Warning: There's nothing serious in this chapter but this is the first warning of the story so I shall list everything you can expect. I will add appropriate warning before each chapter too. XD Here we go:

MATURE SEXUAL CONTENTS!, M/M, Swearing, Violence, Blasphemy (since did is The Mole after all...)

This is a rather bizarre story but I was challenged to write a fiction with my two favorite South Park characters in a pair. Since those are Christophe (The Mole) and Craig... Well, this is the wacky result! I hope you enjoy it and who knows, maybe I'll start a new ship! XD (I'm certainly already on board...)

ONE MORE THING! Since Christophe has that delectable french accent, i tried to put it on paper so bear the following so you don't get confused. TH is replaced with Z (The = Ze) H is mostly erased when at the beginning of a word (HAD = 'Ad) and Bitch = Beech & Shit = Sheet. That's pretty much it...

Have fun and leave a review if you have the time! ENJOY! XD

Also, I do NOT own South Park or most of the characters.

1

Christophe DeLorn managed to make quite a reputation for himself which was all the more impressive considering his youth. Despite his age, 22 to be exact, he was renowned as one of the most dangerous persons alive. He had enough enemies to ensure restless night for the remainder of his life, had he been a normal person, but he slept easy. Very few people would ever dare to attack him. He could count their names on one hand and of them he perhaps thought one could kill him. Christophe was not someone to be messed with and those who made the mistake didn't live long enough to tell the tale.

As he walked the modern glass domed corridor Christophe was aware of the other people making a path for him. Some even changed direction and went back from where they came as soon as they realized who exactly was walking down the carpeted path. He paid them no attention. They were the unimportant workers, the cogs of the company. People of his status depended on their work but they didn't associate with them. Common workers were beneath him though it wasn't his ego which stopped him from acknowledging them. It was his reputation and their fear. Even if he wanted to, they would rather run screaming for the hills than risk getting on his bad side. He smirked to himself, noting the nearest people flinch at the sound from the corner of his eye. It was good he didn't particularly like the company of others. He rather enjoyed being alone.

He'd killed many who were stronger than him but they all ultimately fell because of their connections to others. Caring for someone was a weakness and he was very good at exploiting weaknesses. It was part of his job after all. One of the reasons why he was so dangerous was because when he went into a fight he had nothing to lose. He fought with no regard for his own safety or life. He didn't care if he made it out as long as he dragged his target to hell with him. He had nobody important enough in his life to deserve the privilege of his consideration or the burden of his life. He had no anchor to hold him back, unlike those he killed. They saw their sacrifice for the ones they loved as brave. He saw it as stupid.

He reached the end of the tunnel and stood before the closed doors of an elevator. He pressed the button for the box to descent and waited impatiently for the numbers to go down. His left hand unconsciously reached for the hilt of his shovel, strung across his back, and ran soothingly over the old wood. He probably cared more for the tool than a living person... He was familiar with every small imperfection of it and he ran his thumb over a dip in the handle where a bullet had grazed it. He smiled grimly at the memory, recalling how he'd pressed the metallic edge of the shovel into the shooter's neck, severing his head clean from his shoulders. He'd dared laugh at him for preferring his shovel over a gun and claimed there was no way he could beat him with a gardening tool. He was dead wrong.

A sharp sound brought Christophe out of his revelry, though his morbid grin remained. The elevator doors swung open and the couple inside went pale when they saw him. They exchanged a glance and hastily scrambled to get out, quickly walking away from the lone figure. They weren't quite running but they were certainly not taking a leisurely stroll either. Christophe shrugged, liking the thought of having the metallic box all to himself better, and walked inside. He pressed a small button at the bottom of all the rest marked with a red diamond. There was no number on it but the symbol was enough information. The elevator box began lowering and he watched the numbers change above the doors. In a matter of minutes they were at ground level then the minus levels began. He started getting impatient but before his irritation could really flare, the descent stopped and the doors swung ajar. There was no announcing sound this time and there was no red neon number to indicate the floor. This was the last level of the building and nobody ended down here by accident.

Christophe walked casually to the end of this new, shorter corridor. He was in no hurry but he hated staying still. Many took that as a sign of impatience when in fact they couldn't be more wrong. He was very patient, like a predator stalking their prey until they felt certain one leap was all it took to end a life. He could stay hidden in one of his tunnels for hours, even days if need be. Many didn't know him well enough to understand that but he couldn't care less what they thought. Their quick jumping to conclusions made them careless which always worked to his advantage.

He neared an impressive steel reinforced door which used the space of the whole wall. It looked more like a gate than a door but Christophe was so used to seeing it he didn't give it a second glance. They always called him when they had a dangerous mission... The company had a good selections of assassins in its employment but only two who could be counted on to get the job done well, no matter how slim the chance of success. He was one of them and he was the most vicious so he usually got the ones where a massacre was unavoidable. A small square panel was fixed on the wall to his right and he turned to it. The motion sensor inside detected his movements and he waited for it to grant him access.

'Please state your name.' The voice was meant to be a woman's but it was too stiff to sound real.

'Christophe DeLorn.' A short pause while the machine analysed his voice.

'Welcome Mole. You may enter.' He turned back to the doors which were opening, the heavy mechanism inside it sprang into action by the mention of his code name. The room inside was dark but Christophe had exceptionally good night vision, courtesy of all those hours spent inside tunnels of his own design. He easily made out the contours of the bigger pieces of furniture around the place but he didn't pay attention to them. He cared more about the long table at the far end where the heads of the company were waiting for him.

'Welcome Mole.' He recognised the voice of the head geezer. If he wanted to he could easily find out all their identities and the most minuscule aspect of their daily routine but if they wanted to pretend a little darkness was keeping them safe then who was he to shatter their pathetic little fantasy? They were the ones filling his bank accounts with money after all. He stepped closer to the table, counting four figures. One was missing.

'What iz it zis time?' Anyone else would have probably been on their knees, prostrating themselves before the old men, but not him. They had power and wealth but he stood tall and unafraid. They needed him, not the other way around and he wasn't going to let them think otherwise for a second.

'Straight to the point as always.' He heard the note of displeasure and it made him smile. The shadowed man cleared his throat and pushed a folder towards him. He walked to the table and picked it up. 'That is your new target. He must be killed by the end of the week. The method is left to your discretion.' Christophe arched an eyebrow at this, though he doubted they saw the gesture.

'Are you sure about zat?' One of the other two, who had been keeping silent through the interaction, spoke up.

'As long as you don't cause a disaster again it should be fine. Hopefully you learned your lesson from last time.' Christophe pressed his lips together in a thin line. There was no mistaking the warning edge to the geezer's voice. He barely restrained himself from biting back with a sharp retort which would get him into far more trouble than this was worth.

'I 'ave not.' He couldn't hold back the danger in his own tone and he knew it had the desired effect when the man said nothing further. They didn't want to get on his bad side as much as the other people he walked by in the glass hallway. They may have had better ways of defending themselves but Christophe had taken corporation bosses single-handedly down before and they knew it. They issued the orders. The leash they thought they had around his neck was make-belief, true only in their own heads. Christophe was a rabid dog. He silently grimaced at the analogy. Fuck, he hated dogs...

'We'll be waiting for your report in a week's time.' He could tell they wanted him to go. He felt the same way.

'It won't take zat long.' With the yellow folder in his hand he left, not turning back when the metal doors fell shut behind him with a final bang.

Christophe glared at the folder on the coffee table in front of him. His hands searched his pocket for a cigarette and brought it to his lips. He lit it without taking his eyes off the yellow paper. He inhaled a deep smoky breath before releasing it into a grey puff. He was eager to see who was next to fall victim to the edge of his shovel or, if he was desperate enough, a bullet from his gun but he decided to bide his time. It was his way of showing respect to the future corpse, not doubting his ability to get the job done for a second.

'Excuse me.' He glanced up at the waitress, noting the irritation on her face and the dark circles under her eyes. She had his cup of black coffee in one hand while the other was resting on her hip in a haughty gesture. He said nothing, just looked at her. Her glare began to falter under the intensity of his gaze and she put the cup on the table. 'There's no smoking here.' She tried to make her voice sound authoritative but it faltered. Christophe was well aware of the fact. He's deliberately chosen the table set in front of the non-smoking sign. He continued to look into her eyes until she couldn't stand it anymore and looked at the sign behind him instead.

'So?' She threw him a quick glance and looked at the sign as if asking it for help. She glanced at the counter helplessly, perhaps silently asking one of the other workers to come to her aid but they smartly averted their eyes. The Mole's identity was a secret known by a select few but Christophe DeLorn's reputation for causing trouble, the worst kind of trouble, preceded him. He heard the woman gulp and noticed the way her hand fell from her hip to hang uselessly by her side.

'Never mind. Would that be all?' Christophe eased back into the uncomfortable chair, losing interest in her now that he'd won their little confrontation. He was looking at the folder again, taking another drag from the cigarette.

'Oui. Merci.' He heard the high heels click against the tiled floor as she left his table and he reached for the coffee. With the cigarette between his lips he took a sip of the hot, bitter liquid. It went nicely with the taste of tobacco.

He placed the cup back down and decided it was time to open the folder. There was nothing written on the cover of it. With surprisingly delicate fingers he turned the page over, his eyes falling for the first time on the face of the person he was expected to kill in seven days. He'd expected someone big and dangerous on account of being given so much time and being sent in alone. Instead he was looking at a boy who couldn't have been older than him. A quick read and he confirmed the young man's age was 21. He frowned as he studied the face. Blue eyes looked impassively back. Christophe began reading the information accompanying the picture.

The name of the blue eyed man was Craig Tucker and he lived in South Park. Christophe paused at that. He scowled at the writing but the letter didn't change for him. He'd hoped never to set foot in that cursed place again! He filled his lungs with smoke and read on. Craig lived on his own in a small apartment for the sake of convenience. It was located beside South Park University, or SPU as most called it, where he studied veterinary science. Christophe glanced at the picture for a second. He didn't think the boy looked smart enough for that but apparently looks could be deceiving... He grinned to himself. He was a perfect example of that too...

Reading further down the page he discovered Craig had a part-time job working in a pet store and he went there every day from Monday to Thursday after school. From what Christophe could tell the target was a creature of habit and following him would be easy, boring even. Craig got up every morning, went to his classes, went to the store and then went home. He didn't seem to have much of a social life... During the weekends he sometimes went on walks and usually he was alone. Christophe could imagine himself jumping the guy on one of the solitary evenings and killing him before the other had a chance to blink.

He closed the file angrily, making the coffee move uneasily in the white cup. Sending someone of his calibre after such an easy target was insulting and he wondered what the old geezers were thinking. Maybe they wanted to antagonise him because he couldn't think of another explanation for this mission. They were willing to send him all the way to South Park for a kill which couldn't take more than a day?! What was the meaning behind giving him a week? Christophe felt the questions rattle around in his head and he threw the bud of his finished cigarette on the cup saucer, immediately lighting another. He forced himself to calm down and consider this from every angle. There had to be more to the story and he was going to find it. He felt his fury cool down when he swallowed more of the bitter coffee. It tasted horrible but it appealed to him and it kept him alert which was the difference between a dead assassin and a living one...

He opened the folder for a second time, meeting the even stare of Craig Tucker. The contents of the file were light, too light for his liking. He had a thin profile of Craig's life, everything from his date of birth to his current occupation but there was nothing there which hinted at any level of threat, certainly not a high enough one to require the involvement of an assassin. He flipped through the pages, scanning the words for anything interesting but in the end he was left with more questions than answers. He leaned back, drinking the last of the coffee.

His bosses were hiding something from him, that much was obvious. Any assassin worth their salt knew not to ask too many questions and Christophe hadn't survived so long by breaking that cardinal rule... Still, there was something that didn't sit right about this Craig guy. He pulled the photo free from the paper clip attaching it to the rest of the folder. Christophe stared at the young man's face. He was handsome and Christophe remembered reading he was popular among the ladies though he didn't keep a girlfriend for more than a week. His longest relationship had been with a girl which used to go to school with him called Red. His school classified him as a troublemaker and he seemed to have spent more time in detentions than in actual classes. Christophe felt a smile grown on his lips at the memory of his brief stay in school. He doubted the teachers even bothered remembering his name since he was outside the principal's office so frequently. He'd hated that place and as soon as he had the chance, he left. He made more money on one mission that those faggots made their whole miserable lives so he figured he made the right decision.

There appeared to be a surprising amount of similarities between himself and his target. They both had short tempers it seemed. According to the file the majority of times Craig ended up in detention was because he picked fights with the other kids and had a bad habit of cursing, weather with words or hand gestures. Christophe wasn't known for his saintly tongue either... He stared into the bored blue eyes, wondering if he could find something incriminating there. He wondered if the irises were as icy in real life as in the photo. He wondered what they'd look like when they were wide with fear and he sighed in exasperation.

He was having trouble with this mission and he wasn't even on the field yet. He'd killed many in the past but he'd always known why they were targeted. Some were unlucky enough to be born into families who made the mistake of getting on one of his boss' bad side. Some were genuinely scum who needed to be eradicated. Some posed a threat, usually because they stumbled upon some information which could hurt the company or one of the bosses. He didn't get bothered by questions of morality. Christophe knew he was going to hell and he was fine with that. It wasn't for him to judge if someone was good or bad. He simply did his job and killed whatever name was put into his hands. Some called him a heartless demon for it but he took solace in the fact that those people were dead the moment the bosses decided it. If he didn't carry out the job they would simply send someone else and he would become an enemy as well. He was too smart to throw his life away because some moron was in the wrong place at the wrong time. God was a real prick and those unfortunates realized the fact too late, often times when Christophe was pulling the trigger.

No, Christophe was not a good guy but he wasn't a senseless murder either. His cigarette was burned to the filter and he flicked the bud in the direction of the first one. He narrowed his eyes at Craig. He couldn't figure out why this man had to die and it was bothering him. After a few minutes more, his expression darkening by the second, he shoved the picture back in the folder and grabbed the bundle of paper. He left his money on the table, adding a generous tip for the waitress, and stormed out of the cafe. It didn't matter what he knew and what he didn't. He had been given a mission and he had to carry it out or his photo would be in the next folder and he knew who the company was going to send after him. There was only one man they could send. Everyone else would be too afraid to challenge him and he would kill them as easily as if they were clueless pedestrians.

He had a flight to catch to South Park. He was going to follow Craig for a few days, since he had the extra time to kill, and perhaps he would get some answers to the nagging questions. If not...Well, Craig was not going to survive this week one way or the other. He passed by a bin and threw the folder in but he kept the photo. He folded it and put it in his pocket, right beside his pack of cigarettes. Before he went to the airport he had to make a quick trip to his place and make sure he had all he needed. He highly doubted he needed more than the clothes on his back and his shovel but he did need his passport for the flight. His face was a scowl as he hailed a cab.

'Sheet...'

Believe me, things only go down for our Mole from here. XD I hope I made a good first impression and please let me know what you think. Since this is such a random pairing I'm very curious about any input! XD

HAVE A LOVELY DAY!