disclaim ;; I don't own South Park.
information ;; Set during school days. Mole-centric. Because he's so awesome he needs more stories. Hundreds of stories. As always, reviews are loved. Please enjoy.
Dirt crumbles down the earth wall, rolling to a stop at his feet. A fleeting second passes that he considers turning back, but he has come too far now. The flashlight bumps against his chest, the light pointing wildly down, dim in the darkness below the earth. His shovel bites into the soil, sweat rolls down his brow. He doesn't pause to wipe it away and instead lets it dribble into his eyes, drip from the tip of his nose and chin. There is no time in his pressed schedule to take a moment, a breather. He was on a job, and he had to think sharp. A moment can take his life, and he doesn't take chances. Not for himself, not for anyone. He thinks on his toes, because out here he's playing with the big boys. If you can't play with the wild cats, stay out of the sandbox. He prefers cats to dogs, and always has. Fucking guard dogs. Air in the tunnel is sparse, dense and heavy with wetness. Each breath feels like gulps of pool water. He feels his shirt stick to his back, his hair heavy on his neck. None of this bothers him like it should. He presses on, shovel tearing chunks of earth apart, pressing further down the tunnel.
He was called Ze Mole for a reason. A damn good reason.
Static crackles across his com, causing him to wince, dropping the shovel and bringing his hands to his head. Gregory insisted upon the link, a tiny bug in his French Mercenary's ear, and Mole could have cursed him to hell and back. "Sheeet," he cusses, kneeling in the dirt. "Motherfucker, Gregory."
"You're on the wrong channel," his ever-polite British voice crackles, faint and distant. "Mole, can you hear me? You're on the wrong channel."
Scooping up his shovel, Mole presses his finger inside his ear, changing the channels as Gregory had taught him. "Can you hear me now, sheethead?" he asks.
"Yes, finally. How far are you from the objective?" Gregory questions.
Mole digs his shovel into the dirt wall, pressing into it with his weight. Taking a deep breath, he sighs. "Two meters? Tzhree?" he responds, his french accent thick as ever.
"Good. Keep digging. We've much to do and little time to do it."
Mole grunts, though this doesn't go across the com link. Gregory likely takes the silence as acceptance, and Mole continues to dig. Sweat continues to drip down his face. Thick, wet air continues to slip down his lungs. He is at home in the dark of the underground, happy to churn the soil. Something from years past, he suspects. He's never analyzed his life. He's never thought about things as deeply as Gregory, who has the time to do such things. Gregory rarely gets his hands dirty. That's Mole's specialty.
His shovel hits a rock and he wiggles it sharply, trying to dislodge the offending piece of nature. It doesn't move, and he realizes he's already come to the objective. It takes him a few minutes, but he scrapes the dirt away from the gray concrete wall. Tapping it with the blade of his shovel, he smiles in satisfaction. A feral, dirty smile. He is a feral, dirty boy. What would his mother say if she saw him here, holding a shovel, dressed in his drab fatigues? Mrs. Moliere would have a heart attack, that's what she would have.
Mole can't have that.
"Gregoree," he says, hoping to catch the British boy just as off-guard.
He responds almost immediately, cool as a pepper. "Yes, Mole?"
"I have reached zhe objective."
A moment of surprise, silence. Then, "This is sooner than expected. But this is good. Tap shave-and-a-haircut on the wall, then stand back."
Obedient as always, Mole taps the familiar rhythm out on the wall. The same rhythm they used in Vietnam POW camps, he remembers from history lessons. And his teachers think he's dim-witted. He steps back a distance, wondering what Gregory has in mind. Then, he hears a crash from the other side. Silence follows for several seconds, then there is another crash, followed by a deep thud. The wall shakes, dirt and concrete bits tumble to the floor of Mole's hastily dug tunnel. Several more thuds, and the wall began to crumble down, pouring light into the dark tunnel. The dull flashlight hanging around his chest pales in comparison to the florescent lighting the wall lets in. Squinting, he holds his hand ahead of him, blocking the light as he peers into the crumbling wall.
"Clear!"
"Hey, watch it!"
A dark-haired South Park student pokes his head into the hole made by their actions, a blue chullo hat falling to the side of his head. He stares at Mole for a minute, then looks over his shoulder. "He's fine," he drones.
A blonde-haired boy jitters into the picture, twitching his head to the left in a spastic motion resembling a seizure. "GAH! So what do we - nggh - do?" he asks, his neurotic twitching pouring into his speech as well.
"We need to tear this wall down, boys," a nasally voice announces, and the two South Park students move aside. Cartman's face appears, and he smiles at Mole. An empty smile, full of cunning. The boy never stops thinking, but despite it, he never thinks ahead. A dire flaw. "Ay, Frenchie! Start taking this wall down! Move the concrete!"
Mole pulls a cigarette out calmly, lighting it with a match before puffing smoke out. "Ask nicely," he says.
"Do it, or I'll feed you your own scrotum," Cartman replies darkly, disappearing from the hole to order the rest of his group around.
Mole pulls chunks of concrete to the side, stacking them in a makeshift wall. He hears kids on the other side as they move things around, sees the wall being torn down. It takes an hour, maybe more, before everything is moved, the wall is smooth, and the chunks of concrete are all inside the tunnel. Cartman's basement is packed with students. Mole can only remember them by their faces, he forgets names easily. As he steps into the harsh florescent lighting, he realizes just how dirty he is. Caked beneath his fingernails, clumping in his sweaty hair, up to his knees. Dirt was everywhere.
"Welcome back to the light," Gregory says, emerging from the crowd of students to pat Mole on the back. "Well done, Mole. The tunnel is finished."
"Eets simple," Mole shrugs, uneasy at being complimented.
"Now, we can leave the school without anyone knowing," Gregory says. "Isn't that worth it?"
"Of course," Mole says. Not really, he thinks. I don't go to South Park with the rest of you sheetheads.
"Here's your payment," Gregory says, handing a small white envelope to the mercenary. "If we need you again, I'll meet you in your room, after midnight."
Mole nods. "No problem." Taking the envelope, he doesn't check it. He knows where Gregory lives, and the Brit knows better than to double-cross someone as crazy as Christophe Moliere. He waits until he is outside, in the fading light of the day, to open the payment. He counts it twice, then another time. A hundred dollars, for a tunnel. He knows this is a good job. He wonders if Gregory will come to him again, with a job as easy and profitable. Maybe. He is a stupid Brit with no sense of worth.
Mole lifts his face to the dying sun, breathing in the fresh air, letting the light cast over his face.