4.
COMPUTER WIZARD.
" I want to live where soul meets body
And let the sun wrap its arms around me
And bathe my skin in water cool and cleansing
And feel, feel what its like to be new.
'Cause in my head there's a greyhound station,
Where I send my thoughts to far off destinations,
So they may have a chance of finding a place
Where they're far more suited than here. "
Christophe's house was located on the far edge of the town. Hidden, it sat behind an old disused barn and a spattering of evergreens; Kyle knew that if he'd had to come here without the older brunette his chances of finding the small edifice were slim. Though, why someone would want to live out here, miles away from any form of entertainment, were beyond him. Hell, it had been a good few minutes ago that he'd glimpsed the last house, and it wasn't like the Frenchman was holding back on the speed front.
Of course, Kyle would have told him to slow the fuck down, but he was a little bit too busy holding on for dear life. That, and his voice would have been totally drowned out by the engine's terrible roar.
Between the derelict wooden structure of the old barn and the trees lay what appeared to be a path that curved off towards the end, gradually becoming narrower as they accelerated on to their destination. There was no way you could get a car down here; the floor of the trail was frozen mud, flanked by slightly higher banks of virgin snow. Unless you had a SUV, but then you probably wouldn't be living in the middle of fuck anywhere.
It was weird how, even in a state of abject terror, he noticed the little details. Maybe he was just used to it by now, the whole 'scared shitless' thing.
The Triumph swerved deftly to the left, Christophe somehow managing to maintain his insane speed. On one side, the old shed slouched, while the other side was nothing less than the beginning of a forest.
He almost screamed when he felt the bike jerk suddenly, speed vanishing in seconds as the brakes came on. Annoyingly, the driver had turned to look over his shoulder with a smug grin plastered on his face. Obviously, the Jew's suffering was of great amusement to him.
'Bastard.'
"We are 'ere, mon ami." He stared at the boy sitting behind him on the bike for a few seconds, the smile barely fading from his lightly chapped lips. Kyle was even paler than usual; his breathing harsh as he tried to fight the waves of panic radiating from his gut. It was endearing, really, while, at the same time, hilarious. "Feel free to let go of me at any time. I 'ave all day."
Blushing furiously, the redhead practically fell off the bike from a mixture of shock and mortification. Luckily, he'd relinquished his grip on Christophe's waist before he tumbled gracefully, face-first into the snow.
Really, Kyle doubted that Frenchy would have appreciated getting dragged to the ground by a screaming Jewish kid.
After spitting out the dirty ice that he'd somehow managed to swallow and wiping the melted slush off his face with the sleeve of his jacket, he righted himself to the sound of Christophe's piercing cackles. Green eyes glared at the tan boy, who – honest to fucking Jehovah – was actually bent double over the handlebars, trying to stifle his laughter by biting the back of his hand.
'Bastard.'
"Ha ha. Yeah. Hilarious." He tugged his backpack to secure it, before trying to pry the French idiot away from his bike. "Come on, dude." With one arm, he tried to pull the taller boy up, holding onto his backpack with the other. "For fuck's sake, it wasn't that funny."
Christophe's head rose of it's own accord. "Yes, mon ami, it was. You should be a comedian." He was still giggling a little, but there was a pleasant smile on his face, rather than that self-assured smirk; his cheeks had darkened from lack of oxygen and the cold, and Kyle couldn't help find the scary, menacing teenager somewhat… cute. Like, how a tiger is cute, until it opens it's mouth and you see the gigantic, sharp, glistening, not-very-cute fangs.
"Alors, Kyle, shall we go inside? Eet iz cold as fuck out 'ere."
Kyle nodded and let the mercenary lead.
Kenny sits by the phone, wringing his hands nervously as he awaits the call. If he misses it… God. He needs the money – fuck, he seriously needs that money.
Dying is a bitch, even if it's only temporary.
And he knows that the guy that they'll send his way will be well informed on the subject of the his penchant for returning from the dead. Oh, they won't waste just any old idiot on him by this stage – he owes way too much already – so they'll send along the most fucked up sadist in their ranks.
If Kyle is lucky, they have no idea he's involved. So they'll just come for Kenny, and, at this point, maybe even Kevin, the poor bastard. Besides, it wasn't as if the Jew, smart as he is, knew the ins and outs of the arrangement
He sighs.
"The shit I get myself into…"
Inside, the small bungalow was messy, with clothes strewn about the living room and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts on every available surface. On corner held a fairly large flat screen TV, still switched on to a Wii game that had been paused at some obscenely difficult moment. Through the door, he could see a bit of the kitchen, which looked to be in something of the same state as the main room.
Again, Christophe seemed undaunted by Kyle's expression of horror (this time at the chaos), and threw his bag onto a pile of papers on the floor.
"Kitchen zrough zere," he pointed at the open door. "Bathroom zere," then he pointed at another door, this time leading off to the right. "And, most importantly," he gave Kyle what could only be described as a dirty grin, "ze bedroom." He indicated to the final door on the opposite side of the room, only, instead of stained wood, it had been painted in black gloss. The redhead raised an eyebrow in question. Noticing this, the brunette spoke up again. "When I first moved in 'ere, I wanted to make eet feel more like my own. Stupid, but, you know."
"Naw, not stupid at all." Following Christophe's lead, he chucked his bag on the sofa. Glancing around, he noticed that something very important was, for lack of a better word, missing. "Er, Frenchy?"
He lit his cigarette and turned. "Oui."
"Where's your computer?"
"My… computer?" He raised an eyebrow, obviously confused, as if the 'computer' was something dirty.
"Dude. Com-pu-ter. Keyboard, mouse, screen that glows with words on it?"
Suddenly, something seemed to click in Christophe's brain, a proverbial light bulb appearing above his head. "OH! My computer." He shook his head and sniggered to himself, disappearing into his bedroom, before returning with a laptop bundled up in his arms. "Eet 'asn't worked in an age, but feel free to try."
The mass of wires and cables was dropped unceremoniously in Kyle's lap, while the French teen went to busy himself in the kitchen. "You wan' somezin' to drink, mon ami?" His voice sounded funny from the other side of the wall – even more difficult to decipher than usual.
"No, I'm fine, thanks."
Briefly eyeing up the battered old laptop, the redhead set to work, untangling all of the various cables and figuring out which one was the power cord. Locating the thick black wire, he moved to plug it in next to the TV, just as an amused Christophe waltzed back into the room, cold beer in hand.
"I do not see ze point in fixing eet, mon ami." The redhead turned to watch the muscular boy take a seat on the arm of the sofa, eyes on the metal box sitting forlornly on the navy cushion. "We could simply do ze work wiz ze paper and pens."
Sighing and flicking the switch on the plug, Kyle made his way back to the sofa, kicking an empty water bottle out of his way. "Yeah, but paper and pens would take too long. God knows we don't have the time."
"God?" His attention devoted to the computer, the scrawny teenager didn't notice the way Christophe's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched; he didn't hear the venom and spite that dripped off the single word, like water from a saturated sponge. "God?"
"Yeah, god." Connecting the other end of the power cable to the laptop, Kyle crashed down on the sofa, flipping the dented lid up with an annoyed glance up at the Frenchman hovering over his shoulder. "Er, could you, like, not sit there?"
Christophe took a swig of his beer and raised an eyebrow. "I 'ad no idea the great Broflovski was so self-conscious."
Kyle was about to reply, none too politely, something along the lines off 'fuck off, you French piece of shit', when the 'French piece of shit' cut him off.
"No worries." He practically leapt off the side of the sofa, cigarette jutting out from between his lips proudly, as he circled the piece of furniture to sit on the ottoman next to it. "Don't bitch, mon ami." Grinning, he looked at the laptop meaningfully, before letting his eyes flit back to the redhead's freckled face. "You should get to eet. Last I 'eard, zese zings still don't fix zemselves. Fucking stupid technology…"
"I'm not writing this fucking project out by hand. So just sit there and keep quiet." The device was switched on, screen lighting up as electricity coursed through its circuits. They were in business.
"You will not tell me to shut up in my own 'ouse, Jew." Rather than anger, it was resentment.
"Whatever…" Holding down a few of the keys, the loading screen turned into something completely different; from Christophe's vantage point, he could just make out the obscenely complicated sequences of codes scrolling down the scene. He'd never seen anything move so quickly.
And yet, Kyle, whose fingers were dancing across the keyboard with an effortless confidence, seemed to have no such trouble keeping up with the gibberish in front of him. His face was set in a frown on concentration, the only outward sign that he was, in fact, exerting a little energy in processing the information.
Needless to say, the smoker was impressed. He found an unopened pack of Marlboro Reds on the floor by his foot, which was fairly unusual, seeing as pretty much all of the hundred or so packs littering the small house were empty. Replacing his spent cigarette with a new one, he continued to watch his Jewish wonder at work.
Seriously. The kid was a genius.
Hell, not even Gregory had attacked a computer with the level of acquired ease; with the Brit, it was always something of a performance, an art. It was just another one of his 'see how fucking awesome I am' stunts.
Kyle made it look like so much more.
Christophe shifted on the footrest to get a better view of the screen and Kyle's hunched form, paying more attention to the way his nose scrunched up cutely; he was a mercenary he noticed things. And he was French, which meant everything he noticed somehow related to sex. Yes. That makes sense.
"Dude."
Snapped from his reverie, he turned to see a look of surprise, awe and horror on the Jewish boy's face, which was still glued to the laptop.
"There's a virus on here, man."
"Oui." Once again, he found himself raising an eyebrow at Kyle's affinity for stating the obvious. "I knew zat."
"Yeah, but," there were a few more hasty key strokes before that green gaze focused on him, excitement evident, "the virus… It's not like anything I've seen before."
Frowning, he nodded for Kyle to continue, which he did so willingly, enthusiasm bubbling to the surface, like a small child with a brand new toy.
"It's very complicated – very complicated – and I haven't seen anything like this before." There was a pause, and then he backtracked, voice even faster and an octave higher than before. "No, no. I have seen something like that, but not for the same purpose as this. From what I can tell this virus was made by someone with some serious knowledge in the field, someone who knew exactly what files they wanted to delete, and how to do them without getting recognised." Coughing, he continued, slender fingers only tapping the odd button here and there. "I mean, obviously, most people who make these sorts of things know about shit like this, but… It's brilliant. So simple, on the surface, but, when you actually look at it, it's a very intricate piece of coding, beautifully employed."
He trailed off, before realising that Christophe was staring at him like he'd just eaten a small child. His cheeks flared bright red and he averted his eyes from the Frenchman's piercing brown ones. Sometimes he just lost himself; it couldn't be helped. Especially when he came into contact with something as awe-inspiring as that little bit of computer magic.
"Incredible."
Had his ears not been primed to listen out for ridicule, and had he not been blessed with hearing bordering on the supernatural (something that Cartman had ridiculed him for, seeing as it was something sneaky Jews had, because of their 'Jew-magic'), then he might have missed Christophe's admission.
And, by relation, he wouldn't have been sitting there with his eyes bugging out of his sockets, mouth opening and closing like some kind of fish.
"'Ow… 'ow do you do zis?" He felt Christophe's presence suddenly next to him, the warmth of his body only proceeding to further embarrass him. Kyle turned to look at him and found the brunette a little too close for comfort. Obviously personal space wasn't an accepted concept in continental Europe. "'Ow do you know zis?" The mercenary gestured to the laptop, disbelief palpable in his voice.
"Hobby."
The redhead didn't trust his voice to hold out for more than two syllables, so he left it at that; it was explanation enough. Computers liked him and he liked computers. End of.
Trying not to blush under the harsh brown eyes of the mercenary was more difficult than he had originally expected. It was Stan all over again. Only, he didn't feel the urge to get down on one knee and read epic poetry about love, valentine's day, how his eyes sparkled, why his laugh was the most amazing thing in the world and all that gay stuff, just to see him smile; to serenade him under the moonlight by Stark's Pond with nothing but his trusty violin and his voice, just so he knew how much he meant; to hold his hand in the darkness of the movie theatre through the scariest moments in the latest horror movie, just because blood and guts creep him out more than anything, and being there for him was the least he could do. Falling in love with your painfully heterosexual best friend was really, really stupid. Kyle was not really, really stupid; it was only a natural course of events, something that, over the years, he'd dealt with. Kenny, bless his immortal soul, had helped.
But, something in the Frenchman's eyes reminded him of Stan. They were far darker, far deeper, but there was that same pensive quality; thoughtful, yet reserved, while at the same time expressive, an open book, only, instead of English, each sentence was carefully encoded message. With Stan, he'd learnt the code over the period of a lifetime.
He found himself wondering if he'd ever be able to learn the Frenchman's code -- however gay that might sound.
"Should we, uh, I-I mean…" He watched the broader boy take a swig of the beer and then a drag of the cigarette, all the while struggling to force the blush staining his face away; even the tips of his ears were pink, and he had a feeling that the blush didn't stop at his neckline. 'Fuck having pale skin.' "Project." Christophe hadn't broken off eye contact yet. It was suddenly a little hard to think with that sharp, penetrating gaze focused totally on his wishy-washy, dull green eyes. "Should we start the project? I mean I-I don't know if I can fix this without my stuff here… But, uh, we could do it on paper?"
A few seconds passed, and a sly smile crept onto the Frenchman's face. "Non. I shall make a start on the project some ozer time, do not worry."
"Oh, but we might as well get on with it, I mean, it's, like, why I'm here—"
"Non." Standing he downed the rest of his beer and dropped the butt of the cigarette into the empty can, before tossing it to the floor. "Broflovski, I 'ave a proposition for you."
No, Christophe wasn't indirect by any stretch of the imagination.
"A… What?! Dude, that seriously better not mean what I think it means. I-I don't care who fucking told you—"
He was cut off when the brunette raised an eyebrow, giving a lopsided smile. "Non. Tempting, but no. I 'am talking about a job zat 'as recently become available." Kyle looked taken aback, but confused. "We are in need of a tech."
Christophe hated to ask him, but, really, Gregory had been searching for a while; the blond's whining had left him desperate. Sure, that British piece of shit could do enough computer magic to astound a few in the industry, but, honestly, with the jobs that had come their way… A specialist was called for. And Gregory could not waste his time behind a monitor.
Then came the question the mercenary had been expecting. "A tech for what?"
"I work as a 'ired 'and." The term was only slightly less sinister than mercenary, and would probably fare better in this situation. Christophe shifted on the balls of his feet, uncomfortable under the Jewish boys scrutinising gaze.
"You're a mercenary?"
"Oui." Captain obvious strikes again. "And my taskmaster, as I like to refer to 'im, 'as been looking for tech for some time. The job iz well paid. Obscenely well paid. You would be in no danger, unless you yourself wish eet. Zere iz a job next—"
"Are you fucking kidding me, dude?" The scrawny teen stood, anger rolling off him in waves. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"Non." Exasperated, Christophe decided to try a… different approach. "Can I offer you somezing else, in addition, if you are interested?"
"That's it." The redhead glowered at the mercenary before spinning around to grab his bag, obscenities flying through his head at the sheer nerve of the Frenchman. "I barely even fucking know you, dude. Fucking out of line." He turned to Christophe, slinging his bag over his shoulder and jabbing a finger at him in accusation. "You are fucked up. You're fucking insane. INSANE! You want to buy me off with sex? Who the fuck told you? Kenny? Cartman?"
Christophe stared, completely baffled and slightly offended. "You zink I was offering you sex? What ze FUCK?!" He stalked towards the shorter boy, leaning in until their faces were inches apart. If Kyle was angry before, he had nothing on this guy. "What iz up wiz you, you hormonal pussy? I try so 'ard to be fucking civil, for once, and you just act like a prick! What would zese people tell me? What? Do I look like someone who jumps into bed with anything zat 'appens to 'ave a pulse? DO I?! Iz zat what I am? IZ ZAT WHAT I FUCKING LOOK LIKE, YOU BONY PIECE OF SHIT?!"
Silence. Kyle took a step back, heart racing in his chest.
"I-I-I…" Scrambling for the right words was always a hit and miss sort of thing. "Sorry."
Glaring at him from under light brown bangs, Christophe muttered darkly, "you should be."
Kyle coughed, diverting the course of the conversation. "What was the 'something else' you were offering me?"
"Oh, zat!" In the blink of an eye, the mercenary's mood spiralled back from the brink of violence to that of a docile house-pet. "I zought you'd never ask, mon ami."
'This dude,' Kyle thought, taking another step back. 'Is nuts.'
"Name your… 'candy'." He gave Kyle an expectant look, to which the redhead responded with confusion.
"Candy? I'm not four, dumbass."
"Non, you idiot." Sighing, Christophe laid a hand on his shoulder. What was it about European's and personal space again? "Candy. Hard stuff, pot, whatever you desire, yours."
"That's even worse than the sex thing." Laughing nervously, he scratched the back of his neck. "I mean, what makes you think I'd want shit like that, dude? I don't touch the stuff."
His lie wasn't convincing in the slightest.
"I zought you people wanted whatever you could get your 'ands on?"
Kyle scoffed. "Are you ripping on me for being Jewish now, 'cause, if you are, I'll just leave."
"For a smart person, you really are terribly stupid."
"Huh?" He looked adorable when he was puzzled.
"Non, you twat, I am offering you an insanely high amount of pay for a small, easy job. I zought zat, possibly, you would be swayed wiz ze prospect of some free stuff."
Oh, he was swayed. The offer was unbearably tempting, and not just because of his selfish need to distance himself from the stressful, lonely reality he'd made home. A best friend he never saw, his other friends not really friends, only showing up when strictly necessary, and a Nazi-wannabe constantly trying to get Kyle to suck his balls, and a mother who was a Jewish version of Hitler; who wouldn't want to get away from the expectations and the drama? Besides, it would take some pressure off of Kenny, and god knows the poor boy (literally) needed the break.
Sadly, that would mean losing face. Which was never an option. Instead, he would feign innocence.
"Why would I want free stuff?"
The mercenary wasn't falling for it. "You are a user. I made ze connection."
"I'm not a fucking druggie, okay?" He slipped past Christophe and sat on the back of the couch with a dismissive shrug. "Where did you get the idea that I'm a user, anyway?"
'Kenny, if you told him, I swear to god…'
"In my line of work, you learn to notice ze small zings. I know many users. Eet iz not rocket science, after all."
After a pregnant pause, Kyle spoke, his tone distracted; his eyes darted around the room, betraying his thoughts.
"I'll think about it. Could you… Could you drive me home now, please?"
AN. Alright, this chapter is basically one big scene xD Sorry about that. It took a lot longer to write than I thought it would, and the scene itself is a lot longer than I originally pictured, so, for updating's sake, I've separated what would have been one epic chapter into two more manageable ones ^^ So, the part I was really looking forward to writing has been postponed ): Hopefully, I can get it done soon.
Note: I haven't checked this chapter properly, because otherwise I'd never get it up xD If you notice any issues, please tell me, so I can fix them. It'd be a huge help :)
Lyrics at the beginning are Death Cab For Cutie's "Soul Meets Body" lyrics. It will all make sense in the end ;) (Hopefully xD)
Please read and review ;) Little stuff like that inspires me to write quicker, and it's always nice to get reviews ^^;
— Coma