A/N: This guy is split into two sections jsyk
Enjoy~
Glancing down at his phone for the third time in twenty minutes, ears blocking out the hustle and bustle of the restaurant patrons surrounding them, Stan's lips fell into a grim, straight line. "Why is he always late?" he grumbled.
"Because he works nonstop," Wendy chuckled from beside him, brushing hair out of her eyes and sighing tiredly. "You know Fatboy doesn't let him just punch out at five."
He nodded solemnly in agreement, looking at the preschooler sitting across from them in her own booth, tiny tongue sticking out as she drew in heavy blue strokes over the back of her play-mat. He smirked, "Whatcha drawin', Sam?"
She looked up, steely blue eyes alit with inspiration. "Flowers," she proclaimed, showing him her latest masterpiece.
"Lookin' good," he smiled, turning into a smirk as he looked to his wife. "She totally got your hippie genes."
"Oh and you're one to talk," she rolled her eyes amusedly.
He cocked his brow superiorly, leaning back and taking a sip of his beer. "Hey, my job involves a gun, all right? That's as un-hippie as you can get."
The woman scoffed, "Stanley, you haven't used that gun in almost three years."
"Still carry it, it counts," he said smartly, sticking his tongue out at her childishly.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" a hurried voice appeared approaching from the front of the restaurant, the three of them looking to see Kyle rushing towards them, glasses askew.
"Uncle Kyle!" the child cheered, fumbling out of her seat and running to meet him halfway.
He grinned tiredly, bending down and grabbing her to heft up and continue back to the table. "Hey, Sammie," he cooed, smirking at a large hug around his neck as he walked.
She pulled back and fixed his glasses with fidgeting fingers. "You're late," she informed him.
Kyle sighed, nodding. "I know, I know. Your dad wanna kill me?"
"Yep," she laughed. He joined her, making way over to the two of them watching amusedly as he placed Sam down in her seat before plopping down beside her and sighing exhaustedly.
He winced, "Sorry."
"It's fine, we ordered for you," Stan rolled his eyes. "What kept you so busy this time?"
He cracked his neck, looking as a waitress approached them, asking for his drink order. "Same as him," he pointed to Stan's beer tiredly. She nodded and bustled off, Kyle turning back and shrugging listlessly. "My meeting ran over. Someone fu-" he stopped, looking at Sam's attentive face and cleared his throat, "messed up a count during inventory and the world may as well be blowing up," he gestured dramatically.
Wendy smirked, leaning her chin into her palm and staring at him. "It's always somethin', isn't it, Kyle?"
He shied down guiltily and shrugged again. "Fatboy has me doing so much," he sighed. "It'd be different if Butters was... ya know... useful," he rolled his eyes. "But no, I'm stuck with an assistant who doesn't know the first thing about numbers. There's only so much filing and data entry you can hand a guy, you know?" He rubbed his temple, brow creasing as he recognized the beginning of his nightly headache trying to take hold.
They both smiled sympathetically, watching as Kyle snagged his beer as soon as it hit the table and taking a few long gulps, tension leaving his shoulders in the slightest. Stan cleared his throat, "Least it's Friday?" he winced.
He laughed from behind his bottle, pulling it from his lips and shaking his head. "Maybe for you. I have stuff to do from home."
Wendy watched his fingers drumming against his bottle anxiously, face falling in concern, "Honey, you need a vacation."
He rolled his eyes, "What would I do with a vacation? Go spend it with my parents? Lie around the house with nothing to do while everyone else is working? Maybe just drink myself into a coma in my bathtub," he scoffed.
Stan frowned, "Kyle, it was just a suggestion. Don't get snippy."
The redhead paused, looking between the two of them and gulping, staring down at his beer listlessly. "I'm sorry. I'm just...so stressed," he sighed. "But if I'm not working then I'm doing nothing and that's even more stressful and..." he leaned back and slunk in his seat, thumb fiddling with the label leaking with condensation. "Better to be working than sitting in silence, you know?"
Wendy chuckled, "We don't, unfortunately. We have her," she gestured to the girl back to happily drawing, blissfully ignorant of her uncle's pseudo-breakdown right beside her. "Haven't had a quiet moment in five years."
Kyle shrugged sheepishly, "It's different when it's family keeping you occupied though. I mean... I would imagine."
Stan nodded softly in agreement, "Yeah, it is. You know how I was when I was on suspension and she was at school," he pointed to his daughter.
He cocked his brow, "Yeah. You were calling me telling me you actually got to watch your DVR'd football and breaking your leg was the best thing in the world that happened to you."
"Excuse me?" Wendy drawled, looking at the man beside her wryly.
Stan shot Kyle a look before smiling sheepishly at his wife, "After Sam being born and marrying you, of course," he parried off.
"Nice try, Buddy," she scoffed.
He pouted, "Wends, I haven't watched a full game since then, cut me some slack, here."
Wendy shook her head, looking back at Kyle watching the show amusedly. "Word of advice, Hon: Having someone always there when you get home isn't always the greatest thing."
"Ah, spoken like a person who's never lived on their own," Kyle toasted her. "I'd take your ridiculous squabbles over the 'proper shade of throw pillows'," he mocked one of their infamously ridiculous arguments and sent them both into a cringing fit, "over having to have the radio on nonstop for some noise any day."
Stan smiled at him sadly, "Get a cat."
"Okay, one: they're not always noisy and stick to themselves for the most part," he said dryly. "Two: with my schedule? I think that counts as animal abuse to leave them alone for so long."
Wendy crossed her arms, giving a small shrug, "You could try dating."
"Wendy, I'm in a relationship with my adding machine and it might rebel if I cheat on it," he rolled his eyes. "Maybe I can convince Cartman to either get me a new assistant or send Butters off for a few weeks of training. Not like I haven't earned it," he sighed.
"Butters is a dork," Sam said, never taking her eyes off her mat. "Daddy says so."
"Stanley," Wendy glared at him.
He shrugged innocently, "What? He's such a dork."
"It's true. I spend forty hours a week with him, I'd know," Kyle nodded in agreement, taking another long swig.
"He says you're a nerd, Uncle Kyle," Sam sang.
He snorted and shrugged, "Well, I can't deny that one."
Stan sighed, looking at the girl humorlessly. "Sam, stop telling people what I tell you about them."
"No, no, I'm curious," Kyle waved him off, looking at her amusedly. "What's he said about Uncle Kenny?"
She looked up, trying to remember, tapping her crayon on the table in an unsteady rhythm. "He's...a..." she squinted, "dickhead."
"STANLEY!" Wendy snapped, Kyle falling back into his seat in hysteric laughter, Sam watching him with a wide smile. She'd made her uncle happy, and her little mind just couldn't be more pleased with such a fact. "Samantha, don't say that," her mother turned her attention back to the girl who pouted at being reprimanded.
She pointed accusingly at her father as he groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Daddy said it!"
"Daddy isn't very smart sometimes," she said through gritted teeth.
"Uncle Kyle thought it was funny," she whined.
"Whooaaa, don't bring me into it," Kyle chuckled. "I'm just an observer."
Stan sighed in aggravation, "So, I actually wanted to talk to you about something if you're done digging my grave, Broflovski," he scowled.
Kyle grinned innocently, "You invited me, blame yourself." He chuckled at his glowering and took another sip of his beer, "Okay, what's up? Need a sitter?" he jerked his head towards the girl leaning against him and turning her short attention span back to trying to figure out her wordfind.
"Nah," he shook his head. "Actually it's something-"
"Maybe you shouldn't, Stan," Wendy interjected. "He has enough going on."
The redhead looked between the both of them confusedly, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "What? What are you wanting?"
Stan shrugged at his wife, "Can't hurt to ask, Wends," he murmured before facing his best friend again. "So, you know our K-9 unit?" he asked.
"The one you whined that you couldn't combine with your job when you became a detective? Yes," he teased, Stan subtly flipping him off out of Sam's line of vision.
"So, we held this drive..." he started slowly, watching Kyle's eyes beginning to gloss over exhaustively at the mere mention. He winced, reading his posture like a damn book. "Okay, you know what, never mind."
"No, no, keep going," he rolled his hand, finishing off his beer and placing it on the edge of the table, watching him expectantly. "You want me to see if I can finagle the department into our clientele."
He cringed guiltily, "Ky, forget it. I'll ask around to see if there's another company we can work with."
He waved his hands in front of him, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. "No, Dude, it's fine. I'll find a way. What's it for in particular?"
"The dogs need kevlar vests," he relayed quietly.
Kyle nodded, grabbing his phone out of his slacks and sighing, flipping it on and placing it on the table in front of him. Sam's eyes caught the glow and she smiled, "Can I play a game, Uncle Kyle?"
"After this," he promised, grunting in surprise as she clambered onto his lap, staring at the device with interest as he switched on his scheduling app. He smiled fondly, patting her thick coal hair twisted into a fishtail braid and careening down her back. He bounced her on his leg a bit, thanking the waitress as she replaced his drink and watching the calender load, slipping his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and reading over Sam's shoulder. He sighed, popping his lips as he searched through. "Okay, I have a meeting with Kenny on Monday... Another with a charity on Tuesday..." He looked back up and shrugged, "Only day I can do this is Wednesday unless you're okay with putting it off for awhile."
Stan frowned, "Kyle, if it's that hard to work in then I'll find-"
"Look," he held up his hand firmly. "The police are a little more important than me working on promoting a club or something, all right? We'll make it work, I'll get Cartman to sign off on it, we'll get your dogs dressed. Wednesday at four?"
He sighed, nodding tiredly. "Yeah, that's fine." He watched as Kyle quickly entered it into his phone, eyes lingering on the filled date blocks and he and Wendy exchanging a worried glance. Kyle switched off the app and handed Sam the phone, watching her pull up one of the mindless puzzle games he had; pure distraction tools he used only when waiting for particularly large files to load up as he worked.
"Honey-" Wendy started before green eyes flickered up to her sharply.
"Wends, I'm fine," he muttered, wrapping his arms around Sam's waist protectively and putting his chin on her head, watching her giddily doing away with rows of neon bubbles. "It keeps me busy."
"Busy doesn't mean happy, Kyle," she said gently.
He shrugged, "I didn't go into accounting for the wild parties. I knew what I was getting myself into."
"You didn't know you'd be working yourself to death for Cartman," Stan reminded him, watching Kyle tense in the slightest before forcing himself to relax enough for another sip of beer.
The redhead sighed, smacking his lips. "As much as he's paying me I really have no room to complain. How many other people our age are making this much, you know?" he winced with a shrug. "And I live well beneath my means so I'm setting myself up for a nice retirement way down the line."
"You plan on staying there until you retire?" he blinked.
He shook his head, "No. But a few years with him making this salary and I'm bound to find some other company willing to give me the same if not more," he forced a meek smile on his face. "I'll find a balance somewhere. I mean... Maybe business will slow down a little or... or maybe I can..." he trailed off, blinking down at his phone in Sam's little hands.
"You're killing yourself," Wendy said quietly.
"No, I'm making way for my future," he said staunchly, reiterating the same talk he gave himself every morning as his aching body begged him to just go back to bed and never emerge from the covers. "And most of what I'm doing is for charity," he emphasized. "That's so important, you know? I can't tell myself that what I'm doing is a useless job if most of my work is revolving around good causes."
Stan took a long breath through his nose and shook his head. "Whatever gets you out of bed in the morning, Ky." The redhead stared at him in shock before slinking again. Of course Stan would know that. Stan always knew those kinds of things. Stan sighed, "Kyle, promise you'll take a day off sometime soon," he winced, watching his best friend's eyes rising back into his pathetically. "Just take a Friday, have a three day weekend, and chill," he begged. "You, me, and Ken can go bar hopping or something," he shrugged.
He chuckled, "Not much my style, Stan. I'm much more a solo drinker," he tilted his bottle towards him. Their faces fell further and he cleared his throat in embarrassment. "Look, I'll... consider it," he conceded, just wanting those damn pitying looks wiped off their faces. "But right now it's month end and I have a new charity wanting in and apparently Ken's having issues at the center," he sighed. "My hands are tied, I can't leave that for someone else to take care of."
"Fine," Stan sighed. "Just... remember that I can arrest you," he said nonchalantly. "If I have to do that to get you out of work a few days, I will."
Kyle smirked, "Only if you promise to keep it out of my co-worker's sights. I have enough issues with 'em."
He laughed, "Promise." Kyle turned his attention back downwards watching with a grin as Sam talked herself through a particularly challenging move and letting his shoulders drop. Chill. Right. He sighed, smiling softly while Sam showed him her victorious defeat of level 43.
'Maybe when the crisis' stop,' he thought tiredly, letting his eyes slip closed for the briefest of moments, wallowing in the solitude of his mind as he was so very used to. 'This is better than nothing.'
He grimaced, quietly sweeping around the side of a dilapidated building, his nose scrunching at the smell of rusted innards and rotting wood paneling the windows. His ears perked at the sound of rummaging along the next wall, folding in his lips, cheeks beginning to itch irritably under the modified balaclava covering his face. Mercedes told him that this was where deals were made, at least a hefty amount of them.
Mysterion sighed tiredly under the sound of their movement. Working in this way was always a pain. It could never be as simple as it looked in the damn comics. The main boss wasn't merely separated from him by just one group of thugs. No, instead he had to work his way through the complexities of the criminal hierarchy. He'd left the cops the easy pickin's, the solo or tag-teaming crooks who operated on the simplicity of 'get in, get out'. The leader was merely the one who came up with the plan, and those involved were in it for their own benefits, no doubt ratting out their counterparts should only one be apprehended in a scuffle.
The underbelly of a city though? Never so cut and dry. Mysterion found himself dealing with a nepotistic society, essentially a town within a town. He couldn't just burst into the 'mayor's' office and demand justice. He had to worm his way through the citizens, then the reporters, then the security guards at the gates, then the office staff and so on and so forth until he finally found himself face-to-face with whomever was at the top. It was a more than complicated system, one that he'd been working through for nearly five months with this particular ring. It had all his attention, however. Seeing the interweaving of their little society was almost an awe-inspiring thing. The frustration of never getting his man was easily pressed down when he found himself time and again not coming to an underboss or even a damn guard of said underboss. Instead he was picking off lackeys one by one, worming his way through the various echelons in baby steps towards unraveling the whole damn tapestry.
Mysterion held his breath, double checking the security of his heavy hood before peeking around the side of the abandoned property, staying flat against the wall with fingers pressed firmly against the brick. He looked to see a mere two people standing and talking in harsh, whispered tones.
He craned his neck, frowning at his inability to make out the words. A quick glance around showed a stack of decaying pallets set in a large tower closer to the action. With silent fingers, he grabbed his cape and tossed the heavy fabric around the front of his throat to drape gracefully down his back and crouching down. With ever-careful precision he made his way around scrap nails and disarrayed stones, keeping his sharp sight locked on the two men enthralled in their quiet conversation.
Biting his lip as he picked up the toes of his boots one at a time, praying that they wouldn't come down with a heavy thud from a mistimed push forward, he edged his way to his hiding spot. He finally allowed himself to let his breath flow out of his mouth as he made it behind the stack of wooden panels, unwrapping his cape and letting it quietly slither back down his body. He narrowed his eyes, looking through slats of the splintering maple as the men continued along without the slightest indication of suspicion.
"What sect?" one asked.
"Far as I can tell, this one's hittin' Bailey," the other responded. Mysterion twisted his lips, having estimated well enough that this operation branched far out of South Park, but not liking hearing it from a firsthand source. That just meant more trouble and more people to have to take down.
"He's got orders t' get through the county seat," the first continued, Mysterion's mouth dropping in the slightest, eyes narrowing. "Got himself some kind of guy there who'll take it t' Denver."
The hero bit his cheek, mind whirring. The county seat would be a bitch to infiltrate, way too many people to narrow it down too easily. Given, if this was just another goddamn errand boy way down the ladder, this 'guy' of theirs was the least of his concerns. He was far more curious about the one with the intel. He had to have connections to at least someone in the chain of command judging by the absolute confidence he was using to spit out his information.
"Take it to six, he'll take it to thirty eight, and it'll go to fourteen from there. They'll figure out the rest."
He blinked, biting his knuckle lightly. What was he even listening to? How many people altogether? Thirty eight couldn't be their cusp, not if it wasn't a final destination, right? But if it was... His shoulders sunk. This was going to take a hell of a lot longer than expected. He knew well enough he was dealing with a long list, but forty people and only managing to track down one, maybe two on a good streak each week? This would take forever.
He snapped himself out of it, watching the second man mutter something and shake his head, subtly grabbing a large bag of something from the first's hands and shoving it into a backpack. He was handed a folded paper, the 'leader' nodding to him, repeating his numbers and gesturing towards the street. Confirmations were mumbled and the second straightened himself up, heading out away from the building.
Mysterion narrowed his eyes, watching the remaining man carefully as he pressed a folder down into his own bag, clicking his tongue as he worked. Mysterion waited, listening for the quick footsteps of the other to fade out of earshot before turning his attention back and nodding to himself. He quickly shifted his weight, moving himself sideways and circling around objects strewn about the lot, closing in on his prey. He smirked as the man sighed in aggravation, fighting with a zipper on his bag. Perfect.
A quick swoop to the back offered him clear visual as he stalked out of hiding. His shoulders rolled back, his legs keeping steady as he crept forward, tonguing over his teeth. One shot. He didn't know how well this man could scream, if his little buddy would come running back to be his fucking shining knight. He had to make this fast.
He bent his fingers, circulation flowing and adrenaline readying him as his breathing became excitedly shallow. He made it to only two feet behind the distracted man and held his tongue. 'And...GO,' he ordered himself, launching forward and moving his hand up to slap across the man's mouth.
A large yelp of surprise came and went as Mysterion pivoted to his side, shoving him down and bringing his knee onto his stomach, slamming his head against the pavement and leaning down towards him. "All right," he growled. "We got somethin' to discuss."
The man furrowed his brow, shock dying and being quickly replaced with fury. He brought his hands up and Mysterion glared, grabbing his cape and shoving it into the man's mouth to grip his arms and press them down over his head. He rolled his eyes, bearing his weight down as the man hissed and garbled unintelligibly through his cape. "Look, do ya mind not chewin' through my stuff?" he said dryly. "I ain't got a gag on me, gotta be resourceful."
He continued to squirm, Mysterion snapping his arms over his head and pressing his wrists together, wincing as he struggled to keep him in place and snag his zip-ties from his cape. "Stop movin' or you're goin' to jail with broken legs," he hissed, managing to secure one wrist in the plastic, the crook shifting his weight and trying to shove his knee off of him. "Stop," Mysterion demanded, punching his nose and sending his head back against the pavement yet again. The man groaned, yelling through his daze as Mysterion twisted his remaining hand into the plastic and ripped the cord rigidly.
"Come on you," Mysterion muttered, standing and grabbing his wrists, dragging his flailing form over to the pallet stack. He bent down, roughly grabbing the man's collar and yanking him up, sliding his arms under the thin opening beneath a pallet's legs. He moved him until his head bashed against the wood, the collection shaking in the slightest before settling.
Mysterion watched him regaining his bearings, smirking down at him. "You move too much, Buddy and all these pallets are gonna fall on ya," he quirked his brow, pointing at the stack of heavy tables towering above him. The crook paused, glancing up at the pile and narrowing his eyes, an angry breath leaving his nose as he looked back at the shadowy figure with the cocky voice. Mysterion knelt down next to him, flicking his forehead. "So, you cooperate with me and I don't push them on you. How's that for a trade?"
He ripped his cape out of the man's mouth, watching the fury settling in as he tried to spit out the taste of the fabric. "The fuck are you doing?" he hissed. "You wantin' t' get killed?"
Mysterion rolled his eyes, "I really love how pretty much all of you say that. No, I'm wantin' some goddamn answers. You're fuckin' around in my town, Buddy. I ain't gonna let it fly."
He huffed out a sarcastic laugh. "Your town?" he repeated. "Please. No one even knows your name."
The hero smiled and shrugged, "Nothing wrong with keepin' it on the down-low. Apparently you know who I am though," he raised his brow, watching his face falling into a grim line. "And that's all I need, I just need for the pieces of shit to know that I'm out here. Nameless or not, they know there's a threat."
The man rolled his eyes back at him, "You've taken out fuckin' ten people. From one sect. Big fuckin' deal."
"Well it's about to be eleven," he hissed, wrapping his fingers through his hair and shoving his head back against the rickety wood. "How many sects am I missing out on?" he demanded.
He smirked, "Let's just say you're only in the kiddie pool, Buddy," he mocked. "Think drugs are the only operation? Think again."
Mysterion gritted his teeth, tightening his fingers. "Give me some names, you fuck."
"Yeah, right," he scoffed. "Not fucking happening."
The hero growled lowly, reaching back and snagging his gun from his belt, placing it down against his forehead, watching the fear spring into muddled eyes all at once. He smirked. Regardless of whether it was a saint or a mob boss, human instinct just couldn't be escaped. Everyone was always nothing but talk until a gun was in the equation. "Now. Let's try again," he cooed, tapping his forehead. "I'd like some names."
He snarled, "I ain't got names! I'm a fuckin' cash runner!"
He narrowed his eyes, "Cash runner?"
"I fuckin' give people the money to buy supplies. I don't ask questions, I just take my cut and go," he snapped.
"Who gives you the money in the first place?" he demanded.
"Depends on the job," he rolled his eyes. "Look, I don't even know what they're fuckin' buyin' half the time. My boss' boss gets fucking instructions and it just passes down to me and then to the buyers, all right? You're way off course with me."
He scoffed, "No, I think I'm right where I need to be. Any of you is just a gold mine of intel. Girl who was nothing but a prostitute gave me your little locale here."
"Well the bimbo didn't tell ya that I ain't got any more connections than she does," he growled.
"Maybe not you, but your connections might," he countered, hitting him with the muzzle lightly against his skull. "What were the numbers you told that guy?" he jerked his head towards the street.
He was silent for a few moments before he sighed, the cooled metal digging deeper against his skin. "Instruction numbers," he muttered.
"Little out-of-order, dontcha think?" he scoffed.
"Call it a scavenger hunt for anyone who isn't part of the group and tries to track us down," he said dryly.
Mysterion nodded, "So, are they just false leads or ambush sites?"
"Depends on the site," he said innocently. "One leads you to a fuckin' park, another leads you to a meth den, depends on your luck."
"Well luckily I'm more than adept with dealing with meth dens," he growled lowly. "I want your boss' name."
"I told you, I ain't got-"
"Fine," he cut him off coldly. "I want to know where it is he gives you your instructions."
He scoffed, "You think I'm stupid?"
"I think that you don't want to die," he emphasized. "Would ya like it nice and quick through the head?" he asked, tapping his skull pointedly. "Or do ya wanna be crushed and fight for a few minutes? Either way, you don't give me my intel, and you ain't walkin' outta here, Buddy. If you ain't got names, then you ain't got friends in this business. These fucks really worth your fuckin' life?"
A few moments of silence passed between them, the man slinking down against the ground and sighing to himself. "We meet on Wednesdays," he muttered. "Ten o'clock, here and alone."
"You hold onto the money for that long and don't try to take off with it?"
"I ain't stupid, I ain't getting killed," he mumbled.
He nodded, "Where did you send that other guy? What locations?"
The man shrugged all he could from his compromised position. "I just get the numbers, I don't look at the sheets. Makes it so I know too much. Ya know, in case this happens," he jerked his head up towards the hero who chuckled.
"True," he mused. "That it?"
"I told ya, I don't do much of nothin'," he sighed. "Just some easy money."
"Never as easy as it sounds, is it?" he scoffed, the man shrugging again. "How far up the ladder is your boss?"
He looked at him and narrowed his eyes, "No idea. I just figured he's a grunt a step above me."
"Only so many spots that can go up to the top," he said dryly.
"I ain't got an exact number for ya," he said irritably. "Look, I ain't got nothin' else. I just run the fuckin' money."
Mysterion nodded softly to himself, glancing around the vacant lot and sighing tiredly. "Shame, coulda done somethin' way better with your time, ya know. 'Stead you get to go to jail."
He rolled his eyes, "Won't be the first time."
"It usually isn't," he murmured, looking at the man's defeated slouch and shaking his head. Letting his mind go through a blueprint of the town, figuring out the best way to get the man securely and secretly back to the police's 'dumping grounds', as he called them, he found himself growing worried of what could be laid out before him. 'Eleven down,' he thought, eyes glazing exhaustively. 'Who the fuck knows how many more to go.'
A/N: Hurray for my overworked boys
Thanks for R&Ring!