Catch Me If You Can Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/14873609. Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M, F/F Fandom: South Park Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Kenny McCormick, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak, Stan Marsh/Butters Stotch, Token Black/Clyde Donovan, Bebe Stevens/Wendy Testaburger Characters: Kenny McCormick, Kyle Broflovski Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Bounty Hunter Kyle, Cyborg Kenny, South Park: Phone Destroyer - Freeform, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, k2challenge18, this town aint big enough for the both of us and our friend circles are ridicilously similar, Mutual Pining, lobster children Language: English Stats: Published: 2018-06-07 Completed: 2018-09-26 Words: 29,476 Chapters: 6/6 Catch Me If You Can by LWTIS Summary When Kyle set out to round up an elusive cyborg fugitive, he expected a straightforward job - a criminal bought to justice, followed by an easy reward. Instead, he finds himself in a whirlwind hunt across the city, chasing after the most confusing and infuriating individual he's had the misfortune of meeting. (What kind of cyborg was called Kenny anyways?) Fugitive “Here’s your next target.” Kyle drops his gaze just in time to witness Cartman slamming the poster down onto his desk, making the empty glasses rattle. Not for the first time, the he reflects on how the Sheriff could have just used the perfectly functional tablet, easily within reach, to show him the bail piece. Instead of, you know, constructing a physical printed poster, no doubt breaking about four environmental laws with the tree consumption alone. But of course, that wouldn’t be half as dramatic. Swallowing his comment, he leans forward to inspect Cartman’s latest masterpiece. The words ‘WANTED’ are spelled across the top of the page in old western style copperplate, matching the bold figures of the bounty at the bottom. A blurry, blown-up photograph completes the piece, no doubt taken from a security feed. The grainy image depicts a tall young man, frozen mid-jump in between two buildings. He’s wearing ill-fitting clothes, including a hood that obscures most of his features, save for a glimpse of his eyes and - “... a cyborg?” “Good observation, Kahl!” the other man croons, butchering his name with practised ease as he sits down heavily. Once again, Kyle idly wonders what sort of alloy his chair is reinforced with to be able to withstand such abuse on a daily basis. “A very slippery, fast, unregistered cyborg, in fact.” The redhead acknowledges this with a hum, gaze returning to the photo. Carefully, he takes in the metallic surface of his exposed arm, the twisted cables peeking out at his elbow, the sharp edges of his crafted fingers. For someone who just leapt off a frighteningly tall building, there's no trace of panic in his movements. This was not an amateur at work. “What has he done?” “Been breaking my balls is what he’s done.” comes the grumbled reply. “Vandalism. Theft. Injured a few dozen guards. Thinks because he’s faster than the average cop means he’s allowed to do as he pleases.” Kyle’s lips curl in distaste. Exactly the kind of attitude that he despised the most. Now determined, he swipes the poster off the desk, tucking it away safely in his pocket. “What do you have on him? A name, an address?” “No name. I’ve an address where he’s been spotted at stupid hours of the morning a few times - might be useful.” Cartman reaches over, swiping a finger over his tablet. A quiet chirp signals the information transfer complete. “Oh, and he wears a lot of orange.” Kyle feels his eye twitch. Cartman’s priorities during briefings were always frustratingly misplaced. “...okay?” “I know, right?” the Sheriff snorts, rolling his eyes. “What kind of idiot would willingly wear that much orange?” A cold silence fills the office. Kyle lets it stretch long enough to make the other’s expression to crack into discomfort before reaching for his helmet, turning to leave with a dismissive sweep of his long, orange cape. “I’ll bring him in by the end of the week.” --- Much to his surprise, he doesn’t have to search very long. Cartman’s information leads him to the lower levels of the city, far away from the sharp scents and bustling crowds of the city centre. A small pocket of civilisation tucked between the planet's central and the vast, still-untamed wildlands. Just an elevator ride away, the bright lights are replaced by permanent shadows and dirty corners. The gloom is occasionally interrupted by crackling neon and cigarette flares, smoke and steam constantly swirling near the ceiling. There is no space wasted, every gap between buildings filled with portable cabins tacked together to form makeshift apartments. At the centre of it all is a sprawling bar, bearing the name of an ancient god, offering drinks, dancers and agents of the most lucrative black market in the quadrant. Amidst the residents, barely anyone spares Kyle’s attire a second glance, even with his bulky clothes and imposing helmet covering his face. Still, he doesn't want to risk attracting too much attention. The rooftops are uneven under the thick soles of his boots, creaking alarmingly with every step. Eventually, he finds a good lookout spot overlooking the main entrance. Ensuring he is out of sight, he crouches to sit, loosening his weapon from its holster. A quick glance confirms it’s set to stun. And now came the boring part. As a profession, bounty hunting was still surrounded by a lot of romanticism and intrigue. Most people thought the job was dominated by breathtaking chases, combat and dramatic arrests. In reality, most of his time was spent cooped up in various modes of transport or in hidden little corners, waiting. Stan’s numerous messages are stacked across his screen when he switches on his communications device, eager and excited. He had sent through the schedule for his latest arena duel, as well as about seven attachments leading to a jewellery website. Kyle suspects they link to terribly overpriced, gorgeous engagement rings. As much as Stan’s beloved deserved a stunning ring, this was getting ridiculous. He was going to need to stage an intervention before his best friend blew his life savings on crystals mined from ice-encrusted planets on the other side of the galaxy. There’s also an unread message from his mother. Briefly, he wonders how she would react if she knew exactly where her eldest son was. The mental image is unshakeable, a little amusing and wholly terrifying. It keeps him company the whole time he types his reply - yes, he's well, lunch sounded great next week, and no, he really doesn't want the number of Mrs. Kosta’s really nice son. He’s halfway through Ike's latest essay draft when motions claim his attention from below. A tall figure is approaching the area, whistles muffled behind a thick hood, hands buried deep in the pockets of his ratty coat. His orange coat. Cautiously, he leans forwards, fingers sliding into the grip of his gun with practised ease. His eyes follow the newcomer as he gets closer, pausing in his step when an elder man leans out of an opened window. “Heyah, Kenny! You're back late.” There's a chuckle in response, voice softer than he would have guessed. A gloved hand moves to pluck at the material covering his mouth, revealing a wide smile. “Someone’s cruiser broke down during my last hour and they were practically in tears at the thought of not getting home in time for their daughter's birthday. Can't really turn them away, can you?” The elder man laughs, offering the other some kind words and a friendly squeeze to the shoulder before ducking back inside his home. Kyle watches the exchange in silence, eyes narrowed in concentration. The young man moves to zip his hood back up, the low light catching on the metallic embellishments along his jaw when he turns his head. There’s a hole in his glove, revealing the tip of a gunmetal thumb. Target confirmed. Slowly, carefully, he pushes himself to his feet as soon as the other is out of earshot, creeping to the edge of the roof. He reholsters his weapon before letting his body tip forwards, mask muffling his grunt as his boots hit the ground. Kenny is a strange name for a cyborg. Said cyborg finally stops in front of a portable unit - a particularly small and battered cabin. The redhead deems the time ready to make his entrance. He strides forwards, closing the distance between them in a dozen confident steps. “Excuse me.” His target goes perfectly still. Kyle thinks he sees his fingers clench into fists before the fugitive turns around to face him. Blue. Cornflower blue. A memory flashes through him with unexpected clarity - of Ike's hand in his own, noses pressed up against the glass, the giddy excitement as they took in the exhibition of Earth fauna. Spiky leaves, fragile petals - so strikingly different to the plants they grew up around. And the tiny, bright blue cornflowers were his absolute favourite. There's a pause as the cyborg cocks his head to the side, gaze calculating. Then, to his shock, he waves a hand, thick hood doing nothing to disguise the cheer in his voice. “Can I help you, sir?” In that moment, he is extremely grateful for the thick tinted material of his helmet. “I’m from the Hunter Union.” he says, reciting mostly on autopilot. He raises a hand to display his permit. “You have a bounty on your head, issued by Sheriff Cartman. Please allow me to escort you to the authorities.” Kenny considers his words, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. His cheerful demeanor remains frustratingly unchanged. “Is that right?” he muses aloud, having the gall to look surprised. “I think you've got the wrong guy, Agent. Sorry you came all this way.” Behind the helmet, Kyle’s eye twitches. “Kenny.” he says, relishing the shock flashing through the blonde’s expression, breaking his composure for a precious moment. “This is your last warning. Come with me, and face the charges for your crimes.” Something blazes across the taller boy’s eyes at that - something sharp, dark, furious . It only lasts for a split second, but it’s enough to raise the hairs on the back of Kyle’s neck, leaving him itching to make a grab for his gun. “Sorry, Agent.” Kenny replies slowly, voice somber. “Maybe another time.” And with that, he turns and breaks into a sprint. As he vaults over the carcass of a long-discarded shuttle, Kyle resists the urge to waste precious seconds with rolling his eyes. Why did they always run? Whatever. He had his chance. Swiftly, he reaches for the switch. Underneath the folds of the cape, the thrusters roar to life, fire sweeping along the ground as he rises up into the air. He closes the distance between them easily. With a sharp twist, he cuts a perfect, sweeping arch mid-air, bringing him face-to-face with the fleeing cyborg. He catches Kenny’s shocked expression in the second before the redhead’s shot hits him square in the chest. --- “This is ‘Wrath of the Skies’, to Kupa Keep, seeking permission to land. Requesting prisoner detainment crew. Over.” With a sigh, he ends the broadcast. Leaning back in the pilot seat, he allows himself a moment of satisfaction - even with his most optimistic expectations, this job was incredibly quick to complete. He rarely closed in on targets this quickly, especially when boasting cybernetic enhancements. The man in question is cooped up in the containment unit at the back of his shuttle, handcuffed and slumped on the floor. He hasn’t stirred throughout the entire journey. The continued silence had made the redhead just a little paranoid, prompting him to switch to autopilot several times just to make sure he was still breathing. His dashboard pings with an incoming transmission, microphone crackling pitifully. “Name and business.” a bored voice drones, not even bothering with the protocol lingo. “Agent Broflovski. I’ve bought in Sheriff Cartman’s cyborg fugitive. Over .” “Proceed to the landing zone.” The Sheriff’s office was, frankly, unnecessarily big. In Kyle's humble opinion, the governor of their modest, mostly-peaceful district didn't need a building of near-skyscraper height with two dozen prison cells. Or three conference rooms. Or a giant statue. In idle moments spent outside of Cartman's office, delayed for the other's entertainment, he wonders just where exactly they found the funding for all this. The landing zone is stretched across the roof, half of the spaces already occupied. The redhead’s preferred spot in the corner, however, is still free. Idly, he thinks about dinner as he kills the engine. He leaves the heavy helmet and the jetpack on the passenger seat. The pair of guards that meet him outside look tired and ready for death. One wordlessly holds out his hand, grunting when Kyle drops the keys to the containment unit and Kenny’s handcuffs in his palm. He can't exactly blame them. He'd be in worse shape if he had to work directly under Cartman every day. He is just signing the last form when a familiar drawl makes its appearance. “Back again so soon, Kahl?” Behind him, ever-present enforcer Jimmy gives Kyle a smile, wordlessly mouthing a greeting. The hunter takes his time returning it before turning his attention to the Sheriff. “I got your cyborg.” he replies with no small amount of pride, gesturing towards his ship. Cartman's eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “So soon?” he exclaims, shaking his head. “Damn. That's amazing. You really have no life whatsoever.” Rolling his eyes, Kyle opens his mouth to snipe back, just as a scream cuts through the air. He whirls around just in time to witness the two guards falling to the ground, clutching their faces in agony. There’s a flash of orange and silver, and suddenly Kenny is balancing on top of his ship. His hood has slipped back during the tussle, revealing a shock of messy blonde hair and a devilishly determined expression. His brows knit together in effort before he wretches his arms apart, snapping the handcuffs in two. Kyle’s frozen. His feet are rooted to the ground, body paralysed to every instruction his brain demands with ever-growing urgency. Next to him, Cartman is yelling orders to open fire, to fetch more guards, to do something Amongst the shouting for backup and growing mayhem, Kenny catches his gaze. With seemingly little effort, he evades the shots aimed his way. One bullet grazes his shoulder, only to ricochet off sharply to the side. Within a blink of an eye, he's standing on the edge of the roof. Behind him, one misstep away, shuttles speed by, completely unaware. Blood drips down his cheek, strikingly scarlet. With his hood torn and cybernetics on display, he is a stunning, terrifying, inhumane sight. Gaze still fixed on Kyle, he raises his hand in a mock salute. His blue eyes are electric and ablaze “Another time, Agent Broflovski!” And with that, he falls back, tumbling off the roof and out of sight. Kyle’s palms are hitting the edge of the roof before he knows it. He heaves himself up high enough to peer over the edge, the icy fist of dread tight around his throat. There's no corpse in sight. No blood, no screams, no gathering crowd. His gaze darts around frantically until the sound of frantic horns catches his ear. He turns towards the source just in time to catch a large cargo carrier correct its flight track, driver leaning heavily on the horn. And on the right wing, unbeknownst to them, clings their runaway cyborg. Cruisers soon swerve behind them, blocking the blonde out of sight. Before his eyes, his target is swept away into the rush hour traffic. Idly, the pain registers from his fingers. A glance down reveals white knuckles, skin broken on fingertips from gripping the roof edge much too hard. It’s still a struggle to take a breath. But instead of icy dread, the grip around his throat is scalding, molten hot fury rising in his throat like bile. That fucking piece of shit asshole How fucking dare he A blisteringly loud curse, spat right next to his ear, snaps him back to reality. “What the hell was that, Kahl? Did you slap the fuzzy handcuffs you use in the bedroom on him by mistake?” Cartman seethes, waving a furiously clenched fist in his direction. "What sort of idiot doesn’t check that - “ His words come to a prompt halt when the redhead whirls around to face him, eyes narrow slits of cold fury. “I said I would bring him in by the end of the week, did I not?” he hisses, tone pure venom. “Check your calendar. It’s fucking Monday, Cartman.” He stomps past him, snatching his abandoned keys from the ground. The tablet with the release form had been dropped next to them, cracked screen flickering mockingly at him. When he glances over his shoulder, his expression is one of determination. “I’ll bring him in by the end of the week.” -- AN: An entry written for the K2 Challenge! I saw the Cyborg/Bounty Hunter prompt, and my weak ass was gone - the sci-fi deck (as well as the sci-fi genre) is my absolute favourite. EDIT: Fanart!!! Kenny's Wanted Poster + Kyle Is Done With People Who Run Kenny's Breaking Free For those who are not still low-key addicted to Phone Destroyer: Cyborg Kenny and Bounty Hunter Kyle ! And Sheriff Cartman (a slight cheat on my part, but it made more sense narratively then Awesome-O). Setting-wise, I mostly had Kadara in mind from Mass Effect: Andromeda, especially for the lower levels. I hope you enjoy - any comments are very much appreciated <3 Quite the little escapologist Chapter Summary The relentless chase for Kenny the Asshole Cyborg continues. Kyle is not having a good week. It is already Wednesday, and all he has to show for the past three days is a growing number of failures. Frustrating failures. He is no closer to figuring out the fugitive’s surname or his new hideout. Throughout their numerous encounters, he couldn't get so much as a clear snapshot of the blonde’s face, let alone a DNA sample. What made it even more annoying is that it wasn’t locating Kenny that was proving to be difficult. It was everything else --- The terrible clangs echo down the alleyway as Kenny throws himself from one container to another, feet leaving dents in the metal after each leap. Above him, Kyle flies in close pursuit. So close. There were nothing but cramped alleyways for miles now. In such close quarters, he couldn't keep avoiding his shots forever. As if hearing his thoughts, the blonde makes a sharp turn right. Giving the thrusters a vicious boost of extra power, Kyle swerves to follow. He realises his mistake about the same time that the edges of his jetpack get caught in the narrowing walls in a shower of sparks, bringing him to an abrupt halt. Wincing at the horrendous screech from the unexpected friction, he shifts, trying to dislodge himself. None of his attempts - not a kick to the wall, nor the straining thrusters - are successful. Below him, the calculating asshole turns to give him a wave. “Hang in there, Agent!” he croons right before leaping up a nearby ladder, scurrying up towards the rooftops and his means of an escape. With gritted teeth, Kyle empties his entire magazine in the cyborg’s direction, fingers still jamming the trigger long after it stops firing. All that it results in is some delighted laughter and a trashed fire escape that no doubt will be coming out of his paycheck. And he was still stuck. With a dejected sigh, he reaches to knock on the nearest window, managing to tug his mask off by the time the curtains lift, revealing the owner. “....I am not interested in the teachings of any of your deities.” she says in carefully polite tones, apprehension evident in all six of her eyes. “No, I'm not - I am terribly, terribly sorry, m’am, but...I’m stuck. May I please use your window?” --- He had never hated the underbelly of the city more - with its infinite amount of trap doors, back doors, sliding doors, way too many fucking doors. Years of experience, dozens of contacts and endless hours of research, and yet he kept coming up short - over and over again. “I think you need to step back just a little bit, Kyle.” came Stan’s entirely predictable advice, voice just a little distorted through the transmission. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you sound about two steps away from having his wanted poster tacked onto your ceiling so you can glare at it first thing in the morning.” The redhead snorts. “Well, I gotta throw my knives at something, don’t I?” A pause. “...dude, do you have a poster tacked up in your apartment somewhere?” “Of course not!” “I’m coming over tomorrow and checking for myself.” It wasn’t about the money, or even about the promise he made to the Sheriff - a promise Cartman was all too happy to keep reminding Kyle about, both in person and through every means of electronic communication. This was about his professional integrity. His abilities. This was getting humiliating. --- It’s been five hours. Five hours of squatting by the sole exit of the building Kenny had entered in the morning. Five hours with just one bottle of water and crackers whose expiry dates he’d been too afraid to check before cramming them into his mouth. Five hours with fluctuating winds and the occasional spout of corrosive rain. Gritting his teeth, he shifts his weight for the dozenth time. He stopped feeling his toes about two hours in. The door jingles open, revealing a tall blonde bombshell. Both her hands and her attention are focused solely on her communicator, thumbs practically a blur as she types. The lower half of her face is hidden by a high collar, fashionable with the ladies of the Sanseyol cluster. Quashing down his disappointment, he lets her pass, trying his best to catch a glimpse of the reception before the doors slide shut behind her. There’s no sign of anyone hiding, cowering, waiting. The sound of her footsteps almost fade when Kyle turns to stare after her, niggling doubt soon growing into genuine dread. Kenny had broken into a sprint by the time he’d staggered to his feet. She - he - drops to his knees by a corner, fingers finding a hidden latch for a narrow entrance down to the sewers. As he gets closer, he can see the places where the long blonde wig has slipped in his hurry. His eyes crinkle as their gazes lock together, the collar no doubt hiding a shit-eating grin. His hand raises in their customary wave before he thinks better, blowing Kyle a fucking kiss before jumping down into the depths. --- The redhead glances over at the clock, noting the numbers with a tired sort of surprise. Midnight has passed a lot sooner than he anticipated. “You need to go to bed, man.” Stan had said just before they said goodbye an hour ago, tone gentle but leaving no space for disagreement. “ This can wait till the morning. You've got better things to do than lose sleep over one asshole target.” Surely you’ve got better things to do at this time of the night. Kyle let his gaze linger around his apartment - with its bare walls, minimal furniture, every surface covered in papers, books, haphazardly piled folders. On his bed, messy and much too empty, with the old faded quilt Sheila had sewn him dangling off the side. He wasn’t so sure he did. --- In theory, accepting a quick, straightforward job as a palette cleanser had been a good idea. He’d spend a few hours working for someone who was not Cartman, clear his head, get a boost of self assurance that he could still do his job and do it well, dammit. In practice, his mind remained stubbornly fixated on the Case of Kenny The Asshole Cyborg. Consequently, in the process of detaining his runaway, he missed a few small cues. And a couple of big ones. He got slammed into a solid concrete wall with full force for his troubles. He manages to keep a straight face as he snaps the handcuffs on, boot digging gratifyingly into the culprit’s spine. He keeps it professional when handing him over to the authorities, papers signed, bounty and pleasantries exchanged. Once in the safety of his ship, doors sealed and windows tinted, he curls up in the driver's seat for a long ten minutes, holding back tears. His ribs protest with every shaky breath taken. A quick peek under his armour reveals a long, ugly splotch of purple, bleeding down his side. There was no avoiding it - it was time for yet another detour. The shadows are already long and red-tinted when Kyle maneuvers his ship down to the landing area, blissfully abandoned. The gravel crunches under his boots as he makes his way up the well-worn path, edged with a cheerful little fence. Some kind stranger has even left a sign on one post, in a clumsily welded shape of an arrow. The Paladin was tucked away between two mountains, a stone's throw away from the border between city and wildlands. An open secret with its modest sandstone walls and arched doorway, it was a haven for any and every injured soul that needed medical attention. No matter the species, faction or occupation. Or insurance - and lack thereof. Kyle counted himself lucky that he wasn’t in the latter category. He did hold the clinic in high esteem regardless - and, thanks to certain circumstances, he was always on the priority list whenever he made a visit. The happy sound of the bell tingles through the room as Kyle shuffles in, prompting the appearance of a familiar, tiny receptionist. He manages a smile for Dougie whilst he fills in the visitor’s form, grateful at the lack of questions. As he disappears to fetch the doctor, Kyle slumps down on the plastic orange chair. With a bleary blink, he tips his head back. In his line of sight is a large notice board, sporting the house rules at the very top. Each point is neatly illustrated. Carefully tacked underneath is at least two dozen crayon drawings, penned by eager little hands - the doctor’s grateful past patients. Right on cue, the man in questions appears, breezing through the door in a sweep of crisp white robes and concerned tones. “Kyle!” “Hey Butters.” “What happened?” the blonde asks, eyes already fretful as he hurriedly takes inventory of the hunter’s appearance. “Got a bit roughed up on the job. Might have cracked a few ribs.” he replies, trying to keep his voice as level as he can. “I know it’s not ideal but...I need to be back on the job tomorrow morning. No delays.” And Butters, dear sweet Butters, despite the unhappy twitch of his lip and his very clear opinions on letting the body rest to heal itself, nods straight away. “Come on, let’s get you patched up!” --- After much prodding, muttering and an unholy amount of (extremely cold) medigel later, Kyle feels somewhat like a human being once more. With the pain eased to a dull throb, he is happy to sit back and let Butters flit around him. “There we are.” he finally announces, clapping his hands together. With a flick of his wrist, he sends the scans of Kyle’s ribs from his handheld device to the projector screen fixed on the wall. “Just sit tight for a little more. I got most of the fractures healin’ up. I’ll get you some ointment to put on before you go to bed, and you’ll be as right as rain by tomorrow.” “You are a lifesaver, Butters.” “Aw, gee - just doing my job.” the other insists, lips pulled into a pleased little smile. “You came at a perfect time! I’ve only got one other patient in right now. Ah - speaking of, do you mind if I go check up on him now? I’ll just run a quick adjustment on his cybernetics whilst your medigel gets all absorbed.” “Sure, of course. Go ahead.” He waits until the blonde is out of sight before pushing himself to his feet. Carefully, he tests his range of movements, lifting his arm and rotating his torso, miming the action of drawing his gun. Minor discomfort and the occasional twinge aside, his movements are smooth. The fugitive stood no chance the next time they crossed paths. Muted voices and approaching footsteps prompt him to sit back down, assuming his previous position of a model patient. He hears Butters laugh as they turn the corner, the stranger’s shoes unusually loud against the floor. “ - and it’s all been fine? No feedback problems, no strained shoulders?” “It’s been great, Leo.” the other patient replies, voice warm. “Per usual.” Wait a fucking minute. It cannot be. Kyle hasn’t given religion much thought in the past decade. But in that moment, he wants to curse all and every deity out because this feels cruel and deliberate . All gods are fucking assholes and karma is a myth because this city cannot be this fucking small that he is - once again - staring into the cornflower blue eyes of Asshole Cyborg Kenny. He is back on his feet within seconds, a snarl ripping from his lips. “You!!” The shock on the fugitive’s face fills him with giddy satisfaction for a precious three seconds. It’s then promptly ruined by an all-too-familiar grin. “We meet again! ” he responds, voice bright with false cheer. He casually steps to the side, angling his right arm away from Kyle’s line of sight. “This is starting to get just a little sad, Agent Broflovski.” He was going to murder him, bounty be damned. “Oh.” Butters exclaims, voice very quiet. “You know each other.” “A little too well, I feel.” Kenny quips, expression twisting with exaggerated pity. “He’s been very clingy.” That mocking tone was the last fucking straw. “Bold words coming from someone who has to hide in the sewers from the law and justice.” he hisses. Kenny’s smile stiffens, eyes narrowing. “Says the man who shoots civilians without remorse.” The redhead’s jaw falls open, incredulity momentarily outweighing his anger. “I had every right to bring you in! The first thing I did was offer peaceful co-operation and you ran!” “Fellas, I really rather you didn’t - “ “You turned up at my house and demanded I come with you!” the blonde snaps. “You want to talk law and justice? That’s a breach of every sort of privacy if I ever heard one!” “Guys - “ “You lost the right to be indignant when you refused to take responsibility and be tried for your crimes like a - “ “FELLAS!” Butters yells, stomping his foot. On the nearby table, the scalpels rattle against the metal tray, the scanner next to it shrieking in alarm at the sudden power surge. “You will stop this right now!” Instantly, Kenny goes still. Kyle does the complete opposite. “He's a wanted fugitive, Butters!” he reiterates, raising his voice to match his friend’s. “He has a bounty on his head!” “He's also an injured man in need of medical attention!” the blonde retorts, frown deepening. “And right now, that takes priority!” “But - “ “No buts, no coconuts! There will be no fighting, no arresting, no yelling in my clinic! This is a neutral zone!” He pauses to take a deep breath, cheeks pink with the effort. “I knew we should have gotten a bigger sign. Or one for every room, at the least. Now sit down , Kyle, please , or you'll upset your ribs and all that medigel will go to waste!” In the back of the room, a bulb pops with a blinding flash. Swallowing, the redhead heeds the request, hiding his clenched fists in his lap. The doctor nods sharply, hands settling on his hips as he turns to face the now smirking cyborg. “And you too, mister!” he snaps, shoving an accusing finger dangerously close to his face. “Don't you go riling up my patients! Get on the examination table and zip it !” The minutes that follow are long, silent and awkward. Butters' angry grumblings slowly transform into his usual soft murmurs, punctuated by sharp scrapes of metallic friction. Kyle fixes his gaze on the floor, desperately wishing he was wearing something more than a flimsy gown. Just as the last wire from the clinic’s computer is plugged into Kenny’s arm, there's a sharp knock on the door. “Doctor, we have a guy in the lobby with a missing arm.” Dougie reports, much too calmly. There are specks of blood splattered across his glasses. “And with him is the creature with said arm in its mouth.” Idly, Kyle wonders how much the receptionist gets paid. However exorbitant, it's probably not enough. “Oh, hamburgers.” Butters mutters, gnawing on his lower lip before springing to his feet, already reaching for a new pair of gloves. “I'll be right there!” He pauses for a second to type furiously with one hand, prompting a cascade of numbers across the screen, too fast to make any sense of it. “I started the routine scan, Kenny - it shouldn't take long. I'll be back after I've sewn that arm back on.” He pauses, expression turning very stern, pose reminiscent of a harried kindergarten teacher. “Please behave.” And just like that, the two of them are alone. If Kyle strains his ears, he can hear the muted roars from the lobby. If he were a weaker man, he'd be in tears at this point. His target was there - right there - lying less than a meter away from him, defenceless. Even his face was exposed, customary hood nowhere in sight. And here he was, with four cracked ribs and an almost indecent hospital gown - without a gun, without armour, without a bloody camera. Suddenly, the blonde clears his throat. When Kyle lifts his head, he's startled by the sheer intensity of his expression. “I don't care what your reasonings are, but don't start shit.” Kenny says, tone hard. “Not here.” Quickly recovering, the hunter returns the glare in equal intensity. “I'm not going to break Butters' rules!” he huffs. “I respect him and I'm not a fucking idiot.” There was a reason why the blonde could remain blissfully neutral on a planet with such turbulent criminal activity. “Besides.” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Even capturing you wouldn't be worth the shit I'd get from him for upsetting Butters.” He can feel the blonde’s questioning gaze on him. Helpfully, he refuses to further expand on the topic. Kyle really doesn’t expect the other to speak again. So when the blonde clears his throat again, tone disturbingly light, he can’t quite disguise his surprise. “That's a nasty bruise. Did you fall off the building after our last chase?” “...Hardly.” “Oh?” Kenny questions, tilting his head. From this angle, his eyelashes look unnaturally long. “Are you seeing other fugitives behind my back?” Kyle hopes his expression speaks for itself. “Why are you surprised? You’re a sloppy date.” he sniffs before he can stop himself, chin raised high. “You’re constantly late, quick to exit and always leave me with the bill.” He doesn’t expect the laughter either - sudden and surprised, tampering off to breathless sniggers that make Kenny’s entire body shake. It’s oddly cute. “And yet you keep coming back for more.” he replies eventually. His eyes gleam, and once again, Kyle idly wonders if they too are cybernetically enhanced. “Wonder what that says about your tastes, Agent.” This was getting uncomfortably close to home. And uncomfortably comfortable, for that matter. Here he was, bantering with someone who has led him on a merry, humiliating chase around town for the past three days. “I don’t give up.” he says, curt and colder than initially intended. “That’s what it says. And that’s all you need to know.” Kenny seems to catch the hint. Silence settles back in between them, only broken by the rhythmic beeping of the computer. The words, so quiet, are almost lost to the echoes of the returning footsteps and the opening door. Still, Kyle catches them right before Butters sweeps back into the room. “I always did have very bad luck.” --- In the end, it’s so stupidly convenient. The sun’s rays are still scorching when Kyle steps out from his cruiser, the metal under his fingertips blisteringly hot. He snatches his hand back with a grumble, hoisting the sports bag higher onto his shoulder. Ike had messaged him just as he got home, sounding unusually harried as he asked for a favour. So there he was, walking up to the university dorms on the other side of the city. He sends a message from their usual meeting spot. Setting the bag down on the ground, he tips his head back to enjoy the warmth, grateful for his foresight to wear sunglasses. Above him, the wind rattles through the branches of the tall turquoise trees. A sharp peal of laughter rings out from the side. Lazily, he glances off in its direction, searching for the source. And there he was again. There he was, standing by the gates - wearing much too many layers for the weather - hugging a brunette girl tightly. “Thanks for the ride, Kenny!” Kyle hears her say. Frankly, he is shocked he can make her voice out above the roar of his own blood in his ears. “And for the lunch!” The fugitive just shrugs, smile much too tender. “You’re very welcome. I hope you like fish because that’s all I’ve been messing around with.” The girl nods, expression turning thoughtful. “You know you don’t have to check on me every day, right? I promise I can cook for myself. I haven’t set the kitchen on fire once.” “Are you trying to deprive your big brother from happiness, Karen?” the cyborg asks, hand clutching his chest just a little dramatically. Judging from her fond eye-roll, this is not the first time they are having this conversation. “No, I’m trying to prevent him to working himself to death.” she chides. Her eyes, just as bright as her brothers, are gentle but very firm. Gloved hands slide into the pockets of the battered orange parka just as Kenny shifts, unintentionally providing Kyle with an uncomfortably good view of his expression. “Nothing is too much when it’s for you, Karen.” He says something else afterwards too. Kyle has no idea what that is because his communicator is beeping with a missed call, and there’s a very ragged-looking young man walking towards him. A part of him wants to pull Ike into a hug immediately and drag him towards their family home. He can practically taste an easy, concerned lecture on the tip of his tongue right before he swallows it down, handing him the bag. “Here you go - extra clothes and your spare suit.” Ike heaves a relieved sigh, a grin finally splitting across his tired face. “Thanks so much, Kyle.” Affection surges through him, fiercely. He could count the number of things he wouldn’t do for his brother on one hand. “Of course.” he replies. “You can ask me if you need anything, anytime.” His urgency must have trickled into his tone, because the look Ike gives him is a little odd. Still, he presses on. “You know that, right?” “Yeah. Course I do.” --- He risks a glance back towards the gate once his brother is gone, throat tight. Kenny is still standing there - in the open, on perfectly un-neutral ground. It looks like Karen is in the process of saying goodbye. He could very easily follow him out to the parking lot, shadow him until they’re far away from the school. He could very easily check the records the university, and search for the name of his sister. He could He should. The metal is still scalding underneath his fingers as he climbs into his ship, reaching to switch the autopilot on. He could have. He should have. But he went ahead and didn’t. The thought keeps him awake long into the night. --- AN: I just want to say a huge thank you to the wonderful comments I got on the first chapter - please know that you made quite the spectacle of me on various forms of public transport. There was much manic grinning. Please check out the amazing art HERE and HERE for the previous chapter - I'm still not quite over them <3 I hope you enjoyed - any comments are very much appreciated <3 Sleep In The City That Never Wakes Up It doesn't make sense. It is around 5 am when he logs onto the university database using Ike's password, entrusted to him last exam season. The guilt nips at him as he scrolls down the page, dodging the remains of his tired argument justifying his actions. But he cannot ignore this. He needs to know. He finds her easily enough. Every prominent extracurricular club is listed on the site, with portraits of the leading members included. Just three photos to his brother’s right on the Newspaper Club's page is the now-famil