Somehow throughout the years, the lone mercenary Christophe gained three accomplices. At first, he hated them all and wanted to be alone again. Slowly, they started to aid him in ways he needed, and it was comforting, at times, to have something to fall back on. Not that he'd ever fucking admit it. No, Christophe doesn't need help, he just has it.
They didn't all come at once, if you're curious, the first approached him two years after he gained a second chance at life, after the Canadian American War.
"Mole," the blonde Englishman greeted him, fresh from Yardale's elementary programs, bruises painting his arms. Christophe didn't bother to look up from his maps, only sneering.
"Do not call me zat anymore, you cocksucker," he said, drawing routes to an underground drug lord stationed in the town he was residing in. He was being paid a very superfluous sum for this particular job, and he wasn't going to let some pussy distract him. "Ze mole died from a pack of guard dogs. I am just ze dead man back from ze grave, doeeng some work."
"Fine. Christophe."
"Get to ze point of you being 'ere." Christophe's rented motel room reeked of mothballs and whores, which made him glad that he lost his sense of smell in the burning of a criminal mastermind's palace. Whenever he breathed in, the scent of ash still lingered in his nostrils.
"I'm ten years old, and I'm a man now-"
"Are you asking for sex? Because I refuse wizth great 'orror, I am not zat kind of person for hire-"
"I'm asking for a job helping you." Gregory sighed, pushing his blonde locks out of his face, forcing himself to hide his frustration. "I'm sick of the snob life. I used to think it was sophisticated, but now, I want adventure. The straight ties, the immaculate speech, it's all just lies." Bitterness laced his voice, and he absentmindedly brushes his fingers over the bruises, closing his eyes. "I want something different."
"I work alone, Englishdick," he said, still not meeting Gregory's eyes.
"You won't even know I'm here," he promised. "Please, I want to taste freedom on my tongue, to feel wind brush my hair, to-"
"Okay, okay!" Christophe said, throwing his arms in the air, causing the pencil to fly away and hit the dirty carpet. He stood up from the table, facing Gregory. "You can join, as long as you do not recite anymore of your asslicking vagina praying poetry een my face!"
"Thank you, I owe you one, chap," he said, shaking Christophe's gloved hand.
"Yes, whatever. Now get out of my face."
Christophe forgot to ask where the bruises came from, and he never got an answer, anyways.
The second came when Christophe was fourteen, and it was a much longer tale. Gregory was back in another motel room researching new people to hunt and kill, and Christophe was running, yet again.
The sound of his heavy boots slapping the pavement as he ran was an unwelcome sound. It was past midnight, and darkness draped the sky like a curtain. He was panting, muttering obscenities to himself as he readied to jump the black iron gate surrounding the mansion he was looting. The treasures were stashed in his canvas bag. The dick he was robbing had guard cougars, which he decided right then and there was a lot worse than dogs. They were growling with menace, foaming at the mouth. He planted his feet on the gate, swinging up and over. He hit the sidewalk on the other side with a sickening crunch.
He was hurt, badly. The cougars shoved their faces through the spaces in the gate, snapping at him. He crawled back a few inches, hoping they would eventually give up and go away. His right arm was broken, he could tell by the bone sticking out of it. His left ankle was probably broken as well. He never even noticed the blood trickling down his face. He decided he would try escape anyways; one of the stupidest ideas he ever had.
Stumbling and limping, he was breathing even harder, vision going fuzzy at the edges. He was losing a lot of blood, and he managed to make his way into an alleyway, ripping off the edge of his shirt and sloppily tying it around his arm, which did nothing. He leaned back into the back wall of a strip club, letting the black wash over him.
...
"Well I'll be," a voice said from above him. Christophe peeled his eyes open, seeing the grin of one Damien, the Antichrist. His eyebrows had been plucked to a less thick line, and his raven hair swooped down to cover his left eye. "If it isn't Christophe. Haven't seen you since you were dead."
"I would love to talk," he lied, each word an effort to say. He had to ignore the pain, he had to. "But...I...I..." he grit his teeth, trying not to scream from the migraine he was experiencing.
"Oh,"Damien said, now noting the various wounds on the smaller boy's body. "You're human, I forgot. You feel pain." he squinted, peering at it. "I could heal you, if you demand it from me."
"What ze 'ell are you talking about, Antichrist?" he asked, not wanting to deal with whatever he was up to.
"Say my full name, and then ask me to heal you. I can't heal you on my own, I'm a demon, that would be doing good. But if you force me to..." Damien smirked. Christophe hated asking for help, hated depending on someone, but that faggot in the sky sent another wave of hurt on him, and it was too much to bare.
"D-damien Thorne," Christophe panted, the blood loss taking its toll again. "heal me."
Damien smiled, placing his hands mere centimetres above his arm, a light glowing from his palms, the bone mending itself. It closed, leaving only a white scar to show it was there. He quickly moved on to his ankle, his forehead, anything else that was left bleeding.
The pain melted at Damien's fingertips, and Christophe was grateful. "Thank you, you arrogant bastard," he said, one of two times he would ever say those two words. The second time would be at his own funeral, but that's a different story for another time.
"Well, that's something I'd never thought I'd-" Damien's sentence was interrupted by several growls. The pack of guard cougars were waiting at the entrance of the alleyway, having tracked the mercanary for hours. "What the fuck?"
The cougars lunged towards the pair, jaws open wide. Christophe took out his shovel from his strap, ready to strike, but not having the energy for it. They were just about to bite, when a surge of black fire exploded from the Antichrist's fingertips, enveloping them in flames. Damien's fingers were pulsing white, and he breathed heavily; magic of that capacity took a lot from him, he was still a rookie at it. The cougars melted into a puddle of goo, that disappeared underground. Christophe cursed, turning towards the demon boy and lighting up a cigarette, sticking it in his mouth and taking a deep drag. After he was slightly relaxed, he sighed.
"Damien, would you like to join me on mercenary missions?"
Gregory was conflicted at the new member, having gotten used to being part of a pair. But Christophe had insisted that he was still a solitary man, he was just using Damien for his magic. But actually, he felt indebted to him for saving his life, and he was going to return the favor one day. And, he secretly enjoyed Damien's company, along with Gregory's. It was an odd trio; they argued all the time, never agreed about anything, and all clamed they'd rather die than have to spend another minute with eachother. But they got loads of money for the jobs they got done, and earned the respect of the seedy underground mess of mercenaries, if there ever was one. They were on a particularly well paying mission, when they met the fourth. Gregory was the brains, he was monitoring the security cameras in the house of the man they were going to kill. Damien was keeping watch outside, and Christophe was in the basement waiting for the moment to strike. They were all seventeen years old.
"Zis is taking forever. When will zis guy fall fucking asleep?" he asked into his communicator, a small earpiece that was extremely uncomfortable.
"Soon. Just stay quiet," Gregory said,
THUMP.
"What ze fuck was that?" Christophe squinted his eyes, frantically searching for someone in the basement with him. The silhouettes of boxes never moved, which only heightened his awareness. It's always quiet, before some psycho shit crazed maniac jumps out and-
"Hi!" a voice said from right next to him. Christophe turns in a mix of horror and hesitation, grabbing his shovel.
"Who ze fuck are you?" he demanded, as his eyes adjusted to the figure. The boy was tall, his stature much higher than Christophe's, which isn't saying much. There was an orange parka fitting snugly on the boy's shoulders. His face was in full view, a twinkly of mischief in his eyes and a ruffle of blonde hair. He's smiling, shrugs his shoulders.
"Hell if I know. I can't remember a thing, dude," he said, face fading into confusion. "I mean, this usually happens. I wake up in a random location, memory blank, but I think it comes back. I'm pretty sure. Just wait a few minutes, I'm sure it will come back. But, I mean, I think I'm harmless, dude. I don't have any weapons on me, so you don't have to act so fucking tense. Just wait, I'll think of who I am."
Christophe stared at this boy, utterly lost. But he complied, not one to take orders, but too exhausted to start a fight. Besides, he had to wait anyways, for the criminal man below his feet to fall asleep.
Sure enough, mere minutes later: "I remember!" the boy said in glee, clapping his hands together. "The name's Kenny McCormick. I'm seventeen years old, eighteen in October, and I have this annoying knack of dying. I never fucking die. Usually, my mom just gives birth to me and I just wake up in my room, but she died due to drunk driving." He paused, lips twisting into a frown, apparently upset by the memory. "Anyways, now I just...respawn, wherever I died. I tried breaking into this house for all of the sweet loot, but the guy who lived there killed me and threw my corpse in the basement. Which is how I'm here." Another pause. "Oh yeah, I used to be a superhero, but then that shit never worked out, so now I just wander. It's a pretty sweet gig."
"I did not understand about 'alf of what you just said," Christophe admitted with no embarrassment.
"So, hey, who are you?" Kenny asked, bringing his knees to his chest.
"I am a mercenary on a mission, so I advise you not to fuck wizth me," he said, cracking his knuckles. Kenny cocked his head, unfazed.
"I meant your name, not your tough boy exterior motto or whatever."
"What?"Christophe was only have paying attention, he was cautiously pressing down on the floor, which resulted in a creak every time. It was slightly unnerving, because the wood seemed flimsy, the cheap wood.
"Your name."
"Oh. Christophe Simon," he said. In his distracted manner, he forgot he should never say his real name to a stranger. Fuck. That was a rookie mistake, because this guy is probably a spy and trying to prevent him from doing what he does.
Further going about his investigation, he brings up his boot, and stomps on the floor, disregarding that he wasn't supposed to make any loud noises.
No matter, because as soon as his foot landed, a loud SNAP resounded through the rooms. With utter horror, the ground broke beneath them, and the two went tumbling down, until they hit the second story floor with a crunch. Wood crumbled next to them, and Christophe coughed up fibers and dust.
"Nice move," Gregory deadpanned. "Now he's awake. Get out of there."
"Fuck," he said, jumping off and grabbing his shovel. "I 'ave to get out."He tugged up his gloves, grabs his shovel, and began to make a hasty exit out the window, when a low voice stopped him.
"Vhat do you vink you are doeeng?" It was the target. He was up in a bathrobe, gold rings still plastered on his fat sausages of fingers.
"Nevermind, just kill him, make it look like he died from the collapse, then get the fuck out of there," Gregory said, already deleting all video files in the security cameras in the room.
"I am 'ere to kill you," Christophe said, readying his shovel. Kenny raised an eyebrow at him, emerging from the rubble.
"Very vell." The man fondled his mustache before getting in a fighting stance. Christophe smirked, and pulled out his pistol.
"Don't," Gregory said. Christophe wished he could yank out the damn comunicator. "Remember, we can't be connected to this one. Just inflict concussion damage."
"How are you still alive?" the man asked Kenny, eyes widening in horror. Kenny smirked, approaching the man step by step.
"I'm one crazy son of a gun," Kenny began, flexing his fingers. "And you know what? I don't appreciate being killed. It's a bitch and a half to get back."
With a sickening snap, Kenny's fist broke the man's nose, a trail of blood leaking down his face. Kenny nodded Christophe, who takes the cue to knock the shovel over the man's head, leaving him unconscious. They drag his body under the smashed wood, brushing their hands clean.
…
"Who's that guy?" Damien asked as they were heading through the back woods, back to their current base location. Kenny had tagged along, walking jubilantly along.
"I'm joining this thing that you guys have. This club," Kenny said.
"I didn't approve of this," Christophe said, and everyone knew that he hadn't, but he honestly didn't care anymore.
Eventually, they strayed from mercenary work and got on to bigger and better things. Well, not exactly better, but it was bigger. Saving the world was frustrating and often came with a pretty unsatisfactory reward, but when they ended up in a motel room back in South Park, the impending Armageddon slapped them in the face. Damien was the one who opposed the notion of saving it the most, but everyone was resistant at one point or another.
The only thing that Christophe knew was that they were going to have to do it together, whether they liked it or not. And he certainly didn't like it.
A/N: Yes, this is a oneshot, so I'll know who the stupid ones are by their story alert subscriptions. I may or may not expand upon this in a separate multi chap, but if I do, it won't be in another year or so. Oh, well. This was a fun way to cure writer's block.