A/N: Enjoy!

Vaguely, he wondered if this was how people viewed his natural state: Trembling from nerves and exhaustion, clutching a folder in his hand so tightly it was a marvel that his fingers hadn't slipped right through the stack yet. He leaned against his car, staring at the old sign for Skeeter's, the 'k' flickering with a faded red neon glow. Kyle gulped, looking into his driver's seat and feeling the apprehension rising again. He could just get in his car and drive home, tell Stan his ramblings from earlier were nothing more than a delusional circuitous speech brought on by long nights and throwing out Stan's own little alcoholic excuse. That was it, he could just blame the vodka and feign coming to work hungover and disoriented...

He paused, looking at the thick folder and gulping. He'd never believe him. And Kyle needed the help. Right now, he had companies and money and Mysterion waiting for him to figure things out, get it all moving so the vigilante could pick up some of his own slack. And the only way to do that was with a slew of background checks. And the only way to do that... Was with a cop.

Kyle took a long breath, straightening himself up and heading towards the door, entire body tensed and awaiting an attack brought about by imaginary paranoia. He pushed inside, nose crinkling at the smell of stale cigarettes still baked into the walls and flooring from before the outlawing a decade before that nearly caused a riot. Quiet murmurs of half-slurred conversations spread through the establishment, green eyes flittering around the room before landing on Stan sitting alone at a booth, typing away on his phone.

He bit his lip, taking a peek at his own phone. Only six minutes late. A record by his standards. Of course the one time he's a nervous wreck about seeing someone he manages to arrive only fashionably late. He rolled his eyes at himself, setting out through the floor and heading towards his friend before a hand caught his forearm and he glanced behind him in fright, blinking in shock at a familiar face smirking at him as they were set to leave the bar. "Dad?"

"What're you doin' here, Kyle?" he asked. "Figured you'd still be at work."

He cleared his throat and shrugged. "Managed to get out at a decent time." Of all the times, this could not have happened at a worse one. He should've figured. Coming to Skeeter's two nights out of the week definitely ran up the probability of running into his father and...

"Kyle!" another voice popped up, Kyle grunting as Randy Marsh slapped his shoulder.

He smiled meekly, "Hey, Mr. Marsh. How are you?"

"Good, good," he nodded. "You?"

"Busy per the usual," he shrugged awkwardly. This was not aiding his nerves in the slightest. He glanced past him, seeing Kenny's dad lingering behind them staring. "Uh, hi, Mr. McCormick," he waved. The man grunted, turning and walking out of the bar, Kyle staring after him with a pout. Stuart had always despised him, despite rocky reconciliation with his own father, the man still just held a grudge against him that he could never shake off. There was a reason he and Kenny would only hang out at his house when they were kids. After the first time of being cursed out and having a bottle thrown at his head, the routine had been fairly set in stone. At least it was nice to see one thing was stable in his life, shitty as it was.

"Here to see Stan?" Randy asked, jerking his head towards his son. Kyle looked back, seeing Stan watching him back and smirking amusedly at Kyle getting caught in the crossfire of paternal patronizing that he'd already fought through.

The redhead turned back and nodded, "Yeah. Just... tryin' to keep up on what's happening," he forced a smile on his face.

"Your mother is worried," Gerald said offhandedly.

Kyle frowned at the man, "I'm a big boy, Dad. I can take care of myself."

"Well I know that, but you know your mother," he drawled, lightly hitting him with the back of his hand. "You should come over for dinner soon. She'd be thrilled."

"I'll... I'll see if I can find time," he half-heartedly promised. "Look, I gotta go talk to Stan," he said. "I'll see you later," he waved, starting to turn and walk off. The men said their own goodbyes, heading out the door to follow Stuart into the evening air. Kyle shook his head as he made way towards Stan's booth, sliding in across from him and placing his folder down beside him.

Stan grinned, "Remember when we thought they'd leave us alone when you moved out and when I got married?"

He snorted lightly, "I've accepted that freedom won't come until their deaths. And even then, with my mom, that's questionable."

The noirette laughed, pushing a glass filled with a light green liquid his way. "Here. Gotcha a Moscow Mule."

Kyle quirked his brow, "Why?" he took the drink nonetheless, taking a long sip and blinking in surprise at the tartness lingering on his tongue.

"Because they're on special and it's vodka so you can't go wrong," he shrugged, taking a sip of his own.

He smirked, nodding softly and running a hand through his hair, glancing out the window at the sky still burning as brightly as it was at noon and sighing. "We need to find a bar that our fathers don't frequent."

"It's either this or we drive out to Bailey," he said dryly.

He shrugged, biting his lip, "This town won't fucking let us go, Stan."

"Whaddya mean?"

He turned back to him slowly, "I mean we all ended up staying here. I went to college in fucking Denver and somehow still ended up right back in this damn place. South Park is a fucking parasite," he winced.

"Right?" he cocked his brow. "Wends and I were searching for houses in Boulder literally not even two days before we found out she was pregnant. It's like fate itself keeps saying 'no, your ass was raised here and it's gonna die here'," he rolled his eyes. "But... It is kind of nice to still have all of us around," he said softly. "Getting together with high school buds isn't nearly as hard as it is for other people our age," he gestured out the window aimlessly.

"True," he mused quietly. "Speaking of, Wendy mad you're not home?"

He waved it off, "Nah. She's happy that you're finally getting yourself out." He smirked at the unamused pout on Kyle's face. "If it makes you feel any better, you can pretend that this is a... transaction," he hinted.

"Need a babysitter, huh?" he rolled his eyes.

Stan shrugged innocently, "Not for a few weeks, but Wendy's company is having a dinner and she's obligated to go."

Kyle sighed and smiled softly, "Yeah, sure. I can do that..." he trailed off, looking down at the cup clenched tightly in his fingers and twisted his lips. Hell, he didn't even know if that was true in the least. With the way things were going, he couldn't be positive that he'd have any free time, or if he'd even be at home as opposed to behind bars.

Stan watched him carefully, seeing the redhead tense and his shoulders dropped. He'd hoped he could ease him into this conversation, but it looked like it was just going to have to be blunt. "All right, Kyle," he said gently. "Tell me what's going on."

Kyle flickered his eyes upwards, the noirette catching the pure defeat in his expression once more. "Before I do... this needs prefaced," he said carefully. "Stan, you trust me, right?"

He snorted lightly, "Kyle, you're the worst fucking liar on the planet. Of course I trust you."

"Because you have to believe me about what I'm going to tell you," he continued worriedly. "Because otherwise, you're going to fucking cuff me and throw me in the goddamn slammer and I'm gonna be Big Barney's bitch and-"

"Whoa!" he stopped him, holding up his hand and blinking at him in shock. "Kyle, what the living fuck are you talking about?"

Jaw trembling, he forced himself upright, leaning forward on the table with his glass clutched between both hands, staring fearfully at his best friend. "Stan... I don't know what's happening," he said, voice cracking. "But... there's money... and it's disappearing."

Stan narrowed his eyes, leaning forward with him, dropping his voice down lowly. "From where and how much?"

"I haven't done a final count," he admitted softly. "But... Stan, it's from the charities," he whispered. "The money that I'm depositing isn't going through. Not all of it, anyway."

He cocked his head, "So... it's the bank's fault?"

"But they're registering that all the money I'm putting in is going through," he said exasperatedly. "I only found out because of Kenny."

"What'd Kenny do?"

Kyle bit his lip, "He and Bebe called me in just to double check some figures. Things were way lower looking than they should've been. So I looked further into it and they were nearly a thousand off from what I gave them."

Stan's eyes widened. "Holy shit. Are you sure it wasn't the bank?" he insisted.

Kyle shook his head. "I was almost positive that's what it was... but no. Because I'm going to other charities, and comparing their ledgers. Some of them are set up through different banks than where Ken's place is... And it's all the same." His shoulders dropped, eyes glistening as he stared helplessly into assessing blue eyes. "Stan... I'm not doing this," he whispered. "But... all the signs point to me," he gestured at himself before taking another drink. "I-I... I'm trying to fix it, I really am. But I've been fucking terrified to go to the police because if they can't prove that it's not me..."

"Then you go to prison for laundering," Stan finished softly, holding up his hand as absolute fear flickered over Kyle's face. "Ky, I'm not stupid. I know you wouldn't pull this kind of crap. And, no offense, but you are way too shitty an actor to be telling me this like you are if it was your fault."

"Are you gonna... want to make it an official case?" he asked meekly.

Stan bit his lip, tapping his finger on the tabletop. Oh God was Kyle putting him into one hell of a position. Every bone in his body that was bred to be by the book was screaming yes. He already had the necessary paperwork order tucked away in the back of his mind, an immaculate knowledge of procedures falling on top of him. But, if Kyle was right, if he was being set up... If Stan couldn't figure it out in time, he'd be the reason his best friend was in fucking prison. He glanced up, seeing Kyle staring at him with a hitched breath and a shaking jaw. He sighed exhaustively. "I... I want to," he said. "But I'm gonna... take this as friend Stan first, like you wanted," he echoed, watching him slinking the slightest in relief. "But you need to know this: If you keep on going at this on your own and it's found out that I was aware of what was happening... We're both fucked."

Kyle slunk guiltily, staring down at the table and gnawing the inside of his lip. "Stan, I don't want you in trouble. I don't want me in trouble... There's just... so much going on with this. Cartman is up to something, Stan. I just don't know what."

"Has he done anything else strange?"

Kyle looked up at him, taking another sip of his cocktail and managing to work it down past the lump in his throat. "All I know is he has fake security," he muttered.

Stan cocked his brow, "I'm sorry?"

"He has this... security officer that doesn't actually... watch," he winced. "And I think he's involved somehow. I think Cartman might be sneaking in some illegal shit under this guy."

"What kind of illegal shit?"

He shrugged, "I don't know. Drugs? Dirty money?"

"Are you just making wild assumptions here or do you have a basis for this accusation?"

Kyle's face dropped, "Stan, you promised not to get all... coppy on me."

The noirette flushed a bit, holding up his hands and smirking weakly. "Sorry, totally habit. Why do you think he's pulling this shit?"

He gave him a small smile for his efforts and sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "There's... another person looking into it," he said carefully.

The detective cocked his head, "Who?"

Kyle looked up thoughtfully. How the hell could he describe Mysterion? A 'superhero'? A good samaritan? A jumpsuit wearing, cape-billowing, lockpicking smart ass vigilante? "Let's call him... a private investigator," he shrugged.

Stan stared at him carefully. "Is he actually a private investigator?"

"I mean... yeah," he nodded. In all technicality, Mysterion did match their job description for one who works the field. "But, I kind of... need more help than just him," he winced.

"How so?"

"I think that Cartman set up ghost employees or something," he said softly, brushing bangs out of his eyes and turning his attention back down to his drink. "I have way more in my previous employee files than I should. And, honestly, I think at least some if not all of them are real people that are connected in some kind of crime ring that he's involved in. But... I can't afford to do background checks on all of them..." he looked up at him with a wince and Stan cringed.

He knew where this was going. But he also knew just what road this could lead them both down. "Kyle... I-I can't run checks for you."

"Why not?!" he asked in shock, locking stares with the man.

Stan sighed, running his hand through his hair. "Unless we make this an official case, I can't. The NCIC is for cases under the department's belt. I can't just run background checks as a favor. It's an absolute invasion of privacy, Kyle."

He frowned, "The tens of thousands of dollars that charities have been robbed of is the invasion, here, Stan!"

He bit his lip guiltily, "Ky, Dude. Look, I'm talking to you here as both friend and cop, okay?" he winced at the shaking the younger began to exhibit. "I need you to imagine a scenario for me: Let's say I say yes to this and start running them through my database. The department, my bosses, notice I've had a hell of a spike in my numbers that I've let go unreported. They start asking questions. They find the names, they find the one place on their profiles that match up... And they find the guy who's in charge of all these names: You."

Kyle's face dropped pathetically. "You... you can't help me?" he whispered.

He shook his head, "Not unless you want to run the gambit. Ky, most I can do without them noticing is maybe one or two names. And even then, I'm risking my job and your fucking life," he said quietly.

The redhead looked down at the folder next to him, taking a shaky breath and rubbing his neck. "Then what... what do I do?" he pleaded. "Stan I came to you because I'm hitting a wall and... and if Cartman catches on..." he trailed off, looking back at the table, crushed.

Stan nodded to himself, knowing well enough from decades passed just how Cartman operated. If he was up to something, which certainly wasn't hard to put past the glutton, he'd take out anyone who tried to get in his way. He was always vicious when it came to getting what he wanted, and Kyle was the last on the list of someone he'd show any kind of mercy towards if he got too close without some kind of protection. "What do you think he'll do?" he asked gently.

"I think he's a part of something... dangerous," he said meekly. "I don't think this is just him being his typical greedy, idiot self... Stan, the... the guy I'm working with... he told me if the link is to what we think it is, Cartman could probably kill me."

He scowled, "We won't let that happen."

"How? You can't help me, and the investigator is waiting for me to put together pieces that only I can work through," he hid his eyes in his palm and sniffled. "I feel like I'm on my own against the fucking mob."

Stan narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Do... do you think this is a mob you're dealing with?"

Kyle shrugged, "I-I don't know. I wouldn't put it past Fatass honestly." He sighed, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. "So you can't do anything?"

The man looked down guiltily. "I want to help," he assured him. "But I don't think I can as a cop until you have an out."

He nodded silently, glancing at his folder again and pursing his lips. "One or two names, huh?"

Stan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I... Maybe," he said softly.

Kyle brushed his curls back, letting his bangs flop back down against his forehead as his eyes met Stan's once again. "Let me figure out what name is most important, then," he bit his lip, making a mental note to talk to Mysterion about it, ignoring the voice in the back of his head screaming for him to get him to check out this Schroeder guy. He had to confirm that's where the start needed to happen, he needed a unanimous consensus on it before he went off on his own.

"All right," Stan agreed. "Look, Kyle, if you feel unsafe or something when you're there, you need to call me. Or even Kenny, I don't care. But get someone to get you out of there, all right?"

"I don't need escorted, Stan," he said lowly. "And I don't think even Fatass is stupid enough to come at me when at the office. I'll figure this out," he murmured under his breath, not sure if he was trying to convince himself or the noirette.

Stan sighed, "So, you hired a P.I., huh?"

He shook his head, "Didn't hire him. He was already kind of looking into it. We just sorta... crossed paths," he said carefully.

He narrowed his eyes skeptically. "Just crossed paths?" he repeated. "Are you sure he's on your side, Kyle?"

The redhead looked at him wryly. "Stan, he came to me looking for help."

"And you don't think that's suspicious?" he asked sharply. "Kyle, he could be working for Cartman. He could be luring you closer until-"

"Stop!" he bit, Stan backing up a tad in surprise and Kyle shrinking inch by inch. "Stan, he's all I have right now," he admitted faintly. "You know my gut's usually right, and my gut is telling me that I can trust this guy. He's a little... weird, but he seems to know what he's doing."

He cocked his brow, "Weird how?"

"Let's just say he dresses a little eccentrically," he rolled his eyes, waving off Stan's baffled stare. "He wants this fixed as much as I do. He's looking on the street and I'm looking on the computer. Quid pro quo," he shrugged.

Stan sighed through his nose, nodding with soft bobs of his head. "All right. But the second he starts... gettin' suspicious or whatever-"

"Call you, I got it," he scoffed. "I'm almost thirty years old, Stan. I think I can handle that on my own... It's this fuckin' fraud thing that's killing me," he said defeatedly. "Or whatever it is, I don't even know how I can define it."

"Look, just be careful," he advised. "I don't want you to get so wrapped up in this that it ends up dragging you down."

"Too late for that," he muttered. He looked up at Stan and sighed, "What do I do if I can't figure it out? Do I get a case going and just... hope that it doesn't bite me in the ass?"

He shrugged, "You may have to. You'll figure it out, Kyle. Just... work subtly, all right? And keep Cartman as far out of the loop as possible. You don't know what he's capable of just yet, so play it safe."

Kyle flickered his eyes up to meet Stan's, giving him a weak smile. "I'll try." Stan nodded approvingly, taking a swig of his drink as Kyle looked back down at his own, watching the melting ice cubes swimming in the concoction. So much for his last stretch of desperation, he was right back where he started... But Stan knew, and maybe he could help. But it wasn't enough, both of the men sitting there in that acrid bar knew that it wasn't nearly enough for either of them to be completely comforted with the situation at hand. Kyle took a long breath, visions of purple dancing in his eyes. Right back to square one, it was up to him and Mysterion now... His eyes slipped shut. He just had to hope that it would be enough.

Crouching by a window, hidden in the shadow of a chimney didn't do much to reassure Mysterion that he was exactly safe in his position. He grimaced, looking at his watch and lighting it up. 9:30. Where the hell was Larson?

He wondered for the thirtieth time if maybe Kyle had gotten the address wrong, if maybe a fake one was entered into the system. Maybe he was on a wild goose chase, completely out of his element and being forced to stalk down his perp with just good, old-fashioned sleuthing. So much for technology making everything easier if Kyle's intel was incorrect.

He pouted to himself, wondering how the redhead was doing. He knew well enough that the ordeal was leaving him a complete and utter mess, far more-so than usual. This was just piling on top of him faster than he could seem to handle, and neither of them seemed to have any idea on how to slow down the perpetual rockslide. Hopefully, this could be their break.

Mysterion perked, hearing the slamming of a door from the front of the house, slithering his head over enough to peek one eye around the window's frame into a now-lit living room. He smirked, watching Larson hurrying into the house, looking furious and disheveled, tired beyond belief. The man hurried into another room and Mysterion frowned, keeping himself in a low crouch and following his path to the West side of the home to where another light was breaking through onto the darkened yard.

He grunted softly, crawling under the window to the other side to get a better peak at the rushing man. His ears perked, hearing a car running from the front of the home. He stole another glance at Todd, eyes narrowing at him hurriedly throwing things into a worn-and-torn duffle bag. He bit his lip, turning back towards the front of the ranch-style abode.

The hero hummed under his breath in thought, carefully maneuvering his way towards the street, keeping himself along the siding of the house and coming up to the corner. He gripped his cape, holding it tightly to keep it from falling and billowing and giving away his location as he cautiously peered around the thick, robin's egg paneling. His eyes hit a car in the driveway, biting his lip at the three seated within that were staring at the house impatiently.

"Shit," he whispered, quickly trekking back and towards Todd's bedroom window once again, watching with wide eyes as he threw a lamp and radio off his nightstand and onto the bed, pulling the large, maple furniture out from the wall and tipping it over to lean against the wall. The man snagged a large taped bag from the confines of the underside, Mysterion's eyes widening at stacks of bills wound within the clear container. Larson shoved the bag into his duffle, moving clothes and other various items around to better conceal it. He placed the stand back up into place, haphazardly throwing the lamp and music player back on the smooth surface and hurrying out of the room.

Mysterion growled, moving quietly and lithely towards the back of the house yet again, watching Todd grab a sweatshirt and pause, looking up in thought as he swung his bag over his shoulder. He nodded to himself, grabbing his keys from his pocket and rushing towards the front door. Mysterion rolled his eyes, hurrying towards the front of the house again, staring at the car and the impatient group waiting within. Only a good ten seconds passed before Larson sped towards the car, hopping into the backseat. The vehicle began to back up as soon as the door was closed, whipping out of the driveway and onto the suburban street. Mysterion stayed in his position until the car rushed out of sight, slowly getting to his feet and blinking in confusion, trying to wrap his head around the whirlwind that he'd just witnessed.

He grimaced. Larson was definitely up to something. Something that required a good bit of money and a couple changes of clothes. 'Trying to hide his identity maybe," he thought, heading towards the back of the house once more to the sliding back door. He moved to grab at his lock-picking kit, pausing at a sliver of noise coming from the door. An air conditioner. He cocked his brow, grabbing the handle and sliding it open with a grin. Fucking idiot.

Carefully, he stepped into the house, glancing around his kitchen and snagging a small finger flashlight from his belt, grimacing to himself as he wondered if even Batman carried around as much crap as he did. He quickly flicked it on, heading through the house and towards the bedroom, shining the light towards the nightstand and twisting his mouth. Dropping down to his knees, he placed his hand under the surface and slid it around, sighing at the lack of any other interesting tidbit hiding from him. He glanced at the bed, looking down and shining his light under the mattress, scanning around the carpeted floor and stopping at a small file safe stowed away. He reached forward, grunting with effort as he snagged the case and pulled it towards himself. Felt full. Good.

Mysterion clicked his tongue, setting his flashlight on the ground pointing towards himself and the safe as he yanked it out from the bed. He hummed thoughtfully, fingers tracing the steel until hitting a small ridge on the side. He smirked. This guy was about as subtle as they came.

He ripped the small key from its scotch-taped confinement, slipping it into the keyhole and pressing the lid up, letting it lean against the bed and grabbing his flashlight once more. Shining his limited vision-giver into the case, he snagged a group of papers, clicking his tongue as he waded through various pages of insurance information and medical history. Sharp eyes kept scanning through, nodding to himself as he passed page after page, carefully lying each in his lap as he worked to keep the order straight.

Mysterion shook his head, wading through pamphlets and his social security card and- He paused, a nicely kept bundle of papers meshed together with a paperclip sitting in front of him oh-so-prettily with the finely typed title on the top sheet: 'Certificate of Live Birth'. He bit his lip, scanning down the page, narrowing his eyes at the name: 'Anthony Pierce'. Mysterion paused, cocking his brow. Who the fuck was Anthony Pierce? He frowned, continuing to sift through the pile and his eyes widening. Another social security card. More insurance information. Another person entirely. He gritted his teeth, pushing the papers back together and shaking his head. This could be a number of things: A roommate. A lover. His brother. His friend. There were too many options that could easily explain all this away. At least that was a nice theory until his eyes fell back down to the safe, finding a similarly bundled packet and picking it up, a different state's certificate this time, now for Robert Wallace.

There was no more chalking this up to coincidence. Not with this guy.

Mysterion frowned, placing both bundles aside and quickly scanning through the rest of the papers for any similar pieces. He growled upon not finding any, placing the rest of his paperwork back into place and re-locking the safe, taping the key back to the side and shoving it under the bed once more. He frowned, hefting up his stack again, shining his light back onto the top birth certificate and frowning. This could mean a number of things. Could be identity theft. Could merely be aliases. The hero sighed, getting to his feet and clenching his light in his hand firmly, the small beam barely able to peek out through covered fingers.

Only two things seemed perfectly clear in this unfolding disaster as he stood in the abandoned room: Todd Larson was definitely up to something... And he needed to talk about this with Kyle.

A/N: Thanks for R&Ring!