyle think of the smell under his bedsheets after a wet dream.
“I hope you feel better, buddy,” Craig said as he passed them on the way to the door, touching Kyle's back. Stan slapped Craig's hand away. Craig cowered. He was wearing a ridiculously tight sweater, tight pants that showed the bulge of his dick, and a floor-length fur coat that was draped over his shoulders like a cloak. There was something incredibly pathetic about the way he slumped out of the room while Stan stared him down.
“Okay,” Stan said when he was gone. “Come on, over here. Get under the blankets with me—”
“No!” Kyle said, resisting Stan's attempt to pull him there. “Tell me what the fuck is going on!” Kyle shouted. “Why are you acting so calm about this?”
“About what?” Stan asked. He picked up a dirty pair of jeans from a pile of clothing and shook them out. “Are these mine or yours?” he asked.
“I don't know!” Kyle said. “What – what – where are my parents?” he asked, lowering his voice. His mother would murder him for the room alone, forget about the fact that Craig was ambling downstairs in a mink coat and Stan was still naked.
Stan studied Kyle for a while, frowning and holding the pair of jeans.
“Parents?” he said. “What the fuck are you talking about? The birth givers?”
“The buh – Stan, is this some kind of fucking game to you? What are you trying to do to me? Birth givers? This isn't fucking Smileytown, okay?”
“Not Smileytown?” Stan said, his frown deepening.
“That game we played as kids – look, just tell me one thing. Did we – ah, Jesus.” Kyle pulled the blanket around himself more tightly, still shaking hard. “Did we have sex last night?” he whispered, his face going red as he asked. Stan scoffed.
“Wow, you really were wasted,” he said. “Yeah, Kyle. We had a fuckload of sex last night.”
“With Craig?”
“Yeah, dude, you nailed him like three times. Shit, what time is it? We need to take him back over to the Mansion before we violate some fucking treaty. Go get in bed, I'll bring you some Kool Aid.”
“Kool Aid?”
"Kyle, you're starting to freak me out," Stan said. He started stepping into the jeans and cursed, pulling them back off. "These are yours."
"I'm freaking you out?" Kyle was hyperventilating, so lost that he barely had the wherewithal to ogle Stan's dick, which looked very different than it had last time Kyle had caught sight of it. It was big and heavy-looking, despite the cold air.
"Well, at least you're staring at my cock," Stan said. "That's a good sign."
Kyle looked up at him, mortified, but Stan was grinning. He had stubble on his cheeks and chin, and his hair was longer than it had been yesterday, hanging in his eyes.
"I don't understand," Kyle said. "How did all of this begin?" Kyle had done plenty of thinking about it over the years, but he'd never come close to making a move on Stan, let alone Craig Tucker.
"Baby, you're really starting to worry me," Stan said.
"Why do you keep calling me that?" Kyle asked, though it was the only thing about whatever was happening that was more confusing than disturbing.
"'Cause it's what I always call you." Stan reached for Kyle and he flinched, remembering the way Stan had suddenly manhandled Craig. Stan's hands froze in mid-reach, and he leaned in closer. "Fuck," he said. "You're not. It's not you."
"What are you talking about?" Kyle asked. He touched his face, afraid to find something else out of place, but everything seemed to be in order.
"Your scar," Stan said, his fingers brushing Kyle's cheek. Kyle didn't flinch this time, just stood there trembling inside the blanket. "Where's your scar?" Stan asked.
"What scar?"
"Oh, fuck." Stan stepped back, his eyes widening. "Fuck me. You're that other Kyle."
"What?"
"From - from when we were kids. From the portal." He hurried back to Kyle, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Where is he?" he asked. "Where's my Kyle?"
"What are you talking about?" Kyle asked, crying. Stan quickly softened, his grip on Kyle's shoulders slackening, though he didn't release him.
"Did you come through the portal?" Stan asked.
"What portal?" Kyle asked. He sniffled and wiped his face dry with the blanket.
"We've met before," Stan said. "Don't you remember? When our Cartman ended up in your world."
"Nice Cartman?" Kyle said. "Oh. I thought. I guess I thought that was all just some game we played as kids." He was able to live with a lot of his memories of childhood this way, but he could never escape the nagging feeling that most of that stuff had actually happened.
"I can send you back," Stan said. "But it won't be easy, and I'm not doing anything until I figure out where my Kyle is."
"I don't understand," Kyle said. "How did I get here? I just went to bed last night, there was that storm-"
"You had a storm in your world, too?" Stan released him and went to the bed, where he dug a pair of boxer shorts out from under the blankets, giving Kyle a distressingly candid but not unwelcome view of his ass in the process.
"Yeah." Kyle made himself look away while Stan put on his underwear. "It was a bad storm, lots of lightning." Every time the thunder woke him, Kyle had wished Stan was with him. He was no longer afraid of thunderstorms, but he still preferred not to be alone when they rattled the house.
"This is so fucked up," Stan said. "Take off your hat, let me see something."
Kyle made no move to do so, because his ushanka was his only armor in this evil place, but he didn't stop Stan from taking the hat off. Stan shook his head and ran his fingers through Kyle's curls.
"Motherfucker," Stan said. "Your hair."
"What about it?"
"It's long. My Kyle buzzes his hair short." Stan moved closer, stroking Kyle's hair more slowly. "I wish he wouldn't. I love this fucking hair."
"Well, I'm sure we can get this sorted out," Kyle said, stepping away from him. He was still Stan, but he just wasn't quite Kyle's Stan, and it seemed obvious now. "Let's just go to this portal of yours and head over to my world so we can find your Kyle-"
"You're so sure he's there?" Stan said. "What if he's not? What if something happened to him, oh, God-"
"He fell asleep with you and Craig last night, didn't he?" Kyle said. "Right here, in the bizarro version of my bed. So it stands to reason that we just swapped places somehow."
"Fine, but going to the portal isn't that easy," Stan said. "We don't get access to the portal unless we agree to align with Butters."
"Butters?" Kyle laughed hoarsely, trying to imagine Butters in this backward place. "Why should he tell us if we can use the portal or not?"
"Because he and his men guard it with their lives," Stan said. "It's their only source of power. Their bargaining chip, like our guns."
"Our guns?" Kyle said. He moaned and went over to the bed to sit down, his knees beginning to tremble too violently to support his weight. Stan pulled a blanket around his shoulders and sat beside him.
"These guns are the only reason we're not Butters' slaves," Stan said, picking up the one he'd pointed at Craig and tucking it back under the mattress. "Though I guess we might have also gotten scooped up by Clyde and Tweek."
"Clyde and Tweek?" Kyle pulled the blanket around himself more tightly, beginning to shiver. "Why is it so fucking cold in here? Don't you have power?"
"Nope," Stan said. He rubbed Kyle's back, trying to warm him. "They cut that shit off when we got rid of the birth givers."
"Got rid of them?" Kyle said. "Do I want to know how?"
"We used their own laws against them," Stan said.
"I think we did something similar," Kyle said, remembering Smileytown and Treasure Cove. "But we - yours never came back?"
"No," Stan said.
"Don't you miss them?"
"All they did was use us for free labor," Stan said. "They gave themselves the authority to do it, and we took it away. Look." He stood, visibly flustered and avoiding Kyle's stare. "We'd better make an appearance downstairs quick. We can't have Craig going back to those goons and telling them that you've gotten weak in the head."
"Why can't we?" Kyle asked. "And where did we get all these guns, anyway?"
"From my uncle Jimbo's arsenal," Stan said. "The whole basement's full of firearms. Some crossbows, too, and a grenade launcher that we don't really know how to use. Butters and those guys don't know that, of course. Get up, c'mon," he said, pulling on Kyle's arm. "At least you can get dressed while I explain things to you. You're shaking like a leaf. Poor baby," he said, but he looked away sadly, as if he was thinking of the other Kyle.
"So you and your Kyle, uh," Kyle said, casting about for a place that looked like it might house clean underwear: no place did. "You're. Together?"
"Of course we're together," Stan said. "We're soul mates. And he's my master."
"Your master?" Kyle was feeling queasy, still unable to locate underwear. There were a couple of crusty-looking, frigidly cold pairs laying on his dresser, which was covered with food wrappers and drinking glasses that were growing mold, but he was not going to wear these underwear, because they were dirty, small, and there were floss-like thongs where the ass part should be.
"Yeah, Kyle is master of this house," Stan said. "He tells us all what to do, and he's responsible for negotiating with the warring factions. You're going to have to pretend to be him, you know, until I can get him back. It would mess everything up if they knew you were the soft Kyle from the soft universe."
"Don't call me soft," Kyle said, glowering at him. "Aren't there any clean goddamn underwear in this place?"
"Shelly's doing the laundry today," Stan said. "Here, these look clean enough." He plucked a bright blue thong from the dresser.
"I'm not wearing that," Kyle said, beginning to fear what the rest of his wardrobe would look like.
"Fine, go without," Stan said. "Here's your pants." He tossed Kyle the jeans he'd tried to put on earlier. "Aren't you the master of your Stan?" he asked, and the question was so stupid that Kyle laughed.
"No," he said. He pulled the jeans up and buttoned them over his bare cock, which was an odd and uncomfortable sensation.
"Oh, I see," Stan said. "Everything's reversed in your world. He must be your master."
"No!" Kyle said.
"Is your Stan dead or something?"
"Of course he's not dead! In our universe don't go waving guns around at people before we're even properly awake."
"Then why aren't you bonded?" Stan asked.
"Bonded?" Kyle grimaced at the term. "Well, we are, but we're just friends. My Stan is straight. And as far as he knows, I am, too."
"What do you mean 'straight'?"
"Seriously, dude? He likes girls!"
"Gross," Stan said, making a face.
"Uh, yeah. My thoughts exactly, but his not so much. Anyway, fuck, can I get a shirt or something?" Kyle had his arms crossed over his chest, trying to hide his nipples, which he was self-conscious about. They were roughly the color of his hair and kind of on the big side, he'd always thought, for a boy's.
"Here you go," Stan said, picking up a burgundy turtleneck and a leather vest that almost looked like a corset. "These are my Kyle's favorites. He would have worn them today, since we're going out."
"Going out?" Kyle took the turtleneck and vest, holding them miserably at arm's length. "Where are we going? And why's it so important for me to pretend to be your usual Kyle?"
"We're in a very delicate political situation right now," Stan said. He sighed and found a shirt for himself. It was a white and green checked flannel that looked like something Kyle's Stan would wear, and it made him horribly homesick as he put on the turtleneck, which was, of course, tight as all fuck. "There are two camps who've styled themselves as competitors for town leadership," Stan said. "Kyle has been playing them against each other for years, because they both want our weapons. We're going to end up ruling this town ourselves if it all works out, but in order for it to work out, I need the real Kyle back. He's the mastermind. He doesn't tell me everything, you know. In case I'm tortured."
"Tortured?" Kyle's stomach flipped over, and he paused in the midst of sliding on the vest, which was ridiculously femme, the kind of thing that called to mind those hateful metrosexual days. "What the hell kind of place is this?"
"It's Smileytown," Stan said, gravely. "We merged with Treasure Cove back during the dark season. That's when the treaty was established, but it won't last forever. Butters is itching to take over, and Clyde and Tweek think they've got enough resources to compete. There's going to be a war, man, and I want you out of here before it starts."
"Jesus Christ," Kyle said. "Believe me, I want that, too." He looked down at the vest and groaned, trying to figure out how to do it up.
"Here," Stan said, taking the laces from his hands. "Let me do it."
"So how should I act?" Kyle asked. "If I'm supposed to pretend everything's normal? God, it's impossible. Nothing here is fucking normal!"
"It's normal for us," Stan said. "Just act like you're really hungover and grumpy. You can be silent if you want - it's your prerogative. Maybe not too silent, 'cause I really don't want Craig gossiping about this to them. Fuck, but of course he will. Last night, Larry gave you some homemade liquor to drink, and you could blame how you acted this morning on that. I drank some, too, but, well. My Kyle is a lightweight."
"You'd better tell me whatever else happened last night, too," Kyle said, blushing as Stan cinched the vest tightly. It at least provided enough armor to hide his stiff nipples. Stan smirked at him.
"Curious about that, are you?" he said.
"Well, Craig will expect me to remember some of it, won't he?" Kyle said, frowning. "Unless I was totally wasted the whole time."
"No, you didn't seem wasted," Stan said. "Well, let's see. Where to start. Craig was on loan to us for the night. He's a gift from Clyde and Tweek to try to sway us in their favor. They sort of co-own him."
"Oh, God," Kyle said. "This is some fucked up shit right here." He wanted Stan with him, the real Stan, to get indignant and come up with a better plan than the only one that Kyle had so far, which was to go along with whatever these crazy fuckers proposed.
"So, Token dropped Craig off last night," Stan said. He was finished with Kyle's vest, tying the laces into a bow over his breastbone. "And he joined us for dinner, which was potato pancakes and deer jerky, like always. Larry busted out this special moonshine for the occasion, and me and Kyle – me and you, I guess – we drank some, and Larry did, too. He was talking about giving some to Ike, but you wouldn't let him."
"Ike?" Kyle said, heartened by the thought of his little brother. "What's he like here?"
"Uh," Stan said. "You'll see in a minute. Anyway, you got tipsy and took me and Craig upstairs. We spit-roasted him first, naturally-"
"What does that mean?" Kyle asked, so hot across his cheeks that the chill of the room receded somewhat. Stan frowned.
"I thought you said you were into guys?"
"I am!" Kyle said. It was the first time he'd ever told anyone so. He suffered sleepless nights about how he would come out at home, but here it seemed almost irrelevant. "But I don't know all the fucking terminology, okay? I'm, you know. A virgin."
"Oh," Stan said, and he actually blushed a little, which made Kyle rear back in surprise. "Um, well. Spit roasting is when there's one guy in the middle -"
"Of course," Kyle said, feeling stupid. He shrugged angrily. "I have seen porn."
"Yeah," Stan said. "Well, good. Anyway, after that, you tied Craig up, made him beg you to let him come, you know, that kind of stuff."
"Oh, God!" Kyle covered his eyes with his hands to fight off this mental image, though it was making his cock a little stiff. Craig was good looking in both universes. "I can't do this."
"Yes, you can!" Stan took Kyle's wrists and pulled his hands away. "And this isn't even the hard part. Look, whatever, we fucked Craig twelve ways to Sunday. He's not going to grill you about the details. Craig isn't going to grill anyone about anything - he's the lowest sub in established society, except maybe Cartman."
"Oh, Christ, please tell me I've never done anything with Cartman!"
"No," Stan said, making a face. "You can't stand that sap."
"Thank God for universal truths."
"We'd better go down," Stan said. "Just follow my lead. Nobody here is going to give you a hard time. It's the drop off at Clyde and Tweek's later that we have to worry about. And - God - let's just hope Butters doesn't want an audience with us until you've gotten a little more accustomed to the way things work here."
"I don't think I could ever get accustomed to this," Kyle said, scowling at a pair of dirty socks when Stan offered them. "Please tell me my shoes aren't all fruity, too."
"Fruity?" Stan said. "Hell no." He went over to the door, where a pair of calf-high black boots had been wildly strewn, as if the person taking them off had something against them. They were workmanlike and splattered with mud in places, but there was something gay about their butchness. Since his sexuality was still his dearest secret at home, Kyle went out of his way to never dress in anything conspicuous; even ironed pants on special occasions made him feel exposed. He sat down among the clutter of trash on the floor and started lacing up one boot while Stan worked on the other.
"Will I have to cut my hair?" Kyle asked. "Since your Kyle wears his short?"
"Nah," Stan said. "Nobody ever sees you without the hat." He looked up and grinned in a way that cut a trail through Kyle's nervousness. "Except me."
"My Stan shaves every day," Kyle said, not sure why he felt he needed to mention this. "And his hair is shorter."
"That guy's a prick," Stan said. "I've met him."
"You - he's not a prick! You must have thought I was one, too."
"Well, you wanted to steal our Cartman."
"I thought we hated him! I mean, that you two did - do-"
"Of course, but we missed ragging on him," Stan said. "That was a long time ago, though. Things have changed. Well, Cartman still sucks, but we don't just pick on each other anymore."
"You mentioned the 'dark season,'" Kyle said, and Stan looked up at him, his eyes shadowed by his bangs, which were so long that they were starting to curl a little.
"That was when the older kids tried to take over," Stan said.
"Older kids? What happened."
"Nothing," Stan said tightly. "We took care of it. They're gone now. C'mon." He stood and offered Kyle his hand. Kyle allowed himself to be pulled up, and he dropped the subject of the dark season. He didn't need to know what these twisted people had done to each other. He just needed to get out of here as soon as possible. He allowed Stan to help him into a slim, military-style jacket that was surprisingly warm. Kyle was glad to cover up the vest.
When Stan had located marginally acceptable socks, he put on his own boots, which were shorter and brown. Kyle knelt down to help him lace them, and Stan laughed.
"What?" Kyle said.
"Nothing, just. It's funny. My Kyle would never do this."
"Would never do what? Help you tie your shoes? Well, you just did it for me. Would you not have done that for him?"
"I would have done both his boots, dude," Stan said, still smiling like this was some joke that Kyle was failing to understand.
"Oh, I get it," Kyle said, though he didn't really. "This is some kind of sex slave role play thing. Yuck."
"It's not role play," Stan said, the smile draining from his face. "This is our life."
"Well, congratulations." Kyle stood, letting Stan do the rest of his left boot up himself. "Let's just get this over with."
They walked downstairs, where the house was slightly warmer but just as filthy. It made Kyle's heart ache to see the living room where he had lit Menorah candles with his parents and read storybooks to Ike in such a state. The couch cushions were split open in places, stuffing spilling out, and the TV had been pushed off the cabinet where it used to sit, both now being used as countertops where dripping animal skins were drying. The house smelled like blood and mold, and the kitchen was only slightly better, reeking of some cleaning material that Stan's sister was using at the sink. She wasn't scrubbing dishes; she was rubbing a shirt across a washboard, a collection of already cleaned laundry drying on wire hangers that were perched precariously along the top of the pantry door and on the backs of chairs.
Craig was at the stove, which had been crudely hollowed out and transformed into a wood burning apparatus, accounting for the warmth in the kitchen. Ike was sitting at the kitchen table, humming to himself and playing with his napkin, folding it into abstract origami. There was a hulking blond man beside him, and he didn't look happy. Kyle recognized him as Larry Feegan, the wimpy kid who'd courted Shelly and died when they were in fourth grade. Apparently an existence without parents had been good for him, at least in the sense that he was still alive. He was cut and enormous, with a woolly blond beard and greasy hair.
"Stan," Larry said. "Where the hell is your laundry? You gonna make your sister sort through that heap of shit upstairs to find your boyfriend's butt floss?"
Kyle was sweating, not sure if he should act like some sort of domineering bastard in response to this. Shelly turned from the sink and spoke before he could decide.
"It's fine, Larry, really," she said. "I don't mind."
"Thanks, love," Stan said. Apparently he had a nickname for everyone in this universe. He walked over to the sink to kiss Shelly's cheek, and she smiled at him sweetly. Kyle could barely contain his stuttering disbelief, though he supposed he shouldn't be surprised, since everything was oppositesville here. He stared at Ike, who was watching him with big, unquestioning eyes. There was something feral about him, and Kyle got the sense that Ike could tell that he wasn't the Kyle who went upstairs to spit roast Craig last night.
"Are you feeling better?" Craig asked, turning from the stove. His fur coat was draped over one of the chairs at the table, and he'd replaced it with an apron. He seemed to be making pancakes of the potato variety.
"I'm hungover as fuck," Kyle said, trying to make his voice sound gruff, maybe overdoing it. He remembered, suddenly, that he was a terrible actor. He could feel Stan go tense beside him. "What'd you put in that stuff?" he asked Larry, narrowing his eyes at him.
"Fermented corn mash, bitch, what the hell do you think?" Larry said. "It's not my fault you're a lightweight."
"Don't fight," Shelly said, while Kyle fretted over how he should respond to that.
"Here, honey," Stan said, pulling out a chair for Kyle. All of the chairs looked fairly worn, as if they'd been gnawed by termites, but this was the nicest one. Kyle sat and put his elbows on the table, holding his head in his hands to give the appearance of a bad headache. He'd never actually been hungover; he'd had beer with Stan a few times, but hadn't managed to swallow enough of the foul tasting stuff to get drunk.
"Craig insisted on cooking," Larry said when Stan sat down, too.
"I'm an excellent cook," Craig said. "I do all the cooking for the main four back home. You know, they don't trust any of the lower people not to poison them."
"And that makes you a great cook?" Kyle said. "That you don't poison them?"
Stan smiled at him as if this was an authentic thing for his Kyle to say.
"Well," Craig said, wilting, and Kyle felt badly. The guy was a total melvin, and though Kyle hated Craig's personality back home, this one was making him depressed. "You'll see," Craig said, serving Kyle a pancake and placing a fork down beside the plate. The fork had brown rust coloration on the handle but seemed mostly clean. Stan grabbed Kyle's wrist when he reached for it.
"Shel," Stan said. "Were you watching him the whole time he cooked?"
"I was," Larry said.
"I asked my sister," Stan said. Kyle's head was spinning from Stan's lack of trust in apparently everybody, except for Shelly, who turned from the sink.
"I watched him do the batter," she said. "And I've had my eye on him. Don't worry, you can eat. And please, Stanley, you know Larry would never let you come to harm."
Stan and Larry stared at each other for a long moment, jaws locked. Kyle wanted to put his head down on the table and close his eyes tightly enough to make all of this go away, but he was also starving, so he picked up the fork and dug into the pancake.
"It's pretty good," he said, and he wondered if that was wrong, if this 'master' Kyle guy would never compliment the cooking skills of the lowly Craig Tucker. Craig stood at the stove, holding a half-melted spatula with both hands, beaming while he watched Kyle chew.
"Hurry up and serve the rest of us," Larry said, and Craig did.
Everyone else ate their potato pancakes with their hands, including Ike, who also licked the grease from his fingers when he was done. He caught Kyle staring at him and held his gaze. There was something vaguely brain damaged about his demeanor, though he seemed alert.
"Okay, Ike?" Kyle asked, not knowing where to begin with him. Stan paused in mid-chew and looked at Ike, too.
"Cookie monster," Ike said, plainly.
"Business as usual," Larry said with a grunt that was a little too much like a laugh for Kyle's liking. He gave Stan a look of desperate confusion, and Stan shook his head almost imperceptibly, warning him to shut up about it for now.
"Are you guys going to take the Tundra over to the Mansion?" Shelly asked. She was still at the sink, scrubbing away.
"I guess so," Stan said. "I still don't see why they can't pick him up themselves."
"They want to talk to you on their turf," Larry said.
"Well, I just hope the fucking Tundra has enough gas to get us there," Stan said. He stood and put his dirty plate on the counter, where other dirty plates were stacked. "And they'd better be willing to give us enough gas to get back."
"I'm sure they will," Craig said. "You guys have shown me such a nice time!"
"Stan choked you," Kyle said in disbelief, looking up from his plate. This made Larry laugh.
"Just what the doctor ordered, eh, Tucker?" he said, poking Craig's arm with his fork.
"Oh, that was just a misunderstanding," Craig said, muttering.
"That's right," Stan said. "And we'd appreciate your discretion about all that." He mumbled this as if he knew that asking Craig not to talk about it was pointless.
"Of course!" Craig said.
After eating, Craig did the dishes and Stan asked Kyle to come out to the garage and hold the funnel while he gassed up the Tundra, which was a snow mobile with a fully enclosed front seat that only looked big enough for two. The garage was somehow cleaner than the rest of the house, though cluttered.
"This was Jimbo's, too," Stan said, nodding to the Tundra. He got a funnel from a bench on the right wall that was covered with rusting tools. Kyle took it, wishing he had some gloves or a bigger coat. Stan had put his on before coming out, and it was a couple of sizes too big for him, ugly and brown with a giant hood.
"What the hell is wrong with my brother?" Kyle asked, whispering.
"Don't know," Stan said. "Seems like he knows what's going on, but he doesn't talk much, and when he does what he says doesn't make any sense. Shelly toilet trained him and all that, so he can take care of himself, sort of. We just let him do his own thing, make sure he eats, you know."
Stan was pouring the gas into the funnel as he said this, Kyle keeping it steady as it streamed into the Tundra's tank.
"He probably has post traumatic stress disorder," Kyle said. "From losing his parents at such a young age."
"He's better off with us," Stan said.
"Oh, really? Don't you think he'd like to have heat in his house, maybe running water, something to eat other than potatoes?"
"Man, you don't know anything," Stan said, and Kyle expected some further explanation, but he got none. Before he could ask anything else, Craig stepped out in the garage, wearing his fur coat and a pair of ridiculously large sunglasses with bright white frames.
"Brrr!" Craig said, walking over to stand close to Kyle. "Sure is cold out today."
"This is nothing," Stan said. He tapped the gas container against the funnel, getting the last drops out. "Winter's just getting started. And that's the last of the gas." He tucked the container into a trunk on the back of the Tundra. "Hope you're right about your owners' further generosity," he said to Craig.
"I'm right," Craig said. "They really like you guys. They want you in our camp!"
"Yeah, I know they do," Stan said. "But not because they like us." He looked at Kyle. "You ready?" he asked.
Kyle was definitely not ready, but Craig was watching, so he nodded. Stan opened the passenger side door and Kyle climbed in first. Craig followed, basically sitting in his lap, and Stan got behind the wheel.
"You're in for a treat, Mr. Tucker," Stan said. He fished a key that was tied to a shoelace out of his coat pocket and stuck it in the ignition. "The heater on this baby still works."
"Oh, wow!" Craig said, clapping. "The one in our car broke years ago."
Kyle was so cold that he felt like clapping, too, and he didn't lean away when Craig cuddled up against him, the collar of the fur coat tickling Kyle's jaw.
"Hold on to your butts," Stan said, and he pressed the button on a garage door opener that was clipped to the dash. The garage opened with an angry grumble, the springs squeaking so loudly that Kyle winced. Outside, the landscape was nothing but white, the driveway and the street unpaved. Kyle clutched at Stan's arm instinctively, terrified of what waited for him in such a blank-looking world. Stan smiled over at him and shifted the gear into drive.
"Still okay?" he asked Kyle, who wanted to shout that he'd never, at any point since waking up in bed with these two, been okay.
"Sure," he said, and they were off.
*
Kyle couldn't remember the last time he'd fallen asleep fully clothed. More distressing, Stan wasn't wrapped around him in his usual blanket-like fashion, and was nowhere to be found when Kyle's hand slid across the mattress. Kyle was hungover, his head pounding, and not in the mood for this bullshit. Craig had probably whined until Stan escorted him to the bathroom, where Craig would certainly attempt some sort of seduction, which Stan would possibly indulge. Kyle sat up and blinked at the empty room.
"What the fuck?" All of his stuff was gone. The floor was clear, completely cleaned off, and the supplies he guarded most dearly were no longer stacked up in the corners of the room. Even the top of dresser had been cleaned off, only a few picture frames and a notebook sitting atop it. Kyle bolted out of bed, further alarmed by the unfamiliar clothing someone had dressed him in: flannel pants and a green t-shirt that said SOUTH PARK COWS in yellow letters. He squatted down, his breath already ragged with panic, and reached under the mattress to see if whoever had robbed him had taken his gun, too. They had.
He stayed close to the ground, not sure how long he'd been knocked out. He knew he should be grateful that he wasn't bound to the bed, knew that he should shove on the pair of boots that were waiting by the door and scurry out the window, but whoever had taken control of the house had his balls in a vice without needing to tie him up. They had Stan.
Kyle gritted his teeth and punched the mattress. He should have seen Craig as the Trojan horse that he'd obviously been. The little shit had seemed harmless, a fuck toy who could scarcely tie his shoes without the help of not just one but two Masters, and it had felt impossible that he could be anything more than a simple gift intended to curry favor. Kyle hit the bed again, growling under his breath. He'd been so sure that he had all the angles neatly worked out, that he was close to winning the trust of both camps enough to force them to pledge their loyalty to him. He'd been overconfident, and now they had Stan.
Everything was off: the house smelled wrong, even his hat smelled wrong. He still had the scent of Stan on his skin - and of Craig, too, he supposed - but his clothes had an unfamiliar, suspiciously fresh odor, like they'd just been purchased brand new from the kind of stores that didn't exist in Smileytown. He walked to the door and pressed his back to the wall beside it, listening for any hints about what might be waiting for him out there, his heartbeat slamming at the hollow of his throat as he braced himself to hear the sound of Stan screaming. Surely they had tortured him. Possibly they had disfigured him. Kyle dug his fingernails into his palms, trying to convince himself that Stan was still alive. Kyle had to assume that whoever had done this still needed him, or he'd be dead himself. Anybody in Smileytown knew that there was only one way to get to him. Kyle had been so careful with Stan; he'd kept him so close. It sickened him to think that he might have lost everything over the prospect of sharing Craig Tucker with him for one stupid, drunken night. The sex wasn't the real reason he'd accepted Tweek and Clyde's offer - it was an act of good will, a trust building exercise - but he'd enjoyed it, and so had Stan, and this was what it had cost them.
He put on the boots before opening the door, wondering whose they were and why they fit him so perfectly. He'd certainly never seen them before, and they were suspiciously clean. Tying them himself made his stomach ache, and he forced himself to contemplate the fact that the only way out of this might be the sort of murder-suicide he'd tried to discuss rationally with Stan when they'd talked about worst case scenarios. Stan had always been against it, and if Shelly was still alive he would want to save her, because that was the sort of sentimental fool he was. Kyle wondered what had become of Ike, and his stomach pinched itself into a tighter knot.
He'd never thought of himself as a coward, but he felt like one as he opened the door. Over the past eight years he'd faced every grim reality of life in this shithole with Stan at his side and the others behind them, propped up by the basement full of weapons that the household rested upon like a raft that kept them afloat. He'd never been truly alone before, and had forgotten what it had felt like to be so nakedly unarmed. He steeled himself and opened the door, prepared to be subdued by whoever was guarding it.
There was no guard, and the hallway was as freakishly clean as his room. He could hear noises from the first floor, and there was something sweet on the air that made his stomach rumble. A boy said something - Ike? - and a woman answered. An older woman.
He froze in the middle of the hallway, numb with shock. The birth givers had returned.
"Oh," he said, breathing this out almost inaudibly. This changed everything, and explained the tidiness of the house and the clean clothes that someone had taken the trouble to put on him. He wanted to drop to his knees, but he made himself stay upright. The birth givers would need no bargaining chip with him or anyone. Stan was probably dead.
He moved slowly as he made his way downstairs, seeing things as if in a dream. The living room was neat and vacuumed, and there was a picture of him and Ike as children hanging near the television. They had already restored power to the house, and he noticed the warmth of the rooms belatedly, still mostly numb to what was happening as he came to the doorway of the kitchen. There was his mother at the stove, making eggs. His father was at the table reading a newspaper, and Ike was across from him, so absorbed in his breakfast that he didn't even look up as Kyle entered. That was the only element of this macabre scene that wasn't unusual.
"There you are, bubbeh!" his mother said, turning from the stove. "Why aren't you dressed for school? Are you feeling sick?"
Kyle had no idea what his expression must look like. He was stock still in the kitchen doorway, his fingers trembling, wanting a weapon. These people were not the birth givers he had helped to drive away.
"Kyle?" his father said. "What's the matter? You're white as a sheet."
"I-" He flinched when his mother came toward him. But of course it wasn't his mother - she was gone-
"Let me feel your forehead," she said. He was too stunned to stop her from removing his hat, and he flinched again when she gasped, waiting to be struck. "Kyle!" she said, the volume of her voice almost like a blow. "Bubbeh, oh my God! What did you do to your beautiful hair?"
They were all staring at him now, waiting for an explanation. Kyle touched his hair, which was shaved down to short spikes, just as it had been since he was ten or so. Ike snickered.
"I like it," he said. "You look real butch, Ky."
"When did you do this?" Sheila asked, sounding like she would cry. "Oh my God, you look like a convict! Here, put your hat back on, I can't stand it!"
"C'mon, Sheila," Gerald said. He set the newspaper down. "It's not that bad. Son, are you okay? You don't look well."
"I'm fine," Kyle said, gathering himself. Someone had shoved him through the portal. Craig must have been instrumental, but Butters would have been complicit - they'd finally teamed up against him. His worst nightmare. He forced himself to concentrate on damage control instead of beating his fists against the wall in frustration.
"Sit down and eat something," Sheila said, pulling him toward the table. "You weren't out drinking last night, were you?"
"No," Kyle said, thinking of Larry's moonshine, and the way his bedroom had begun to spin somewhere between the second and third time he'd fucked Craig. He sat, sticking his trembling hands under his thighs. Maybe Stan had been shoved through, too. They'd come here together once before. It was full of weak people, watered down versions of their world.
"Here you go," Sheila said, plating two sunny side up eggs and serving them to him. "Eat something, God, you look so skinny! Have you been losing weight? You never eat enough, Kyle, you're just like your father." A bell rang and Kyle jumped, but it was just the toaster. Sheila collected the toast, buttered it and slapped it on Kyle's plate. The eggs were too surreal to start with; there had been chickens in Smileytown once, but they were mismanaged and gone well before the dark season. Kyle devoured the toast, remembering the taste of butter as it melted on his tongue.
"It says here that 300 homes in South Park are without power after that storm," Ike said, reading this off of some sort of miniature screen that was lying beside his plate. He ran his finger down the screen, stroking the thing like a pet. "I guess we were lucky."
"I hardly got any sleep with all that noise," Gerald said. "And I've got mediation today."
"Poor thing!" Sheila said, touching his shoulder. "Kyle, are you feeling better? You've got some color back in your cheeks."
"I'm fine," Kyle said, disliking the way that they were all looking at him, studying him. If he was back home, in his own household, he could have barked at Larry and the others to lay the fuck off and mind their business, but he knew things were different here. He didn't want to be caught, not yet, before he could figure out if Stan was here, too, and how they might use this nightmare to their advantage upon returning. He couldn't remember the location of the portal in this world, but he would find it, and he'd be ready for Butters and whatever army he'd mustered when he went back through.
"You'd better hurry and get dressed," Sheila said, taking the plate away before Kyle could finish his eggs. "Stan will be here soon."
"I am dressed," Kyle said, hopping out of his chair at the mention of Stan. "Just, ah. Point me toward my coat. I've misplaced it."
Sheila and Gerald exchanged a look.
"You can't wear that to school, Kyle," Gerald said. "Those are pajamas."
"Why are you talking funny?" Ike asked. "You're like a pod person."
"Fuck off," Kyle said, glowering at him. It was surreal to hear Ike speak in complete sentences, and Kyle felt sort of proud and happy about this, despite the fact that this was not his actual brother, and that he seemed to be a sarcastic bastard.
"Kyle!" Sheila said.
"Do not use that language in front of your mother!" Gerald said, throwing his paper down. Kyle nodded, backing out of the kitchen. He'd forgotten what it was like to be around birth givers. Even these seemingly kind ones had a lot of rules.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Has anyone seen my coat, though?"
"Bubbeh, you don't need a coat!" Sheila said, looking concerned. "It's supposed to be seventy-five degrees out today!"
"Oh." Of course, the seasons would be switched around, too. "Alright."
"Better run upstairs and change," Gerald said. "I think I hear Stan's car."
Stan. Kyle shook his head, still backing away from them.
"I'm fine in this," Kyle said. He could hear a car, too, and he turned, resisting the urge to race for the door. Talks about worst case scenarios aside, he had never seriously contemplated life without his faithful servant and only real confidant, his baby, if he was drunk enough to use Stan's idiotic terminology, his human blanket and most important person. They never parted for more than a few minutes at a time; they hadn't even bathed separately since they were children. He was desperate to be reunited with Stan, holding his breath with anticipation.
"Kyle!" Sheila shouted, stopping him as he opened the front door. "Bubbeh, aren't you forgetting something?"
"What?" he asked, trying not to show that his teeth were grit.
"Your backpack, dummy," Ike said.
Fortunately, the thing was slumped there on the floor in the foyer. Kyle grabbed it and sped outside, slamming the door behind him before they could further intervene. Just the sight of them was jarring, and he needed to lay eyes on Stan before the overwhelming confusion of this situation ripped him into pieces.
Stan was behind the wheel of the car, and Kyle didn't get a good look at him until he was in the passenger seat. His heart fell as he studied the boy beside him, who had his Stan's handsome face and sturdy arms but was certainly not the same one Kyle had kissed over Craig Tucker's sweaty back last night. This Stan was clean shaven and thicker, well fed, with shorter hair and eyes that conveyed a kind of sweet tiredness. He seemed much younger than Kyle's Stan, untested.
"Dude, what the fuck?" Stan said.
"What?" Kyle asked, adjusting his hat. "Sorry I'm late."
"You're not late," Stan said. "What's up with the sweatpants? I can wait if you need more time to get dressed."
"No," Kyle said, not wanting to go back in there. "I just - I want to wear this today, alright?" He wasn't used to Stan offering opinions on his clothing choices, or much else, unless Kyle asked him to weigh in. "Can we go, please?"
"Alright, dude," Stan said. He backed the car out of the driveway and turned up the radio. Kyle hadn't heard recorded music in years; he turned it back down.
"Did your house lose power last night?" Kyle asked, wanting to ask him if he'd seen another version of himself running around town recently.
"Yeah, we did," Stan said. "Power's still out this morning, too. That's why my hair looks like shit. Couldn't blow it dry after my shower."
"You're so vain about your hair," Kyle said, speaking more to his own Stan than to this one. It was a funny thing for them to have in common, like Kyle's hat; he remembered the little boy who looked like him wearing a green ushanka, too. The poor dope was probably dead in a ditch somewhere, a victim of whatever Butters' master plan was. "Speaking of hair," Kyle said, because this Stan, like his own, might expect to see him without the hat during particularly intimate moments. He removed it, and Stan gaped at him.
"Dude!" Stan said. "Why? When? How?"
Kyle laughed, because Stan - his Stan - had given him his last hair cut, as usual.
"I felt like a change," Kyle said. He'd certainly gotten one, but he didn't plan on living his life out in this universe like a chump, and if Butters thought he would be satisfied with just any Stan, he had another thing coming. Kyle looked out the window at the well-kept houses, the neat lawns, and tried not to think too hard about what Stan might be going through if he was back there in Smileytown, alone.
“You did it yourself?” Stan said, reaching over to rub his palm across Kyle's hair.
“Yeah,” Kyle said, shivering when Stan continued to stroke him. He wondered if things were different between this Stan and the other Kyle, but he didn't want to risk reaching between Stan's legs and giving his cock a possessive squeeze in order to find out. In his world, there had been no real courtship or seduction, just a constant closeness that became sexual when they started getting erections.
“You okay?” Stan asked, his hand dropping from Kyle's hair to his shoulder. “You're all quiet.”
“I'm fine, just tired. The storm kept me up.” So the other Kyle was an incessant talker. This would be hard to fake. Kyle hated idle chatter and prided himself on being a man of few words, even with Stan, unless they were in bed together and Kyle had things on his mind that he wanted only Stan to hear.
They pulled into the driveway of a two-story house a few blocks over, and Stan honked the horn. Kyle wanted to ask what they were doing, but Stan seemed to assume that he would know, so he judged this to be part of their regular routine. Kyle went rigid with anxiety when he saw Butters Stotch hurry out of the house and toward the car, a brown paper bag swinging in his hand and a look of panic on his face. If this Butters was anything like the one Kyle knew, the bag would contain something dripping and bloody that he'd just hacked off of someone inside that house, but things were so different here—
“Hey, fellas!” Butter said, throwing himself into the backseat. “Sorry I'm a little late, I just had to finish packing my lunch.” He was breathless and pink cheeked, and when Kyle met his eyes in the rear view mirror he smiled widely. “Morning!” he said.
“Yeah,” Kyle said, still on edge. The boy in the backseat looked exactly like the one who had given Kyle the faint scar on his right cheek, and he remembered that pain acutely whenever he was in Butters' presence. It wasn't the cut that haunted him so much as the memory of that night and the other things that had been done.
“Kyle cut his hair,” Stan said, and Kyle was annoyed. His Stan would never volunteer his personal information to anyone, and especially not to Butters.
“Oh, really?” Butters said. “Can I see?”
“No,” Kyle said, and Stan laughed. Butters wilted and buckled his seat belt.
“Are you guys ready for your oral presentations?” Butters asked, digging some white cards from his backpack. “I'm sorta nervous. I practiced mine in front of my parents last night, and my mom said it was pretty good, but my dad said I needed to exude more confidence.”
“Mine's probably going to suck,” Stan said. “I spent like ten minutes on it last night. Shit. I guess I can work on it at lunch.”
Kyle couldn't stop sneaking looks at Butters in the rear view mirror. He exuded everything but confidence, fidgeting and wide open to interpretation, guarding nothing. Every time he caught Kyle staring at him it sent a shock of fear down along the back of Kyle's neck, though Butters just smiled shyly.
“Dude, did you hear me?” Stan asked, poking Kyle in the ribs.
“Huh? No.”
Stan laughed, but he was frowning a little, his eyebrows pinched. “What is with you today?” he said. “I was asking if you're ready for your oral presentation.”
“Oh – probably not.” Kyle wasn't even sure what an 'oral presentation' entailed. He thought of oral sex, Stan's mouth hot and wet around his cock, and a small but tight curl of arousal stirred in his stomach. This Stan smelled just like his did, and there was something so vulnerable about him, even more so than Kyle's own. He thought of what it would be like to bring this one back to his world whenever he returned – yes, of course he would. As they drove over a set of train tracks and into a more run down neighborhood, Kyle imagined what it would be like to watch his Stan teach this one how to please him, how his Stan would be gentle but firm in response to this one's shyness and inexperience. His cock started to harden, and he had to think of something else, but it was difficult. Much of the reason he'd wanted Craig in bed with them was to attempt to live out the fantasy of two Stans at once. Craig had the same black hair and a similar build.
Kyle's mind was racing by the time they pulled into another driveway. Having a second Stan to curl around him in bed and see that his boots were laced properly would be a fantastic perk, but there was more to mine here than just a second sweet-faced servant. Kyle wasn't the only one who stood up a little straighter at the very sight of Butters Stotch, and the Butters in the backseat was so clearly weak, the inverse of his Smileytown self. He could be manipulated, enslaved, and all the people back home would see was that Kyle was the one holding the leash of someone they had once thought fearsome. This other Butters could be a more powerful weapon than anything Kyle had ever hoarded in his basement.
Stan hit the horn again, and from the pathetic little house came another familiar face, one that made Kyle almost as nervous as Butters', mostly because he was Butters' tool, not a traditional servant but a sexless, stoic killer who would do anything Butters asked. Kenny was smiling as he came toward the car, and the sight was unnerving. He got in without a word of greeting and fell onto Butters, kissing his neck while Butters squirmed and giggled. Kyle looked at Stan, who rolled his eyes and put the car in reverse.
“Damn, you smell good,” Kenny said, moaning and reaching up under Butters' shirt.
“I took a shower this morning,” Butters said, beaming as if this was some accomplishment to be proud of. Kyle couldn't contain a disbelieving scoff.
“Kyle's just jealous,” Kenny said smirking at him. His hand was still under Butters' shirt, and he seemed to be tweaking a nipple, making Butters arch and sigh. “You need to get laid, Broflovski,” Kenny said. “Stan, will you man up and fuck that ass sometime soon, please? So Kyle will get off my back for being a sexually satisfied man?”
“God, shut up,” Stan said. He was turning red in a way that made Kyle certain of two things: Stan had never done anything sexual with his Kyle, and he wanted to, badly. Kyle would happily deflower him, and was cheered by the prospect of taking Stan's virginity for a second time.
“Yeah, you're right,” Kenny said. “You'd have to remove that stick that's up there first, and that's tricky work.”
“Don't be mean, Kenny,” Butters said, his mouth moving on Kenny's neck while he spoke. “You shouldn't – ah! Expect everybody to be okay with public displays of affection, you know.”
“Well said, Butters,” Stan said, giving Kenny a look in the rear view mirror.
“What do you want from me?” Kenny said. “I had to go all night with this squirmy little thing – c'mere, baby, fuck.”
That endearment irritated Kyle further, because he felt a certain ownership of being called baby, since he'd never heard anyone but Stan use that word as anything other than an insult. The way Kenny was kissing Butters was offensive itself, noisy and shameless, both of them groping at each other while they made out. Stan groaned and turned up the radio.
“So you seriously didn't spend all night obsessing over your oral presentation?” Stan asked, shouting a little, to be heard over the radio and the moans from the backseat.
“No, I – guess I didn't.” Kyle felt lost, as if every blink put him in danger of slipping into yet another unfamiliar world, and the eggs and toast lurched in his stomach when Stan took a turn too fast.
“You sure you're okay?” Stan asked.
“Yes,” Kyle said.
He didn't like lying to Stan, even in this universe where every move he made would necessarily be a lie, but he had no choice. None of these people would willingly come through the portal with him, and he needed to keep a low profile until he figured out how to trick them. If he could find this universe's Clyde and Tweek, they would be useful as weapons, too. His plans began to knit together more completely as they approached Park County High School, and Kyle was starting to feel more confident about coming out of this with an advantage that Butters wouldn't have foreseen.
He looked over at the Stan who sat beside him, praying that his own Stan would be resilient enough to survive until his return. This Stan noticed him staring and turned to give him an uncertain smile. It was everything Kyle could do not to reach over and stroke Stan's cheek, wanting to reassure him the way he would have if his own Stan was here. He supposed this one already belonged to him, or would very soon, and he allowed himself to wonder if Butters had kept that other Kyle alive in order to bring him to Smileytown and make him seem weak. If that was the case, Kyle would simply have to kill the other version of himself when he returned. Two Stans would be lovely, blissful, but sharing either of them with another Kyle just wouldn't do.