A new fic that I've been working on for some time now. It's still not finished, but I'm going to update as much as I can.
Please review, con-crit welcomed but please no flames.
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"Sir, we've found this one trying to dig under the wall at the back." A young man in his early twenties is thrown forwards onto the thick, red carpet, a small trickle of blood dribbling down from a minor cut on his forehead. His dark hair flops into one eye, as grey as an evening mist, and he grins up at the desk before him.
"Hello," he mumbles, and the two thugs behind him glare down in disrespect. Behind the large desk, that is in fact a fold-able canteen dining table draped with an expensive looking cloth, sits a lean man who is masked with shadow; the only light source in front of him. The captured man knows exactly who it is, however, and simply smirks to himself.
"Well, well, Craig. You know, of all people, I would have thought that you would have been on MY side." The man behind the desk snarls, and one of the two thugs grins before kicking Craig in the small of his back.
"Hey! Watch it, tubby!" Craig protests, in a cocky voice, and this earns him a hit around the back of the head from the other thug, who has short black spiky hair and a pointed face. The man behind the desk glowers at this guard, but it goes unnoticed so he clears his throat and addresses the larger of the two.
"Take him to one of the cells, Foxtrot Alpha, I need to speak to Echo Charlie." Is responded by a sharp salute, and a bow before Foxtrot Alpha, the scrawny guard, pulls Craig out the room by the armpits.
The man behind the best waits until the sound of footsteps, and Craig's attempts at insulting Foxtrot Alpha recede, before beginning to attend to Echo Charlie.
"I want Foxtrot Alpha punished for this, you hear me? I don't care what you do, just… do it," he waves a dismissive hand, and Echo Charlie grins and salutes before leaving and closing two heavy, plastic coated, double doors behind him.
The man behind the desk sighs, and leans back in his spindly computer chair only to fall backwards completely and grumble to himself about funding cuts.
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"Stan, Craig's still missing." Clyde Donovan stands just inside the back door of Stan Marsh's kitchen, looking somewhat lost and disconcerted. Stan pinches his nose with his thumb and forefinger, his elbows on the plastic dinner table in front of him and a half-eaten Subway sandwich in front of him. He had just got home, it was two in the morning, and he hadn't slept more than two hours in the past three days. He hadn't showered in a week, was in desperate need of a hair cut, and thick stubble lined his jaw. He was, in fewer words, a wreck. In comparison, Clyde stands clean shaven, and neat in the standard (but small) kitchen.
"How long has it been?" Stan mutters, and Clyde takes a deep breath – obviously still upset at his friend missing in action, and answers.
"Three days… I'm worried, Stan, what… what if they've murdered him?!" he exclaims, and Stan merely shakes his head.
"If they'd done something, we would've heard from… well, you know who I mean." The kitchen is silent, until the screeching sound of chair on tile pierces the two adult's ears, and Stan stands with a slightly annoyed look on his face. He sighs to himself; Kenny was supposed to have been in charged whilst he rested, and cleaned himself up, so what the hell was Clyde doing coming to call on him, and tell him about Craig's absence? He'd be damned if he knew.
"You okay, Stan?"
"Why'd you come here, why not to HQ?" the filthy man asks, staring down at the table and picking at a random stain. Clyde looks taken aback as he was not really expecting to be asked such a question, and stammers a bit before remembering why he had come to Stan's house directly, and speaking to the man before him in a slow, unsure voice.
"Well, I went to HQ, but Kenny said you'd gone home, so I came here." He answers, and Stan sighs in frustration, before turning and walking quickly out of the door, pulling Clyde after him by the front of the brunette's jacket.
Their so-called HQ, is in fact the renovated basement of the otherwise dilapidated Shakey's Pizza Restaurant. One of the buildings that is still relatively whole, where-as the majority of South Park is broken down, or burnt, or just unused.
As soon as the two set foot in the basement, lined with desks, old laptops, and restaurant chairs, Stan jogs up to a skinny, dirty blonde and pins him against the wall.
"Ooh, someone's eager!" Kenny says in a teasing voice, but the grin on his face changes to a frown of confusion when he remembers sending Stan home earlier that night. "Wait a moment, aren't you supposed to be at home, getting rest and," he pulls a face of disgust at Stan's smell, "washing?" he finishes, and Stan gives him a mocking grin.
"Kenny, dude… tell me something, 'cause I'm a bit lost," Stan mutters, "I was just wondering, dude, why Clyde didn't know that I'd left you in charge?" He smiles sweetly at his pinned friend, who in turn looks over Stan's greasy head at the other people in the room watching them both intently.
"W-well, I just… forgot to tell communications, I guess." He manages, and Stan drops him violently onto the floor before spinning on his heel and glancing around the room.
"Where's Butters?" as soon as the words leave his mouth, the small amount of people in the room, aside from Clyde who was stood with a rather confused look on his face, all turn to a fold-able table under which a silhouette is sat with it's knees pulled to it's chest. Stan sighs, and walks slowly over to crouch next to the table.
"Butters?"
"B-butters ain't here right now, Stan, please leave a-a message after the tone… uh, t-tone." The blonde boy murmurs, and avoids looking at Stan, who smiles and shakes his head.
"Butters, I just want to know why Clyde wasn't told about Kenny being in charge." He says, in a soft voice, and Butters slowly looks at him.
"…Because Kenny was t-to busy starin' at titties to t-tell me…" he stammers, and Stan stands up, before turning slowly to look, along with everyone else, at Kenny with a tiresome look. Kenny grins apologetically, and backs into the wall; his hands held up in defence.
"What? I was horny!"