Disclaimer: South Park and all related characters, places and things are property of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. I don't own them, or Brazil, or anything really... except for maybe the plot. Not making any money off of this or any such nonsense.

Summary: It's been five years since Gregory last saw Christophe. But now, they find themselves on opposing sides of a conflict, and neither wants to lose the game. The stakes are too high for them to gamble on, but that's just what they have to do to survive. SLASH Greg/Mole, Christophe/Gregory, Christophe/OC. This fic will probably contain mature sexual content later on too.

A/N: Decided that this place needed a lot more Gregory/the mole. Because seriously? They kick ass. Ok, so, rated for violence, swearing, slash in later chapters and general awesomeness. If the slash bothers you, well, I guess you shouldn't read.

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Gregory stood in a dank, dimly lit alleyway, his crisp brown coat stifling him. It was humid at this time of night, especially at this time of the year. Now, however, was not the time to worry about his own comfort. No, now it was the time when appearances mattered. This moment was key in any sudden union of power. He had to look perfect, intimidating, immovable if there was even a slight chance the Brazilian rebels would yield to his authority. From the first moment the Brazilians laid eyes on him, they would be analyzing him, cataloging his apparent strengths and weaknesses for future use. It was imperative that Gregory appear to have no weaknesses.

This was his life, and he couldn't say that he hated it. He was not The Mole, who still worked but only did so for the money. No, what Gregory did, he did because he felt it was the right thing to do. He rapped on the door quietly, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as a weak lamp flickered to life above his head.

Gregory heard several locks fall heavily out of place, and the door was opened just enough to let a sliver of light fall upon the greasy dirt around them.

"Ah, Gregory," a cold voice nearly whispered from behind the door. "Were you followed?"

"No."

"Good."

The door opened enough to let Gregory slip inside, and was locked quickly as he surveyed the room. Out of years of habit, Gregory's eyes searched out any possible means of escape, should his negotiations go awry. A small, barred window sat innocently towards the back of the room, swathed in darkness. That would be of no use to him. There were two other doors that led to various parts of the building, both covered with heavy black sheets. He guessed that the door immediately to his right would lead him deeper into the building, should he need to hide, and that the entranceway at the farthest end of the room might lead to an emergency escape route. Every hideout needed one.

Satisfied, he turned back to the man at the door, his left hand finding relief in the cool metal gun in his pocket. Every rebel needed one.

Nine men, each holding a large black gun close to his chest like a child, stood around the room in a loose semi-circle, eying Gregory suspiciously. Gregory took a deep breath, relishing in the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

"Let me be blunt," he said after a fairly dramatic pause. "You asked for my help, and now I'm here. What is it that you need of me?"

No one around him spoke for a moment; they continued to watch him with distrust in their eyes. Gregory could see the swirling clouds of doubt begin to unfurl in their eyes, and he suppressed a smirk.

"That's him?" one of the men asked suddenly in Portuguese.

Gregory tightened his grip on the gun in his pocket. He was lucky so many thought he was a naïve Englishman who didn't know anything. Everyone he worked with underestimated him. So, despite the fact that he had been in Brazil for nearly four months, those he worked with still assumed he knew no Portuguese. Well, it was their fault for assuming.

"Yes," the man at the door replied, coming to stand beside Gregory.

"But he's only a boy!" someone else said.

The others nodded in agreement. Gregory fought the urge to roll his eyes. It was true, Gregory had only just turned 19 several months ago, but he that had never stood in his way before. He was good at what he did; he needed to be to stay alive.

"Is that a problem?" Gregory answered quietly in Portuguese.

The others all gave a start of surprise, as if having forgotten Gregory was still in the room.

"Of course not," the man at the door said, his thick accent coiling around his words. Gregory supposed he was probably the ring leader of this group, as the others yielded to the glare he sent them.

"Good," Gregory responded coolly. "Now, let me ask again. What do you need me for?"

"The French Guyanese government has set up blockades around our key entrance points," the leader of them said. "We need you and your men to secure a new, safe passage into the country so we can continue."

Gregory said nothing. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and crossed them across his chest. These smuggling groups would illegally mine gold out of French Guiana and then sell it on the black market to help the Brazilian working class. Gregory knew about them, had helped on several occasions when he thought that the people of Brazil did indeed deserve better than what their government could afford. It didn't seem too difficult to get through the Guiana/Brazil border. But still...

"What would we get in return?"

Someone in the crowd, a short man with greasy black hair and a white shirt yellowed with age, stepped forward angrily.

"You will get to live another day!" he said, flushing with anger.

Some of the others murmured their assent. This time, Gregory did allow himself to raise his eyebrow skeptically.

"Do you think your threats scare me?" he asked calmly.

Their anger seemed to deflate at his words, as if feeding off his fear and dying when it realized that there was none.

"We can supply you with firepower," the leader said. "With places to hide from the government while in Brazil. We have powerful connections."

"I see," Gregory said, staring out the window while weighing his possibilities. "All right then."

Then he saw it. A tiny flash of the weak light of something, sparking to life for a few brief seconds before getting swallowed up by the darkness of the night. It was tiny and faint, probably no more than a small flame igniting hundreds of yards away, but it was enough to make Gregory suspicious. No one else noticed it, however, and the leader of the smuggling ring began to lay out the details for Gregory quickly.

Gregory moved away from the window, his mind spinning, the inexplicable flare of light tugging at long forgotten memories. Where had he seen something like that before? He only half-heartedly listened to the Brazilians as he pondered this. It seemed so crucial that he remember where and when that small, flickering flame had been important in his lifetime. But his life felt so long already, stretching into eternity and countless countries. It could have been anywhere in the world—

And suddenly, he recognized it. It was the light from a lighter. Gregory felt the color drain from his face.

"Our location has been compromised," he said suddenly, interrupting them as the people around him spoke strategy.

They turned to look at him one by one, all with questions plastered across their faces. If his heart had not been pounding in his chest, he would have answered them all.

"What do you mean?" one of them asked.

"We must leave," Gregory continued urgently, as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Quickly."

But at that moment, a shot rang through the room, coming from the unobtrusive window. The man just to Gregory's right fell, without so much as a yell; the bullet had pierced his skull. Everyone else in the room cursed and cocked their guns, pointing them wildly in all directions.

"Go," Gregory ordered. "I must get to my own people. It could be very possible that whoever this is has found my quarters as well.

Another shot rang through the silence, this time hitting one of the men in the thigh. He cried out in pain and fell to the floor, blood splattering everywhere. One of the others ran to the window and began shooting blindly into the night.

"No you fool!" Gregory shouted, moving to pull him away from the window.

But in the few seconds the man took to reload his gun, another shot rang out, and he slumped to the floor, dead. Blood was pooling around their feet now, and the Brazilians were beginning to panic.

"Just get out of here," Gregory said again, forcing his voice to remain calm. "Go to some other secure location. I will find you in five days' time."

"He's right," the leader said, looking lost without a gun in his hands. "We need to get out of here!"

The other seven nodded and ran to one of the entrance ways, disappearing behind the thick curtain one by one. Gregory quickly unlocked the door and stepped into the unremitting Brazilian night. Then he ran.

He knew this city well by now, knew its dirty streets and its complicated back routes. Within seconds, he was swallowed up by the darkness, safe for now. He slowed to a walk, backtracking his steps to confuse anyone who might be following.

There were still a few hours left until the sunrise, and Gregory knew from experience this was the most dangerous time of night to be out. It wasn't just that vagabonds patrolled the streets at this time of night, looking for anyone they might be able to steal a quick buck from. No, it was much more than that. Gregory knew he had a price on his head.

That hadn't really bothered him before, until tonight. Because he knew with certainty who had shot at them that night. What he didn't know was if he had been hired by someone to kill the smugglers, or to kill Gregory.

Either way, it was sure to be a wonderful reunion with his old associate when they did at last meet.

Gregory had not seen nor spoken to Christophe in almost five years, when they had both been transferred to schools on opposite sides of the world. It had always been a lame excuse for their next missions, but was only a half-lie really. Christophe had gone to Israel to help fight the Palestines in eighth grade, and that same year the Mole had gone to America to assassinate a federal agent for several thousand dollars.

He had heard about the Mole during his reconnaissance work. Their circles of communication would obviously overlap sometime or another. He would have to stifle his amusement when he heard grown men and hardened criminals speak of 'The Mole' with fear. Rumor had it that he was in Brazil, and now, Gregory knew those rumors were true.

He was pulled out of his musings by the sound of faint footsteps falling in time with his own. To anyone else, they would have sounded like an echo, but Gregory knew his old friend too well. He stopped.

"I know you're there Christophe," he said into the darkness. "Don't play these games with me."

There was a breathless moment when Gregory thought that perhaps it wasn't Christophe, but then he heard an unmistakable laugh, unchanged after five years. From behind him, he heard something jump and land onto the floor heavily.

"Your ears are too sharp for your own good, Gregory," Christophe said, his accent peppering his words the way Gregory remembered.

"Perhaps," he answered, turning and coming face to face with a ghost from his past.

Christophe looked much the same as Gregory had remembered him. His brown hair stood up on end, probably held together with dirt and blood instead of gel. His dark eyes looked more tired than he remembered, but Gregory supposed that his did too. Christophe was swathed in black, his old shovel still firmly strapped across his back. In one hand, he held a sniper rifle loosely and in the other, an unlit cigarette.

"Eet has been too long," Christophe said after a long pause.

"Indeed it has been," Gregory answered. He smiled. "So tell me, how did you end up down here?"

Christophe smirked.

"Eef I told you that, mon ami, I'd have to kill you."

"Oh, of course," Gregory answered. "You know, I've heard rumors about the mysterious Mole, who only appears at night and whose soul purpose in life is to kill."

Christophe raised an eyebrow, sticking his cigarette into his mouth and searching his pockets for his lighter before answering.

"Is zat so?" he asked, lighting up quickly and taking a drag. Smoke curled up around him in soft tendrils, drifting off into the night without a care. "And have you told zose beetches you have known zis mysterious man?"

"No. It doesn't matter to them."

Christophe nodded in response. Silence settled over them again, with the Mole only inhaling deeply every now and again for a fresh dose of nicotine.

"Did you complete your assignment?" he asked suddenly. The Mole turned his sharp, calculating eyes back onto Gregory.

"Non," he answered finally. "Zey escaped."

"I see, and you decided to follow me instead for a nice reunion? Mole, I'm flattered."

Christophe rolled his eyes even as he smiled. However, the look quickly soured.

"Gregory, we are on opposite sides of ze battle now," he said. "I was hired to keep ze Brazilian beetches out of French Guiana."

Gregory heard the implied warning as clearly as if it had been shouted.

"I understand."

Christophe smirked.

"Good," he said. "Zen I must stalk you anuzzer day zen."

With that he pulled out a small metal grenade from his pocket. Gregory knew in an instant it was full of tear gas.

"Bon soir, mon ami."

With that, he pulled the trigger and dropped it to the ground at their feet. Neither boy moved for a moment, staring at each other from opposite ends of the grenade. It wasn't until the grenade made a strange hiss and started to quickly disburse the gas that Gregory had to cover his face and run off. The Mole disappeared into the night.

Coughing and eyes watering, Gregory knew that he couldn't go back to his premises, not with Christophe still lurking around. He would be looking for Gregory and his people; that was a certainty now. I must stalk you another day then. Then he had probably already moved on to try to locate the actual smugglers, but Gregory could not take that sort of chance.

Gregory remembered that smirk on The Mole's face right before he dropped the tear gas, and suddenly, he understood. This was a game to him. Christophe, after years of having only money as a motivator for loyalty, had found a way to keep himself interested in his mercenary jobs. Christophe was playing a game with him, giving Gregory just enough information to be on his toes, to possibly make this assignment difficult.

Gregory roughly ripped off a long sliver of his crisp white shirt and wrapped it around his mouth and nose like a mask. Then, with one last deep breath, he stepped into the murky gray fog.

Gregory's foot crunched over something small and plastic as he ran through the fog, and when he pulled it up quickly for inspection, found that it was Christophe's lighter, probably thrown onto the ground with all the purpose as the gas bomb.

Well, if Christophe wanted to play, then Gregory would indulge him in this game. He clenched his fist around the lighter and started to run again. After all, Gregory always won.