A/N: Sorry for the wait, it's been an awful last week blergh

Enjoy~

It was good to be on top.

Cartman tended to revel in every aspect of his work, from having the biggest office to having each client calling him Mr. Cartman; emphasizing the respect that he carried over them. He thoroughly enjoyed his daily routine of coming into the building and walking through his plethora of employees, getting greetings and nods all the way along. He'd worked like crazy throughout the years to earn what he'd had, finding his niche about five years down the road and letting the rest of the business run itself along like the well-oiled machine that he'd designed.

Anymore, he did little but meet and call with clients, sign a few papers that Kyle sent his way, and took upon any issue that he had a personal interest in. A few inner-office squabbles were brought to his door, easily fixed with as little as a scathing glare and a simple reminder that he held the cards at the end of the day.

He'd built CartAd from the ground up on his own, putting himself hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt at the bank right out of high school. A slick tongue and a cool head had snared him a pretty cash loan, his banker sending him out the door with confidence instilled in such a young man that his manager had nearly called him crazy for getting him to agree to making such a large leap of faith. After all, 60% of all small businesses tanked within three years, and in a town with such a wavering deficit as South Park, the chances of success continued to plummet.

But damn, had he proven them wrong. A few good calls and a few choice strategies had propelled him as the go-to man for potential companies. Walking up to buildings being constructed and sweet talking newbie owners had landed him a nice start-up package of clientele. Just some good, old-fashioned instinct told him that the foundations were the most important aspect to work with, and he'd been right on the money with that one. The last decade had been nothing but lucrative. He'd driven out all but one other agency, one that he let linger for the mere purpose of competitive pricing.

Even if it was from a niche market, he'd acquired his childhood dream: He held this town by the balls.

Of course, only one aspect of that truth was plainly visible to the general public. Side projects had to be a bit more discreet less it cause nothing but turmoil. But even well over seven years of playing that game had done nothing but heightened his clearly spelled-out authority over the city. If there was anything in the world that Eric Cartman could claim, it was that he knew how to get a job done. Didn't matter the cost, didn't matter the risk, and it certainly didn't matter what people he had to crush to get just what he wanted his grubby fingers wrapped around.

Toying with people was a game, one that he was the master of, learned from an early age and the talent only rising as the years had progressed. Some called it manipulation, Kyle, Stan, and Kenny called it being a sociopath. But Cartman? Cartman called it victory.

He fiddled aimlessly with the paper wrapping discarded from his overpriced breakfast sandwich, letting the crinkles fill the room as he played it in an unsteady rhythm. Lazily, he leaned back in his chair, listlessly scanning through emails as he chomped on hastily prepared egg and sausage. A few memos, a request to move a meeting time, and a handful of businesses requesting his attention. He smirked to himself, nodding in approval. This was what he was here for: The power. So many people making requests to him; for him. He held so many fates in his plump palms, with the simple decision of yes or no dictating just what path so many people would take. Dancing right into his hands or being swept aside as wastes of his time, it didn't matter in the end to him. What mattered was just what he got out of it: Seeing the faces of those either elated or broken-hearted at his ultimate conclusion.

A knock came at his door and he rolled his eyes, swallowing a bite and hitting the lock button beside him. "What?" he demanded impatiently. Mornings were not the time to bother him. He watched as Burke and Kashkov stepped through the doorway, both staring at him straight-on as they closed the barrier behind them. His lips quirked a bit. "Gentlemen," he greeted.

They glanced at each other before heading forward and sitting in the chairs across from him. "We got a problem," Burke said dryly.

Cartman rolled his eyes, "I'm not increasing your pay."

"You may have to," Kashkov frowned. "Ve found problem viz Ryzhevolosyy."

The brunette raised his brow. "Who?"

"Little number boy you make us vatch," he specified, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, Kahl," he snorted. "He's like, way fuckin' under six feet tall. I think you can take him-"

"Nyet," he cut him off sharply, Cartman shooting him a warning glance before Burke cleared his throat.

The man sighed, scratching at mouse brown stubble. "Look, he's got someone with him."

Cartman scoffed, "What? A fuckin' boyfriend?"

"Ve do not know," Kashkov grimaced. "But he eez getting help from heem."

The brunette narrowed his eyes, putting his sandwich down and folding his fingers, looking at the two of them intensely. "Who is he?"

Burke shrugged, "No fuckin' idea. Wearin' a cape."

"A... a cape?" he recoiled slightly at the abruptness. "What? Kahl into fucking roleplaying or-"

"We don't know," he emphasized irritably. "What we do know is that the little fuck is combing through files and found out you have more fuckin' people in the system than need-be."

Cartman bit his lip, tapping his finger on the desk and nodding softly to himself. "And the cape guy?"

"Vants to help little Ryzhevolosyy," the noirette grimaced. "Vants to play superhero."

"A name would be helpful," he said dryly.

Burke shrugged, "We have no idea. Didn't say it last night. All we fuckin' know about him is his suit isn't spandex it's rayon or some other faggot shit," he scowled.

The brunette sighed, rubbing his temple. "And this was at Kahl's house?" They nodded in confirmation and he hummed in thought, grabbing his phone and punching in a quick extension.

Two rings passed before a bored, "Yeah?" breeched the air.

"Larson, get up here," he ordered before slamming the phone down back to the receiver and looking between the two watching him attentively. "So. Jewboy is playing detective, huh?" he frowned.

Kashkov shrugged, "Da. Zough, he heet roadblock already."

Amber eyes brightened, "Oh?"

"Well, not quite," Burke muttered. "He did a background check on Larson," he gestured to the phone. "Found his past shit and his address."

Cartman scowled. He'd told Kyle to leave that whole mess alone. He thought he'd made that perfectly clear after screaming the redhead down and holding Kenny's precious center and a few other choice organizations over his weary head. The bleeding heart had no choice but to quietly comply and traipse back to his office. Now he was waltzing himself right into the corner; right into Cartman's dangerous line of sight.

"But he did figure out he can't afford to check out every name in your system," Burke continued tiredly.

He nodded, "Good, that'll slow his shit down."

Burke and Kashkov glanced at one another before settling their sights back on the frustrated man looking analytically at his desk. "It'd be easier to get rid of the kid," Burke commented offhandedly.

Cartman raised his head and blinked at the noise intruding his thought process, "What?"

He shrugged dismissively. "Get rid of him, get rid of your problem."

"Little Ryzhevolosyy von't know vhat heet heem," Kashkov added. "Needs lesson to stay in little room."

Cartman groaned and rolled his eyes, "I can't 'get rid' of Kahl. If he's not here, we lose the fucking numbers," he hissed, slamming his fist on the desk for emphasis. "He's integral to the whole fucking thing staying afloat. I don't have a fucking backup, he wasn't supposed to be able to catch this!"

"Well, he did," Burke replied. "So you better figure something out 'fore he sends the 5-0 to ya."

The brunette grimaced, "He won't get that far. I'll strangle the fuck myself before I let him send me to fuckin' prison."

"May have to," Kashkov scoffed. "Heem and Cape-boy know you are up to somezeeng."

A knock came and Cartman unlocked the door, the three of them glancing to the front of the room to see a disheveled Todd stepping through. The brunette waved him in and the man nodded gruffly. "Burke. Kashkov," he greeted before looking at Cartman. "What?"

"We have a problem," he said lowly. "Kahl is looking into you."

He sighed irritably and leaned his head back. "I fuckin' hate that fuckin' kid I swear," he muttered.

"You're gonna hate him even more if he keeps this up," he cocked his brow.

Todd looked back at the brunette, twisting his lips. "Want me to take care of him?"

"Is subtlety just lost on all of you?" Cartman hissed. "No, we can't kill Kahl... Not until I think of a backup, anyway," he muttered. "After that, I'll let the three of you smash his fucking face in, I don't fucking care. But for now, we have to work on the inside," he said firmly. "Larson, you're setting up a camera in his office."

He narrowed his eyes, "I don't fuckin' know how-"

"I'll leave you an instruction manual," he said through gritted teeth. "You'll put it in tonight. I already have his computer linked to mine to see what he's up to, so that's not an issue," he waved towards his monitor aimlessly.

"His home computer, too?" Burke quirked his brow.

Cartman paused before cursing sharply under his breath. "Okay, okay," he held his hands in front of himself to calm down. Getting overly frustrated wasn't going to do a damn thing but make this harder on all of them. He glanced at Burke and Kashkov, "If I lead you through how to get his laptop hooked to a server I set, can you break into his place and do so?"

The noirette rolled his eyes but nodded. "Yeah, shouldn't be too hard."

"Ve vill have to do eet vhen he eez home," Kashkov frowned. "He does not leave hees laptop vhen at vork."

"Then wait until he's asleep," he rolled his eyes.

"And if he wakes up?" Burke pressed.

He sighed exasperatedly. "Wear masks and knock him the fuck out and make it look like a fucking robbery, then! Or do something where he doesn't recognize you or know what you're doing! Jesus, do I have to run you through everything?" he hissed.

"Breaking in to hack isn't exactly what we usually do," Burke said sharply.

Todd nodded in agreement, "Besides, what'll that do about him looking into me?"

"You're going on vacation," he ordered lowly. "I don't care where you go, but you need to get out of town and lay low for awhile. If they know your address, chances are whoever this goddamn cape fag is is going to be looking for you. Install the camera tonight and leave. Do you understand?"

He nodded, "Yeah, I get it. What's watchin' him gonna do, though?"

Cartman simpered, shrugging slowly. "Keeps him right under my hand," he said cooly. "Fuckin' Jew probably thinks he's so crafty fuckin' hiding what he's doing at home and behind our little superhero," he mocked. "We'll figure him out after long and take 'em both down," he assured.

"And until then?" Burke hiked his brow.

The brunette's amber eyes smoldered with malicious promise. "Until then, let Kahl play detective. Then he'll no one to blame but himself when he can't get out."

Kyle was going out of his mind for probably the fifteenth time that day already, tearing open filing cabinets and quickly scanning through for one document that Butters apparently misplaced. He growled to himself, walking over to his conference table and snagging one of the plastic chairs, dragging it behind him with a pout. He was running late, needed to get his ass out the door for another charity meeting, but he couldn't go until this stupid paperwork could get to processing or Judy would have his balls in a vice.

He hopped up on the chair to read over the topmost drawer, chewing on his bottom lip as he shuffled through the organized disaster before him. He sighed, wondering if he could convince Cartman to lower the retention period and store everything not needing to be within his immediate reach in the goddamn warehouse.

"Did ya find it?" a timid voice called. He whirled to see Butters looking beyond guilty and he sunk a bit into himself. If it was Butters' fault, it's not like he meant to. And honestly, wasting precious energy on being mad at him of all people was ludicrous. He had way too much else on his plate to lose his cool at his bumbling assistant.

"No, are you sure you can't remember it?" he stressed.

Butters shook his head, fiddling with his fingers with a heavy heart. "N-no... They send us so many papers... I-I can't remember order numbers..."

"No one is expecting you to memorize that," he sighed, turning back and continuing to rapidly flip through. "But I do expect you to keep things in order, Butters."

Gnawing on his lip and shuffling his feet, he nodded in agreement. "I know. I'm really sorry, Kyle."

He turned to see his defeated posture and sighed to himself. "Hey," he caught his attention, worried hazel eyes locking in his own. Kyle forced that reassuring smile on his face, "Dude, this is the first time you have messed up that we've caught. And, hell, it may have been my fault," he shrugged. "I could've been tired and fucked up the placement, who knows," he waved it off. "If we can't find it, then Judy's just going to have to actually make fucking effort."

Butters broke into a tiny grin, "Well now, don't be crazy, Kyle. We all know she might break a nail or somethin'."

The redhead snorted, nodding in agreement. "You know what? Fuck it. We're going to say she didn't send us the paper so she needs to look at her archives. Why should we waste our time?"

"Lying can be a federal offense you know," a teasing voice breached the air, both of them looking to see Stan in the doorframe smirking.

Kyle returned the expression, masking his surprise at the unexpected visitor. "Not when it's to a grade-A cunt. That should be an automatic extrication."

He chuckled, "True."

"How ya doin', Stan?" Butters smiled.

The noirette shrugged, "Doin' fine. Just stoppin' by between cases."

"How excitin'!" he clapped, beyond enthused for tales of life outside the humdrum office.

Stan rolled his eyes, "Not really. One case is a stolen car and another is an underaged smoking deal. Nothin' grand, I can say that much."

Kyle scoffed a bit, "Oh, how I long for your days of monotony." He looked at Butters and sighed, "Butters, go tell Judy to find her own fuckin' papers. I have to leave."

He nodded affirmatively, "All righty then. Good luck, Kyle. And... Sorry again," he winced. Kyle just waved it off and the blonde made way to head out of the room, saying his goodbyes to Stan and heading down the hall.

The best friends stared at each other before Stan grinned, "So, how's it goin', Shorty?"

Kyle scowled, curling his finger. "C'mere."

Stan laughed, stepping inside and closing the door, heading his way. "Let me remind you that assaulting an officer is also a federal offense."

"Not if that officer is practically related to me," Kyle said dryly. Stan stepped up beside him and the redhead gestured at his drawer. "Can you read the folders?" he demanded.

He looked in front of him, the tips of the files just barely grazing his vision. "Erm... no."

"Yeah, no," he scoffed, hopping down and slamming the drawer shut, dragging his chair back to its place. "You can barely read them, so how do you think I feel? Hell, pretty sure even Ken wouldn't be able to see 'em without the chair," he pouted.

Stan snorted, "Ken's a half an inch shorter than me. You're like, a foot."

"All right, Motherfucker, you take that back," he snapped, pointing at him angrily.

The man guffawed, nodding with a wide grin. "I'm sorry. Eight inches," he drawled, remembering hitting his height peak in high school and Kyle, being the shortest of the four of them, demanding they keep his height difference accurate at the very least when they were teasing him over it. That and to never use his head as an armrest. Kenny had found that one out the hard way.

"Damn fuckin' straight eight inches," he nodded curtly. Stan continued to laugh and the redhead walked over, leaning against his desk and staring at him, waiting for him to calm down. When he simmered in the slightest, Kyle cleared his throat. "So... why're you here?" he questioned.

Stan paused and shrugged, "Can't I come see you?"

"I'm not complaining, but this is the first time you've shown up without calling me first," he raised his brow suspiciously.

"Sorry, I forgot seeing you requires an appointment," he rolled his eyes.

He chuckled quietly, "Stan, it pretty much does. You know this. And, honestly, I'm already kind of running late for a meeting. So unless there's something pertinent here, I really need to get going."

"I wanted to make sure you were all right," he answered softly. "You were so... off when you were out with me and Ken... You weren't acting like yourself."

He cocked his head. "Why? Because I said I'd be fine with a hooker?"

"No," he sighed irritatedly. "Remind me to bash Kenny's skull in for getting you to his mindset."

Kyle smirked, "Well you were busy fuckin' Wendy and makin' babies, Man. Had to hang out with someone."

"Uh huh," he said dryly. "Anyway. I mean aside from that. You looked... really depressed," he winced.

The younger stared at him for a moment, a long breath leaving his nose. "And you told Wendy and you came to the consensus you needed to make sure I wasn't planning on offing myself, right?"

"I didn't say-"

"Because that's your fuckin' pattern, isn't it?" he glared. "Every few months you show up to my house out of the blue 'just to check up on me'. Decided on a scenery change?" he drawled.

Stan frowned guiltily. "Kyle, we just want to make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine," he insisted. "Stan, shit's just crazy right now."

"And what's so crazy?" he demanded harshly, the tone sending Kyle back a bit.

"What?"

He stared him down, deep blue eyes piercing Kyle well enough for him to understand right away what made his best friend so damn good at interrogating. "Things are always crazy, but it's getting worse. Why is it? Do I need to fucking talk to Fatass?"

"Oh my god, you're not my mother," he glared.

"No, I'm the guy who's watching you fuckin' work and drink yourself to death!" he snapped.

Kyle pouted, "I am not... At least... Not the drinking part," he winced, rubbing his arm self-consciously.

Stan watched him carefully, years of experience talking people into confessions screaming one thing loud and clear: Kyle was hiding something. And it was something big. Something eating away at his conscious, the one that Kyle usually wore on his sleeve. But something here he was trying to lock away for himself, failing miserably at it. "Kyle," he said softly, the redhead refusing to look at him, keeping his eyes locked on the thin carpeting of his office floor. "Ky, Dude, I just want to help," he assured him. "And something's not right here, it'd take an idiot not to notice."

Kyle was silent, continuing to stare at the floor, jaw trembling. He had two very clear options here, both with pros, but more importantly cons that terrified him beyond all else. Stan was his best friend, had been for almost three decades at this point... But he was also a cop. The kind of person he was trying to avoid until he got his name in the clear. Mysterion warned him of telling anyone, Kenny told him it was up to him. He couldn't decide who to go with, whether it be Kenny who knew only the surface but Kyle trusted, or the one that was so deeply intwined with what was happening he was as up-to-date as Kyle himself.

Stan watched him, recognizing at once an immense inner struggle racking through his friend and he winced. He cleared his throat, moving to stand and lean against the desk next to him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Ky," he tried again. "Dude, tell me what's going on."

The redhead bit his lip, looking up at the eyes just mere seconds ago staring him down like death itself transformed into the expression he'd been greeted with upon countless fights with his mother and break-ups that helped him through the turmoil. He gulped, fingers digging into his arms. "I... I can't tell you..." Stan opened his mouth before he continued with a soft, "Not here."

"Not here?" he repeated. "Why?"

"Stan, I just can't," he said nervously, glancing at the door quickly, Stan's stomach twisting at the action. He'd seen that on too many a paranoid person. Seen from victims telling him of violent encounters on a constant vigilance that their assaulter could be right behind the door of his interrogation room. Kyle wasn't just angry, he wasn't just tired, he was scared.

"What is he doing to you?" he questioned lowly, moving in front of him and squeezing his shoulders. "Kyle, you can tell me."

"Not. Here," he repeated through his teeth. "Tonight."

Stan blinked in surprise. "You wanna meet somewhere tonight?"

Kyle nodded. "But... I need you to answer something first." He finally managed to raise his eyes and lock sight with Stan, taking a long breath as the noirette nodded in confusion. "If I told you something was... off... would you look at it as a cop or as just you?"

The question nearly knocked the poor detective for a loop, looking at Kyle in stunned silence, before stealing a glance at the door. "What is he doing?" he hissed.

"Stan," he said desperately. "Answer me."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose with one hand with a groan, keeping the other planted on Kyle's shoulder. "Depends on the situation, Kyle."

"I can't have you as cop Stan first," he said softly. "I need you to be you before things blow up in my face... Stan, something's really wrong," he said, voice cracking. "And... and I need help. But you have to know that I'm really putting myself on the line here even mentioning it to you."

Stan stared at him, wrought with confusion and anxiety as he watched complete misery swathing over his best friend, taking note of the light purple bags under his bright eyes, stark red veins cresting through towards the green. Whatever it was was not boding well in the redhead, and he needed to know just what he was dealing with... But he also could read that apprehension a mile off. Kyle knew more than he did about whatever situation he was in, and he apparently knew that talk of it in the building put him into a level of danger, whatever it might be. He twisted his lips. Friend Stan could come out later tonight over this discussion, right now, procedure had to take some precedence with this kind of behavior. "All right, I'm not going to make you say anything about it right now," he assured him. "But I need to know, do I need to get you out of here?"

"I don't think he knows," he answered softly. "Well... not that I..." he sighed, shoulders dropping defeatedly with his head. "Just meet me somewhere tonight," he said dismally. "And... can you promise me something?"

"Anything," he nodded.

"Be open minded... b-because what I have to ask you isn't the... most ethical of things," he said guiltily.

Stan backed up a bit, "Ky, I'm not killing anyone."

"Not that," he hissed, looking up at him and sighing. "Just promise me."

He nodded once again, "I promise. We'll talk it over and get you through this, all right?" Kyle gulped and nodded back, biting his lip. "Skeeter's again?" Stan offered. "I have a feeling you're gonna need a few drinks for whatever this is."

"You have no idea," he whispered. He glanced up at his clock and ran his fingers through his hair tiredly. "Look, I have to get packed up and go. I'm really late for my meeting."

"All right, all right," he said quietly. "Are you gonna be okay?"

"I don't know," he responded honestly. "There's a lot going on."

Stan stared at him for a moment before pulling him into one of their trademarked two-second hugs. "Any more than two and Stan officially wants his dick in Kyle's ass," Kenny had told them, and for some reason, they'd just stuck to that ridiculous logic throughout the last decade. But it was always more than enough for either of them.

"We'll figure this out," he promised. "I'll see you tonight. Six thirty?"

He smiled meekly and nodded, "I'll try to be on time."

"I'm not getting my hopes up," he smirked lightly. "Call me if you need me," he informed him, moving to start walking towards the door.

"Will do... thanks, Stan," he said softly.

Stan just flashed him an easygoing smile, making his way out of Kyle's office and into the hall. He stepped out of view of the window, giving himself a good ten seconds before peeking back in through the pane. He watched with a wince at Kyle dragging his hands down his face before taking a shuddery breath and trying to get himself to calm down. Stan grimaced, stepping away from the window and heading back towards the stairs. He snuck a quick glance towards the turn of the hall to Cartman's office and glared. 'Better hope I wasn't lying, you piece of shit,' he thought bitterly. 'I might end up killing you after all.'

A/N: So in the initial story plan, Stan didn't have much of a part. In fact he wasn't a cop, he ran a fucking hippie charity. Hurray for spur-of-the-moment decisions? (Actually it's been fun reworking around the concept and I like the idea of cop Stan so I mean... Small victories)

Thanks for R&Ring!