Chapter Text
Kyle had just returned from a fruitless morning at the Eiffel Tower, where he’d interviewed no fewer than twelve tourists who looked at him like he’d grown a second head when he asked if they’d seen Stan Marsh, reality TV's golden boy turned recluse—when his phone buzzed.
@frenchbaguettebabe123 had sent him a dm.
Kyle blinked at his screen. Was this real? Was this finally a break? He messaged back quickly, trying to keep his cool:
The guy replied with a blurry photo of a very familiar jawline and what looked suspiciously like a Calvin Klein six-pack under a hoodie. The caption read:
“He had that ‘I’m famous and dead inside’ vibe. Pretty sure.”
Kyle was out the door in thirty seconds.
He grabbed an Uber, because navigating public transport in a language he didn’t speak was hell, and practically barked at the driver to get to the Champs-Élysées Five Guys yesterday. The ride was painfully slow thanks to traffic, but eventually he tumbled out onto the sidewalk like a caffeinated mess, scanning the fast-food joint like a bloodhound.
Inside, it was as generic as any American chain—linoleum floors, red and white checkered tiles, and a bored-looking teenage employee sweeping up near the soda machine. Kyle approached the kid, praying he spoke even a bit of English.
“Hey. Uh. Salut. Did… did a guy come in here yesterday? Tall, hoodie, shades, abs like a Greek statue, maybe ordered something weird?”
The teen looked up slowly, blinking like Kyle was a minor hallucination. Then he nodded.
“Oui,” he said in thickly accented English. “He order… cheeseburger, big fries, and milkshake… with bacon. It was… how you say… disgusting?”
“Oh my God,” Kyle breathed. “That’s him.”
“He sit in car,” the kid added. “Small car. Tiny. Grey Citroën. Very old.”
“Did you see where he went?”
The kid shrugged. “No. He drive away. Maybe… south?”
Of course it was south. Everyone trying to vanish went south.
Kyle practically sprinted back to the curb, yanked out his phone, and launched into Craigslist France. He needed a car. Any car. Something he could afford on his ramen-and-despair budget. To his complete and utter disbelief, a listing caught his eye: “Old car, cheap. No questions asked.”
He clicked.
Ten frantic messages, one rushed Metro ride, and a questionable cash transaction later, Kyle was standing in front of the very same dude who had apparently sold Stan freaking Marsh a car. He handed over the crumpled Euro bills and leaned in.
“I need more information. Please. License plate. Direction. Anything.”
Jacques looked him over, shrugged, then said, “Twenty more euros.”
Of course, Kyle handed it over without hesitation.
“License plate is 481-CLN-75. He go… south, I think. Say… mountain maybe?”
Kyle scribbled it all down and then, with all the optimism of a raccoon being launched into space, got into his “new” car.
It was a glorified tin can, to say the least. Also, stick shift. Of course. He stalled three times before he even pulled out of the driveway. His knees hit the dashboard every time he tried to shift. The seats smelled like cheap cigarettes and expired cheese. But he was moving. The chase had begun. Just as he was fumbling with the GPS, his phone buzzed again.
He scowled and typed back with one hand while the other tried not to stall the car again.
Kyle groaned but couldn’t help snorting. The sarcasm was almost charming. Almost.
Mildly annoyed, Kyle rolled his eyes. But still, he didn’t stop replying.
God help him, he was. Kyle adjusted the mirror, muttered a curse as the engine hiccupped again, and hit the road out of Paris. Wherever Stan Marsh had gone, Kyle Broflovski wasn’t far behind. Even if he had to learn stick shift and fight off snarky internet strangers along the way.
…
Stan had been on the road for what felt like a lifetime. The novelty of driving through the European countryside had long worn off, especially since he was hunched over the wheel of a car that felt like it had been designed for a Hobbit. His knees nearly grazed the steering wheel, and every time he hit a bump, the entire car wheezed like it was gasping for retirement. Gosh, he missed his Jeep. He missed legroom. He missed functioning cupholders.
While he veered off the main road and followed the winding curves of some nameless French highway, he muttered, “Why do Europeans drive these lawnmowers?”
But the destination kept him going: St. Moritz, Switzerland. He hadn’t thought about that snowy little playground of the elite in years. The Marshs had been invited during the Winter Olympics once, back when their show was just exploding into global fame. Stan remembered the icy air, the shiny ski gear, the never-ending press events. The whole family had smiled so hard their faces nearly froze off. But still, something about the Alps, clean, quiet, hidden, called to him now. It reminded him a little of Colorado, of home. Of the version of himself before the cameras.
His phone, Kenny’s burner, thankfully untraceable, vibrated. Shelley.
Stan hesitated for a second, then picked up.
“Where the fuck are you?” she snapped immediately. “Dad’s tearing apart the farm like a crime scene. You ghosted the show, turd. You ghosted the show mid-season.”
He let out a tired breath. “I needed to get away. I was losing it, Shells.”
Her sigh crackled through the line. “I get it, okay? I do. But you can’t get caught. You know how Dad is. You think he's pissed now? Wait until he finds out you've left the States.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not telling you where exactly I am. Safer for both of us.”
“You better be somewhere without a signal, then. Because your face is all over social media.”
He hung up before she could talk him into coming back. Not this time. He wasn’t coming back. Not yet. Maybe not ever. As he pulled into a gas station in some sleepy French town, he noticed how his legs wobbled a little when he stepped out of the car. He hadn’t realized how tense his body had been, cramped and coiled for hours. He stretched, grabbed a few snacks, real ones, not the sad, sugar-free granola bars that his nutritionist back home would’ve approved -and strolled up to the counter.
An elderly man with more wrinkles than hair stood behind the register, looking like he hadn’t had a real conversation in weeks. Stan smiled faintly. “Hey, can you do me a favor?”
The man blinked, confused, until Stan held up his phone. “Take a photo of me. Here. In front of the gas station.”
“Photo? Oui. Okay.”
Stan posed with the ease of someone who had modeled Calvin Klein underwear on a billboard in Times Square: casual, one hand in the pocket of his hoodie, shades still on. But there was a sly smirk on his lips. Then he handed the man fifty euros.
“For you. Also… can you post that photo online? Not now. In twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty… hours?” the man repeated, baffled. “Why wait?”
“Trust me. It’s for drama,” Stan winked.
The man just shrugged again and nodded. “Okay.”
After that, Stan left the gas station with a bottle of soda, a bag of gummy bears, and the smug satisfaction of someone who knew exactly how to play the fame game. He got into his tiny Citroën, dumped the gummy bears into his lap, and checked his Finstagram. There it was.
Stan chuckled and shook his head.
Stan could almost hear the annoyance behind Kyle’s words. Still, it didn’t stop him from poking the bear.
Stan stared at the screen. That was the kind of thinking that had broken him in the first place. He tossed the phone into the passenger seat and bit into a gummy bear a little harder than necessary. This was going to be fun. Because Stan Marsh wasn’t running anymore. Now, he was hunting too.
…
Kyle lay on the lumpy motel bed, arms flung over his head, staring at the cracked ceiling like it had personally offended him. The mattress springs creaked every time he breathed. The wallpaper was peeling at the corners like it, too, wanted to escape. The whole place reeked faintly of cigarettes and disappointment. The last real trace he’d had of Stan Marsh had led him in circles. Paris was a bust. Five Guys - cold trail. And now here he was, in a glorified shoebox just outside of Lyon, surviving off instant coffee and dry croissants. The bathroom faucet made a gurgling noise that sounded like it was summoning the dead.
He groaned and turned on his phone, more out of habit than hope. Maybe ClarkKent11 had messaged him again. Kyle didn’t know why he even entertained that weird online flirtation anymore. He should’ve been creeped out, but he wasn’t. Probably because talking to the mysterious guy helped take the edge off the ever-looming threat of “if you don’t find Stan Marsh, you’re fired” that Francis had drilled into him like a death mantra.
While he scrolled through Instagram, preparing himself for the usual doomscrolling of vacation pics and influencer nonsense, a new post caught his eye.
ClarkKent11 liked this post.
Wait. What?
It was a grainy photo, taken in bad lighting, but it was unmistakably Stan Marsh. Standing in front of a dingy little gas station near a national forest. Hoodie. Shades. That smirk that Kyle had learned to hate during ten grueling seasons of Making It With The Marshs.
Heart pounding, Kyle bolted upright and stared at the background of the picture. The terrain. The logo. The chipped paint. Google Maps confirmed the location within minutes. It was just a couple hours from where he was. He didn’t even think twice. He shoved on his coat, grabbed his satchel, and sprinted out to the car, the ancient, boxy tin can that he’d affectionately nicknamed “The Sardine.” Within two hours, he was pulling up in front of the gas station, praying this wasn’t just another dead end.
The same old man stood behind the counter. He was clearly not expecting visitors. Kyle marched in like a man on a mission. “Hi. Bonjour. Hello. I need to ask you about the man in that Instagram post.”
The elderly man blinked at him, completely unfazed. “Post?”
Kyle held up his phone. “This one. Posted by @cigarettesandchai. That man. He was here. Right?”
The man shrugged, too casually. “Ah… oui. Maybe. People come. People go.”
Suspicious, Kyle narrowed his eyes. “He told you to post it after he left, didn’t he? Delayed upload. Come on. Be honest.”
The old man hesitated. That was answer enough for him.
“Look, I’m not the cops. I’m not paparazzi. I’m just a guy trying to keep his job. Please.”
There was a pause. Then, with a sigh of surrender, the man said, “He say… twenty-four hours. Wanted time. He give me money, told me to wait.”
Kyle exhaled, shoulders sagging. “Did he tell you where he was going?”
Another shrug. “Non. He bought food. Gas. Said something about mountains. That’s all.”
Frustrated again, Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. He was so close. He could taste the scoop. He’d been living out of his suitcase for days, existing on vending machine snacks and false hope. This couldn’t be another dead end.
The man, clearly finished being interrogated, moved to empty the small trash can near the coffee station, muttering about how nobody ever stopped here anymore.
The trash bag tore open as he lifted it, spilling crumpled papers across the tiled floor.
“Merde,” the man cursed.
Kyle dropped to his knees immediately to help. Paper cups, old receipts, a half-eaten croissant in a napkin. Then—something. A crumpled piece of paper, slightly smudged, covered in chicken-scratch writing that made Kyle’s breath catch.
He knew that handwriting.
He’d seen it on Stan’s to-do lists. On sticky notes on the Marsh fridge. On love letters to Wendy written during Season 3 when Stan still thought romance could be scripted. Kyle flattened the paper. It was a map. Cheap, printed. And circled in red pen:
St. Moritz.
Kyle stared at it. Then slowly, a smile curled onto his lips.
He stood and turned to the confused man behind the counter. “Merci. Seriously. You have no idea how much this helps.”
He shoved a twenty-euro bill onto the counter, grabbed the map, and bolted back out into the cold, heart pounding.
Screw TripAdvisor. Screw the peeling wallpaper. Screw everyone who said journalism was a dead career path. He had a clue now. Stan Marsh was headed for the Alps. And Kyle was so coming for him.
…
The drive toward the Alps was long, winding, and absolutely exhausting, but at least Kyle had someone to text with.
Well, someone.
It had started as banter. Something light, something to take his mind off the endless miles of Swiss countryside and the existential dread of what would happen if he failed to find Stan Marsh. ClarkKent11 had sent him a cheeky message that afternoon, the same way he had every day for the last ten days.
Kyle rolled his eyes but couldn’t help grinning. He pulled over at a scenic overlook- Alps in the background, the tiniest excuse for a gas station nearby- and typed back:
Kyle snorted and muttered to himself, “Unbelievable.” But he typed anyway:
Kyle blinked at the screen. Then his fingers flew over the keyboard.
For a second, Kyle thought the guy had chickened out. But then a new message popped in: just ten digits.
Kyle stared at the screen. No fucking way. He hesitated. Debated. Then curiosity, and the slim chance of being right, won out. He copied the number and hit “Call.”
The line rang once. Twice. And then...
“What?” barked a voice.
Definitely Shelley Marsh. Her signature scowl could be heard through the phone.
“Uh—hi. Is this Shelley Marsh? This is Kyle Broflovski. Would you be open for a few questions?” Kyle asked, heart pounding.
There was a beat of silence. Then, “Ugh. You’re that leech reporter. Kyle whatever. Stop stalking Stan. You creepy turd.”
“Wait, no—how do you—?”
“You think you’re clever, huh? The hashtags? The viral reel? The viral desperation? You’re wasting your life chasing someone who doesn’t want to be found.” Shelley sounded like she was pacing, probably scowling so hard her face hurt. “I’m the only one allowed to be an ass to my brother. You? You’re nothing. Just lowlife scum with a death wish.”
The call clicked off. Blocked.
Kyle stared at the screen, stunned. That... That really was Shelley Marsh. That meant…
His hands moved faster than his brain:
Irritated, Kyle bit the inside of his cheek.
Kyle slumped back in the car seat. The air grew colder as the sun dipped behind the mountains. He knew he should block ClarkKent11. Or at the very least stop indulging him. He had enough on his plate already. But the mystery of it was getting under his skin. This guy knew too much. Had Shelley’s number. Knew about Columbia. Couldn’t be just a fan. And worse: chatting with him made the long, lonely search bearable.
He typed back.
Kyle stared at those words long after the screen dimmed. Something about the way he said that made his stomach twist weirdly. There was something deeper there. He didn’t know what exactly. But he knew one thing for sure: he was closer than ever now.
…
Stan was stretched out like a spoiled prince on the chaise lounge of his fifth-floor suite in St. Moritz, wrapped in a thick white bathrobe and slippers so fluffy they could have been sheared off Swiss clouds. The view from his floor-to-ceiling window was annoyingly perfect—crystal-blue sky, snow-dusted pine trees, and the gentle gleam of a frozen lake in the distance. Somewhere out there, locals were probably skiing or sipping overpriced espresso.
Stan, meanwhile, was on his second glass of champagne before noon and scrolling through his messages with the kind of smugness only a man who had successfully faked a runaway across Europe could enjoy.
He loved messing with Kyle Broflovski.
God, it shouldn’t have been so fun. But it was. The whole thing—the fake Instagram account, the vague hints, the riddles, the complete mind games—was giving Stan something he hadn’t felt in a long time: control. Freedom. Even if Shelley was probably plotting his murder for handing her number over to a journalist.
So worth it.
Stan tapped out a new dm to Kyle with a self-satisfied smirk:
The answer came in under five minutes, which meant Kyle had probably thrown his phone across the bed and then snatched it up again in a fit of caffeine-fueled rage.
Stan took a lazy sip of his cocktail this time, something fruity and complicated, definitely the kind of drink his fitness coach would’ve banned. He leaned back, legs crossed, and let the silk of the hotel robe slide just enough for maximum dramatic lounging.
Then, he dropped a location pin.
A very specific one.
Stan clinked his champagne flute against the rim of his second glass like he was toasting himself. He was going to need to check into his hotel afterwards —under the pseudonym Leo D. Caprio.
…
Six hours later, Kyle stood outside Room 540 of the Grand Kronenhof, a hotel so luxurious it made Versailles look modest. The woman he'd asked for the way had laughed out loud. “You sure you don’t mean ‘Grand Hostel,’ monsieur?” Kyle, sweaty and still jet-lagged and morally bankrupt after downing two sugarfree Red Bulls and a gas station sandwich, knocked twice.
No answer.
He knocked again. “E! Network sent me,” he kept muttering under his breath like an idiot.
“Excuse me, monsieur?” A hotel staffer pushing a cart of chocolates and linens paused beside him. “Are you... Kyle Broflovski, perhaps?”
Kyle turned, suspicious. “Yeah. Why?”
“Ah, parfait!” The man smiled. “Room has been prepared for you. Paid in full. Two nights, yes? Breakfast and dinner included. We were told to expect you.”
“Wait, what?”
Before Kyle could protest, he was handed a shiny keycard and ushered in like royalty. When he opened the door to the suite, he was momentarily stunned by the sheer size of it: marble floors, vaulted ceilings, a fireplace, a king-size bed that could fit at least four existential crises.
But the room was empty. No Stan Marsh.
Just a DVD case, carefully placed on the pristine white duvet.
Catch Me If You Can. Spielberg. Tom Hanks. Leonardo DiCaprio.
Kyle blinked. On top of the DVD was a yellow Post-it.
Tee hee :)
Scrawled in handwriting so chaotic and crooked, it could only belong to one man.
“Son of a bitch—” Kyle growled, running a hand through his curls and flopping down on the edge of the mattress. The absurd luxury of it all only made his rage burn hotter.
ClarkKent11 was Stan Marsh.
The golden boy of reality television. The stupidly hot heartthrob of America’s favorite fake family. The runaway prince who’d just lured him across multiple countries, gave him Shelley Marsh’s phone number, tricked him into checking into a hotel that probably cost more than his rent, and left behind a Spielberg clue like this was a scavenger hunt.
He wanted to be mad. Hell, he was mad.
But a grudging smile tugged at the corner of Kyle’s mouth.
He’d been played like a violin. Perfectly. By Stan fucking Marsh.
He picked up the DVD, flipped it in his hand, and muttered under his breath: “Alright, Marsh. Game on.”