Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ Please Stop The Unborn Chicken Voices ( Chapter 22 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Hotstreak set his fork down, frowning at him across the table. “You’d leave if you had the chance, wouldn’t you?”
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Horror / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 06.19.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 8.3K | Visits: 275 | Status: Completed
Hotstreak set his fork down, frowning at him across the table. “You’d leave if you had the chance, wouldn’t you?”
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Horror / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 06.19.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 8.3K | Visits: 275 | Status: Completed
Extreme AU, OOC, non-historic West, violence...supernatural themes, violence.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark. Oh, but I DO own original characters and creatures.
A/N: Sorry for taking so long with this chapter...I am STILL debating on which direction to take it! >.< And for those familiar with my fics and methods...you know how it goes. So, while I angst and stew over various options, I will be updating less frequently. Sorrah. But thanks for the continued interest in this rather...um...mad fic. XD
Tri: You know I love you. Eternally. XD A continued thanks for listening to me cry and complain and digging me out from the depths of my hiding spot to make me write.
Colddaye: Yeah, I’ve always thought that while Hs and R could have much happiness...there is also a really OTHER side to things that I love exploring. XD They just have personalities that are both stubborn and are over-dramatic...and I lurve those aspects. As for how R winded up with Jr...eh. In my first version of the story, he’d come to them on that he’d thought he was going to teach–but I don’t think I’ve addressed it clearly here. Still, there are many opportunities to do so, but until then! And as for fluff...um...that’s...soooo hard for me to accomplish! XD I’m a mistress of angst and drama, not...romancey-things. Read a V/R fic for fluff. Not mine LOL
I’m Alive: R is opening more than doors–he’s creating some for himself. O.O I’m kinda startled and afraid of what I’ll find when I finally end this fic. Poor dude...I should really let up on the torture...As for his communication with the things, THAT’LL be explained...er...one day.... >.> Eventually, things will be explained... SOMEWHAT. For I don’t want this to be a Save The World fic. Just...something that leads up to around it. Or...above it...below–whatever. >.< I want it to be confusing and having people in bewilderment, wondering–WTF??? Like...like watching a Tom Cruise movie. Is he, or isn’t he a cultist? XD
Chapter Twenty-Two:
Please Stop The Unborn Chicken Voices
Junior frowned down at Luna, his horse shifting with anxious regard. His mind was running with thoughts and with what he’d experienced since he left Luna, but most of the anxiety wasn’t with his return to Luna–it was with the almost alien feeling of plans running through his mind.
Before he had separated with Richie, all he could think about was using that kid’s mind for his plot against his father. To capture the trust and the loyalty of survivors that needed to know they were protected, for Richie seemed to notice things about the animals that no one else did. And there was potential in his intelligence for things that Junior could use; he’d fully planned on using the kid for that purpose, then...then things fell apart.
While since then he’d rethought all his previous troubles and regarded his callousness with that of regret and shame, he had to think how Richie could still be used for the purposes Junior had taken in, before.
His father didn’t know half the information he was sure Richie did. His father was a wise, intelligent man, but Junior was sure he didn’t possess the smarts that Richie did.
Junior was sure of that.
If Junior could use Richie’s intelligence, figure out the creatures’ weaknesses and strengths and use them to overcome them...he could build his own city, one that would rival Luna. All his supporters would leave his father and join with them, and Junior would have his revenge. His father would be crawling back to him. The utter satisfaction in that made him smile grimly, and his determination to follow through with his plans intensified. It was about time his father felt the anger and fury of wronging his own flesh-and-blood.
He could see that a group of gunmen had spotted him, and were trying to determine his motives as he looked over the town. Junior thought about approaching them, but realized that they’d tell his father. As much as he wanted nothing to do with the man...the men he was looking for was living down there.
Hopefully.
He thought of that tense moment in the kitchen, with Hotstreak ready to kill him if he made any move toward Richie.
He needed a lump of meat to lure the watchdog away from his prize.
Virgil had spoken constantly of trying to repair his relationship with Hotstreak; apparently, their history together was a very important one to him, and Junior retained that information without really thinking of it. It came in handy, though–perhaps Virgil could talk some sense into the redhead while he worked his own persuasive magic with Richie.
The boy was absolutely hateful of his current position. Perhaps...perhaps he’d like it better if his brain were used instead of his body. Perhaps he’d agree and cooperate faster if Junior suggested his line of planning...withholding the action of revenge against his father, of course.
As Junior stared out at Luna, his head began to pound with a heavy, utterly painful headache. It felt worse than a hangover–he slumped over his horse with a low groan, gloved hands curling over his head.
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“We will utilize every man that can hold and use a gun, an’ will fight for this town,” Alva commanded, his aged face tightening with determination and grit as he faced the hundreds of townspeople that listened to his every word. He was standing on the second floor balcony of his home, as if he were an old-world king commanding his kingdom peasants. Armed men stood at his sides, their faces as familiar as Alva’s. “We need all the help that we can get if we want to survive. Everyone in this town will pitch in–ain’t no one run out on their duties. Is this understood?”
At the murmurs of agreement, no one thinking much of ‘running out from their duties’, Alva was satisfied. His grim face, weathered by age and harsh command, seemed even older in the spring’s light. He surveyed all that was around him, then grimly eyed the outer area of Luna–without the sun, he had to wonder how the crops would fare this year. He had to wonder just how well this town would do without the necessities needed for life.
It wasn’t looking too good in that area, but he was too stubborn to let it all fall. They would persevere, even if he had to make those crops grow himself.
Still, even as he was studiously worrying about the crops and the needed necessities, his eyes scanned the crowd. Too proud to wear spectacles to appear weak and fragile in front of his minions, Alva searched secretly for a face he was inwardly hoping was part of that crowd. And when he found no familiarity of his son’s presence with the town’s members, he had to exhale lightly, straightening his shoulders and looking as commanding as possible.
Glancing around, Virgil wasn’t that surprised to see that no one objected to the commands tossed out. Alva was constructing a very harsh, but workable scale for Luna to stay protected by the measures he was commanding. In this town, everyone pitched in to help–women helped with the menial chores and worked alongside men in the ammunition factory near the south end. Children helped with lesser chores–men worked to protect the entire town from any unnaturals that happened about. All available animals and workers worked the fields that were being set up on the south end of Luna, near the water sources running from the mountains that rimmed that direction.
And day after day, more and more survivors arrived, hearing word of the protection Alva was able to provide. With every arrival, Luna continued to grow. Manpower grew with promising integrity.
Still, despite the promise the town provided in protection measures, it was obvious Alva was striving to remain in control, and running a sort of hierarchy that the survivors were powerless to resist.
Virgil and the others worked what they could, but only in that they were looking for Sharon. The man hoped that with each arrival of new survivors, Sharon was one of them.
“This is insane,” Adam whispered, rubbing his arms. It was nearing spring–the green all around them was apparent, as well as the warming of the air. It felt good to feel that warmth, but the sun was still hidden away by the thick clouds above. He, too, worried about the crops, but didn’t feel it important to bring it up with the others. Alva had that worry to deal with. “I mean, it’s like...yeah, he’s good with all the protection an’ order, but...there’s somethin’ fishy ‘bout it all.”
“I ain’t complainin’ yet,” Virgil confessed, glancing at him, then throughout the crowd once more. “It all good. It all workin’ just excellent, man. I ain’t complainin’.”
“But...still...” Adam trailed off, staring at the group of men that were coming into Luna. They brought with them a group of survivors, all of them astonished to see the population of the town, the factors of protection. He grinned, dismissing them already–Sharon was not part of that group. “It’s gettin’ real sucessful. More an’ more people comin’ in every day. Just...it gonna succeed, man. It gonna.”
Virgil shrugged, sliding his hands into his back pockets. Alva was still speaking, but he’d long since filtered him out. Looking around, he saw that everyone was looking up at the man with expressions of admiration and thanks. There were more armed gunmen everywhere–all of them alert and waiting to fight. While he and Adam were part of this group–every man had to fight, weapons provided if none were owned–he just found it amazing that everyone was willing to throw themselves into their duties with nary a complaint.
It seemed, on the frank side, that the creatures had passed through the area and left it as that. Despite the numbers that protected Luna, was it all just for show? There hadn’t been an encounter with creatures yet.
But it was best to be prepared.
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Hotstreak was in a dark mood as he pushed the sheep herd back to the house, a bawling lamb under one arm. Charger was chewing anxiously at his bit, and stumbling during the ride down the hill. The house was in sight–he stared at it with an expression of contemplation. He thought of Junior, the man’s unexpected appearance constantly sending swirls of black misery through him. What did he want? Where did he come from? How did he know Richie was still alive? How did he find him?
All of these bothered him, and the fact that Richie could so easily be taken from him left him feeling angry. And miserable.
Everything was taken from him. Everything was being ripped from his grasp. All without his consent, without warning: all that he felt precious to him was living in that house, alone and lost. All he had, really–Virgil was no where to be found, no matter how promising it was to know that the man was alive. Frankly, Hotstreak had grown more focused on what he had now to wonder about his dearest friend.
If Junior was coming back...intending to take Richie back with him–despite Richie saying he didn’t want to go with him, Hotstreak had his doubts. The boy had confessed to having feelings for Junior. For looking at him as some sort of savior, some sort of...of mentor. ‘Teaching’ him things? Helping him survive? All of it horseshit.
How could one look beyond all the horrors that had been committed and see something good? The only way that could happen was if...was if feelings were involved. This was Hotstreak’s way of thinking.
Richie had feelings for Junior, and for that...for that, Hotstreak was angry. He’d relaxed because Junior was dead–supposedly–and now that he wasn’t...?
He thought they were safe! Relatively speaking...there was still the threat of Indians’ retaliation, of the invasion, of zombies and those Things...but safe from Junior.
From all the others that could take Richie from him...
Now that Junior was alive and Richie knew this...was he going to leave him? Unexpectedly just up and leave while Hotstreak was outside, working? Would Junior come back secretly and ride off with him? And would Richie even look back, considering all the wrongs that Hotstreak had committed? Why hadn’t he seen the good that Hotstreak had done for him?!
Angrily, he spurred Charger into a quicker pace, eying the surrounding acreage around the house, looking for some sign of Junior. That wretched man...if only he’d had the chance to kill him...
That night, Hotstreak was too upset to eat. He picked at the stew Richie had made, staring at him with a contemplative expression as the blond busied himself with other things. Obviously, the younger male was lost in deep thought; his brow was scrunched, eyes holding that far-off look...while Hotstreak recalled that Richie had many questions for the demons, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was Junior that he was thinking about. If he were quietly plotting to leave him...he had to be.
Richie had to be considering leaving him. After all, he’d tried to take his own life! Wasn’t that a big clue of his misery here? Wasn’t that...wasn’t it obvious that he didn’t want to be with Hotstreak?
But the redhead was miserable–he’d done all he could to provide a home for the boy. He’d given him both herds; he’d cared and loved him. Why would Richie want to leave him? After all the horrors he’d gone through–even if sex had been forced, things should have evened out...after all, Hotstreak was never rough with him. He never threatened him, never hit him, never all these things–he never did! And he expressed all the good that he felt, and he asked questions, and he cared–all these things, and Richie would want to leave it all for some bum that would be careless with him?
He was getting worked up over it, gritting his teeth as he angrily speared the chunks of meat in his bowl.
Richie looked up at the loud clink of silverware on china, taking in Hotstreak’s angry expression. Wholly clueless to the man’s mood, he forced himself to stop wondering why the Things feared Hotstreak and why the man wouldn’t talk about that section of his past. He wasn’t sure how to approach the man with questions and expressed emotion–mainly because he’d cut himself away from him. This man was dangerous and insane; and while Richie wanted to care nothing more about it, about this life...Junior’s visit had changed everything.
Now...now that he had Purpose, he had a reason to wake up every morning. And he fully intended to find out why for his survival.
He tried to think of the things he’d done wrong, today. But he’d stayed inside all day, working on his notes and questions–he’d made dinner. Maybe...maybe there had been something expected, and he’d forgotten about it.
Feeling that dreaded caution of knowing that anger was going to be taken out on him, he lost his appetite. He set his fork aside, hating the feeling of knowing he did something wrong. He hated feeling that he had to bow down to this attitude, and hated himself even more for being reduced to this mess of human baggage.
Hotstreak set his fork down, frowning at him across the table. “You’d leave if you had the chance, wouldn’t you?”
Richie was really puzzled at that–but the anger in the redhead’s tone scared him. He didn’t want to meet the anger in those green eyes, so he focused on the table and wondered how he could skirt past all the anger with just remaining silent. That wretched fear of being beaten hit him hard; he had Junior to thank for that.
“If’n he came back ta git you. You’d go wit’ him. Wouldn’t you?”
Genuinely confused, Richie considered the question. While Junior claimed that he’d changed....it could all be a trick. He hadn’t given that thought. And he while he thought about it now, he wouldn’t go with the man. He was too afraid of resuming old positions.
Was this what the man was angry about? Had he been thinking about Junior’s surprise appearance all this time?
He wanted to look up, but he couldn’t do it. Making eye contact was just too damn dangerous.
He shook his head, head jerking as he did so.
Hotstreak took the gesture, but as the thick silence fell so heavily that the negative was taken opposite. He knew that lack of eye contact was Richie hiding the truth from him. He rose from his chair, throwing aside his food.
“You lie!” he cried, seeing thin shoulders jerk with surprise. “You lie. Once you git that chance, you’re gonna run off. Cuz you think I’m some sorta monster. You think I’m...I’m like them! You don’t like it here. After all I did, you don’t even wanna stay–! You’d go with him, an’ fuckin’ let all these fucks do you. Rather than me. Whatever I did, I sure did fuck up, didn’t I? That’s why yer gonna run. Yer plottin’ on it. When my back’s turned, yer gonna run.”
God, he’s so insane, Richie thought with a genuine flash of surprise as he listened to Hotstreak’s mad rant. He couldn’t help but recognize hurt and desperation in those words. He wanted to look up, but Hotstreak then kicked his chair away, and stomped off angrily. Feeling safe, Richie looked up from the table, bewildered by the accusation.
Why would Junior come back, anyway? If he did...Richie wasn’t going to go with him. Perhaps... perhaps thank him awkwardly. But...he didn’t want that life, anymore. He had a Purpose. He had something to do. And being with Junior wasn’t one of them.
That next morning, he was busy counting sheep and taking note of the number of gender in both when he heard the sound of a sharp shfft! from behind him. He turned to look for the noise, and promptly lost his position atop of the fence. He hit the ground on his shoulders, giving a startled cry as a wooden tonk! caught his ears. As his legs fell over head, and he rolled onto his backside, he heard Hotstreak scream something. A glance up the post revealed an arrow embedded deep into the word. He had to marvel at that for a few moments, at his ‘luck’ that had him escaping certain death by...clumsiness? He certainly had a lot of clumsy luck, nowadays.
Then there was gunfire–entirely startled, Richie was scrambling to his feet, sheep brawling with panic as they leapt and darted about the pen with frantic efforts.
Wholly confused, but recognizing a gunfight, Richie darted off toward the barn. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that several forms were coming up on horseback toward them–more were coming in from the field on the right. All of them were packing guns, bows and arrows tossed aside in favor of more upfront weaponry.
Indians! he realized with a panicked start. He had to hesitate–he knew some by face. He stopped running. He wondered how he was going to get their attention, to explain when a couple of them flew off their horses with pained screams. They were shooting at them, and Hotstreak was returning fire. In the midst of the fray, Richie didn’t want to die–his Purpose was far more valuable then dying by vindictive motives.
But at the same time, he didn’t want them to die because of a misunderstanding. As he was debating this, bullets whizzed by his form.
At that moment, his attitude changed. They wouldn’t listen to any explanations; they wanted revenge. They wanted their deaths in exchange for the murders of their families.
Frankly, if they were willing to die for their revenge, then he had no problem with fighting for his own life. Fuck it if they wouldn’t listen.
Resolved, he switched direction to the house, where the other guns were kept. He was still amazed at how he seemed invincible, bullets whizzing by him with their trailing heat and explosive power. He ran atop of the porch, Hotstreak covering him as animals squealed and men shouted fiercely. Richie hurried into the house, made way for the small arsenal they had stock piled, and quickly loaded a couple of rifles. He tossed an ammunition bag over one shoulder and took position near one of the windows as Hotstreak made his way into the house.
Without waiting for any plan, Richie began firing back at the men. He caught a couple in surprise, but the others were retreating for cover near the barn.
Reloading, panting heavily over coursing adrenaline and surprise, Hotstreak looked over at him. He himself was amazed at how Richie seemed to defy death so easily. He’d seen the Indian shoot that arrow–it was set to hit Richie directly in the back. Yet...yet, before his amazed eyes, he’d seen Richie fall from the fence just like that. No reasonable explanation. Just...he just fell!
He set that marvel aside and made his way to the other window, crouching as bullets lodged into the wood of the frame, into the door.
“They’re lighting torches!” Richie announced calmly from his position, firing almost casually from his window. A pained scream told Hotstreak that he was on target–he gaped at him for a moment, then looked out to see if this was true. Indeed, a couple of them had lit torches, and a few of them were hastily wrapping flammable bundles onto their arrows.
He busted out the glass of his window, and fired, return fire making him duck quickly. He changed position, then headed upstairs, figuring that Richie could cover the bottom just fine.
As he made his way into the bedroom that faced the barn, he busted out the glass there, and began firing. He hit one of the men that were set to fire a flaming arrow, but the other two released their shots. With alarming accuracy, and almost failing speed, the arrows hit the porch. They were going to loose their home if they didn’t take the Indians down.
Hotstreak felt bad for it, but he was fitted with survival mode–he didn’t hesitate or question, or regret. He’d do that later when he was safe; for now, he was going to kill or be killed. He didn’t have time to think about any other thing.
More arrows were fitted with flame, and one of the bolder Indians had his horse charging the house. A sure shot from the rifle downstairs had the man flipping backward from his mount, the torch falling harmlessly into the dirt. The others began shooting their flaming arrows, and another sure shot had one of them falling with a startled scream as his chest exploded. Rising smoke told Hotstreak that their house had caught the flame–he wished for a sudden explosion of rain as he fired at the group taking cover near the barn.
Richie could see the flames starting to catch along the porch and the support poles. With an anxious chewing of his lip, he looked over at the dinner table–where all his handwritten plans lay. The stacks were very valuable–much more so than the man’s life upstairs. He lowered his rifle and hurried over to the table, gathering them all and at the same time looking for something to put them in. He thought of the water bucket sitting nearby in the kitchen, but what was more important was gathering those plans and putting them in a safe place.
Hotstreak managed to lay down enough fire to stop the Indians from shooting their arrows again–but he was running out of ammo. He cursed his incompetence in that factor, and left his position to head for their small supply. He didn’t hear any gunfire from the bottom, and wondered with fearful panic if Richie had been hit.
But as he flew downstairs, he saw that the kid was occupied with stuffing all his documents into the pack that had once held his books. Rather than question his actions, Hotstreak picked up the remaining rifles and ammo, and took his old position. More arrows were landing onto the porch, and flame ate quickly at the posts, crawling up the side of the house. He glanced over at the water bucket nearby, and ducked when gunfire ate at the window around him. He looked out, then cursed the fire that began to grow, smoking him away from the window. He picked up all his weaponry and ammo, rushing to the side of the house.
“We’re gonna get burnt out!” he shouted, snatching up the fallen ammo bag that Richie had torn off. “There’s only seven of them left!”
Richie paid no attention to it–he merely frowned at the smearing of ink on one page. Then he glanced over to see smoke curling into the house, flames licking at wood. He threw the pack on, racing into the kitchen. He grabbed the water bucket, kicked the door open, and tossed the contents onto the fire. Bullets flew all around him.
He raced inside, Hotstreak looking back at him in shock. He raced over to grab him, pulling at him. Through the open door, he fired without real aim with his reloaded six shooter, managing to hit one of them square in the face. Richie ignored him, recovering from the movement to pour more water into the bucket from the supply that was kept for washing purposes.
The battle lasted in this fashion–by the time Hotstreak managed to take out the last of their attackers, night had fallen. The fire was out, but the porch was badly ruined. It would have to be repaired immediately. The bodies outside would have to wait until morning–really, Hotstreak didn’t want to chance an encounter with those Things, not when they were low on ammo for the moment. Now that they had a break...he felt his face harden into that of intense weariness and sadness. He’d known those men, too.
He’d known their purpose in their attack, but...he couldn’t die. Not by them.
He...he had a Purpose of his own...He looked over at Richie, who was frowning in concentration as he checked over his precious papers in the pack he’d kept safe.
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That same night, Richie lay awake, thinking over the attack. While he did start to feel bad about having to kill people he’d known–the kindest people thus far–he had to admit that his survival was more important than theirs. It was much too suspicious that he hadn’t yet died throughout the abhorrences he’d survived, and the fact that the dreams had come to him about the creatures, that so many questions burned at him with the same effect as physical hunger–! He was meant for something.
But...but what?
He heard the telltale creak of the Things. Brow scrunching, he sat up in bed, exhaling heavily in the darkness. Looking over at the window, image of those red eyes still burning in his memory, he thought of the questions that hadn’t been answered. The fact that these Things wanted his death specifically made him more convinced that he was needed...
But...for what?
Shifting in the room down the hall made him wonder just how much Hotstreak knew. From all that that man shared with him verbally, his ‘luck’ was questionable as well. Did they both have some shared Purpose? Were they meant to find each other? Was...was Hotstreak’s obsession with him meant for that Purpose?
He frowned over at the window once he heard the telltale scratch of a Thing that let him know it was watching him.
Richie stared over at the window, a little startled by the slow blink of red. He couldn’t tell which one was there. At the heavy thumps from the back, where the fire had burned, Richie jumped. He heard the annoyed and tired grumbling of Hotstreak as he rose from his bed; the telltale jangle of metal, and the scruff of his boots.
Richie watched his shadow pass outside his door, hearing his quiet cursing about everything in general as he went to investigate the noise.
He then looked back at the pair of red at the window.
Come outside, it said within his mind. Red burned into his mind as he found himself unable to look away, hearing the First’s scratchy tone in his thoughts. Leaving him feeling a little...crowded. Come outside...come out. I’ll answer all your questions. I’ll tell you all you want to know. I know you think about it...I can hear your thoughts. Let us trade information...I know you burn for what I can reveal to you...
A desire stronger than anything he’d ever felt raced through him at the promise. Richie’s hunger for the questions unanswered rumbled physically through-out his frame. He found himself rising to comply, more upon more questions filling him quickly.
Hotstreak startled him by opening the door, holding a portable lamp that immediately lit up Richie’s dark room. That desire was quickly squelched as Richie faced him with an expression of surprise. He realized that pushing his luck wasn’t smart–what if it ran out before being able to accomplish his Purpose?
Hotstreak stared at him for several moments with a bewildered expression, then frowned. He looked over at the window, but the pair of eyes were gone. When he looked back, a heavy force hit the window. Glass cracked with a sharp smack of sound. Both were startled by the sound, looking over hastily. Creaking movement up above told them the Thing was moving away. Hotstreak looked back at Richie, who twiddled his thumbs nervously as he waited for whatever it was the redhead wanted.
Silence grew thick, the pounding on wood commencing all over again.
Hotstreak looked back at Richie.
“We need ta repair the porch,” he said quietly.
Richie studied him with a small frown. Those burning questions persisted as he wondered about the Thing’s apparent fear of Hotstreak.
“...otherwise, they can make their way in. They already dug into the basement. Chewed right through the wood. It ain’t protected by this stuff.” Hotstreak wiped his nose, then fiddled with his gunbelt. He was trying to stop thinking about how adorable Richie looked as he stood there, hair askew and stupid flannel nightgown overtaking his frame. “They kin actually bring the house down. Ain’t nothin’ we can do, then.”
Richie nodded, still frowning. Hotstreak turned to leave, but Richie asked quickly, “Can you tell me how this all started?”
Hotstreak frowned at him, troubled by remembering the train robbery gone awry. He didn’t see how important it was for Richie to know. Richie already thought badly of him–what if it was all made worse by admitting his involvement?
“No,” he muttered, leaving the room.
Look how Virgil reacted with his tale. How everyone else reacted to hearing what he’d inadvertently done! Why would he want to earn more of Richie’s hate?
Richie stood still for a few moments, then turned wholly furious at the denial. Before he could stop himself, he shouted, “You owe me that! After all you’ve done to me, you could at least give me that!”
He heard Hotstreak’s heavy footfalls stop suddenly out in the hall. He immediately regretted the outburst. He feared what Hotstreak would do now, hearing him turn around to walk back to the room. He tensed, swallowing hard, hands fretting uselessly over his flannel nightgown. He then turned hastily to flip the bedcovers over, avoiding Hotstreak’s eyes as he walked back into the room.
“I ‘owe’ you?” Hotstreak repeated slowly, and Richie felt ice prickle his skin, turning his blood cold. He avoided looking at him, fiddling with the covers and wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. “I ‘owe’ you...after all I’ve done for you, I owe you?”
Richie swallowed audibly. His knuckles turned white as his fingers fisted in the blankets. Anger warmed him, and it was all he could do to stay silent.
“I don’t wanna be mean, man,” Hotstreak said, with a pleading gesture. His hands flitted with nervousness and a sort of helpless vulnerability through his matted hair. “But...but I don’t think you need ta know that. That’s...that’s a lotta shit I don’t wanna talk about.”
Richie’s eyes narrowed. He still didn’t look at him. “But don’t I deserve to know?” he asked tightly. “I can’t understand if–”
“It’s not any o’ your business! Ain’t nothin’ you can do wit’ it, anyway!” Hotstreak exclaimed, bewildered as to why Richie wanted to know that when they were the only two living souls out in the middle of no where.
“I deserve to know!” Richie argued, voice rising–almost a childish whine.
“You don’t either!” Hotstreak snapped, growing tired of the argument. He was exhausted from a battle and a hard day’s work. He just wanted to sleep. “Ain’t nothin’ important about it! Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it, either! I don’t wanna talk about that shit all th’ damn time!”
“But I need to know!” Richie protested, gesturing heatedly. “I need to know! It’s...it’s something that I just have to know!”
Hotstreak let his head drop back in impatient exasperation. He waved an arm around, as if dissipating that argument. As he turned to head out into the hallway, he said with aggravation, “You don’t need to know! It ain’t anything of yer business!”
Richie gave a frustrated noise. He had to make him understand that it was–! He needed to know, in the very same way one needed to eat and breathe! It burned him then, knowing that Hotstreak was part of that key origin that would give him more insight into the situation. And Hotstreak kept his control and his possession over him by holding that information away from him. Dangling it there in front of him, and making him run exhaustively in his efforts in trying to possess it.
I can tell you, came that voice again. It was further away–the Thing hidden somewhere safe. Richie was still bewildered as to why it wouldn’t show itself when Hotstreak was around. He’ll keep that information for himself...knowing that you need it. Just as he denies your freedom, he’ll deny your need for knowledge.
Fury ignited Richie’s veins. An uncharacteristic anger had him grinding his teeth as he heard Hotstreak walk off into his room down the hall.
Knowing that you want to know, he’ll flaunt that knowledge continually. Making you beg, plead and cry for it. Do you want to continue being that sort of helpless bitch? That helpless love slave? He’ll hold that information right over your head and continue to make you do the things you hate, the voice continued, smoothly manipulating him.
“But he’s not that important!” he growled angrily, unable to communicate in the same sense as the Thing. “This is all...just...some sense of control that he wants over me!”
Exactly! The Thing cried in exaltation. But I can tell you what you want to know. Just...come outside...come outside, and we’ll talk peaceably.
That desire to cooperate was stronger than ever. It drove Richie, making everything clash and collide with heavy emotion as he internally debated the pros and cons of that continued persuasion. He had to know! He had to know what Hotstreak’s origin was with the entire situation! Why, how, what, when, and who...all of it. And that Thing was promising him information...promising to feed him what he wanted to know.
But...if the Thing wanted to kill him...and it very may could. It could have that power to do so, if it was wanting to kill him. His luck may not hold out for very long against it.
Nonsense, it said smoothly–but there was a twinge of impatience in its tone. It was getting fed up with his constant internal debating. I am merely trying to help–I’ve noticed the constant unfairness that has been granted to you in such a short period of time. No one–no man–should have to endure what you have.
Richie thought of the crimes that had been committed against him. He thought he felt that Thing’s glee in his recalling of the pain and humiliation.
Think of it, it said. Every night he looks at you...wanting to do more. He wants you to be something precious to hide and use to his own delight. That’s why he isolates you. That’s why he kills others that try to approach you. He kills them, you know. That’s what he does. He’s a murderer–he has all that he loves murdered because they do not fulfill him in some way. And when it is time, it’ll be you that he’ll murder. Because, with your constant need to be treated fairly, he’ll tire of your needs and be rid of you. With his unsettled state, do you think he’ll do it quickly? There is no one to hear you scream, here. He’ll make you suffer. Do you want that, Richard? Do you want to suffer a long death? Filled with pain and humiliation? He has killed others with much less satisfaction, but your death...well...you aren’t exactly fulfilling his wishes and needs. He is developing a hatred for you, as well.
He’ll go against his promises, Richard. One day, you’ll push him too far. He’ll get too impatient.
Richie thought of Hotstreak’s obvious holding back whenever the blond hadn’t done something for him. The way those green eyes would narrow dangerously at him; the obvious repressing of emotion whenever Richie pushed too hard.
‘Murderer’? Hadn’t...hadn’t someone said he’d killed others? Hadn’t he confessed to killing someone during a train robbery?
His lips thinned. His head ached.
Come out, the Thing encouraged. Come out, and I’ll give you your precious answers.
“You’ll kill me,” he whispered, almost impatiently as he debated the choice.
He’ll do it.
“You have a purpose. You want to destroy my Purpose.”
You aren’t that important, Richard. You do not have a Purpose! Just questions to answers you’ll never receive the longer you continue to deny yourself the opportunity! The Thing’s voice grew low and impatient, growling with frustration. These questions will drive you insane!
“I have a Purpose! It is why I’ve lived for so long! I should have been killed a long time ago! I shouldn’t have survived being shot! I shouldn’t have survived being on my own! I should have died in the snow! I have a Purpose, and you want to destroy it before I even get to learn what it is!” Richie cried aloud, fists clenched. “You won’t destroy my Purpose! Not when I am so close to learning what it is I am destined for!”
You are destined for NOTHING! You are destined to be a whore the longer you refuse to meet with me! The Thing screamed, making him wince, his head pounding with sudden extraordinary pain.
“I am destined for something, and if I have to be a whore to do it, then that’s what I have to do! I will learn my Purpose! I will–!”
He’ll kill you! You’ll be a bitch for the rest of your life! That’s what he wants. To make you useless and fat and lazy. To make you miserable and depressed–you know you are destined for so much more, but you continue to allow this treatment happen! Because you like it, you sinner! You like what’s being done to you! The Thing hissed. We hear your cries! We hear you beg for more!
Richie clenched his fists into his hair, then gripped it as the pain worsened. His face reddened as he thought of the pleasure he’d received–remembering his body’s wretched, traitorous reaction to Hotstreak’s worshiping hands and mouth. How there were moments when he mindlessly begged for more without even realizing it right then.
“Shut up!” he hissed. “You shut up! You know not of my pain! You don’t know–!”
We hear enough to know that you like it, cumslut!
“SHUT UP! You wretched monstrosities! Shut up! You don’t know! You can’t possibly ever know that I hate it! I hate it all! I wish they would die! All of them! Especially him! All of those evil, shit-for-brains, fucking bastards! I hate them all!”
Yes, yes, humans are a wretched lot, the Thing encouraged. Why would you want them to live? To continue their evil? Do you think they’d change?
“...No...”
They will not! Because they love to dominate, they love to humiliate. Why allow them to live, Richard? Can you not fix this problem? Madelyn sees their evil, and she seeks her revenge. Which is why she destroys–which is why all the humans are being destroyed! Because they fail to listen to their God, they fail to abide by kindness and caring–you will continue to be used, Richard, if you don’t do something about it, now!
Richie thought about it. Thought of the faces he’d seen in Alva’s Town that had hurt the workers, had used them mindlessly and laughed at their pain. Had humiliated and bragged about it. How his own customers used him without thoughts of his comforts and pain. How Junior abused him and humiliated him. How this Hotstreak isolated and used him, promising a life of serenity on a farm and denying him what little he’d asked for.
And humans would just keep on doing this–using and hurting and–what was the point of it all? Wasn’t it good that they were dying anyway? Stop this endless cycle?
Yes, Richard, the Thing cooed softly. Yes, yes–! They don’t deserve this life! They deserve extermination!
“...Yes...they should...they should all die,” he said quietly, thinking of it. “Everyone. Start all over–what’s the point of it all if man will just keep hurting their fellow neighbors over such inconsequential reasons?”
That’s right, the Thing encouraged. That’s the way of thinking that Madelyn has adapted.
Richie thought about it, then his forehead scrunched. “Who’s Madelyn?”
The silence was deafening and disconcerting. And he felt the Thing’s cringe, that sheepish feeling of revealing too much.
“Who’s Madelyn?” he repeated aloud. “Why is she so important? What has she got to do with destroying the human race? Who is she? Where did she come from?”
COME OUTSIDE, and I’ll SHOW you! The Thing snarled.
And...just as quickly as it had come...his desire to have his questions answered slipped away. He felt angry over being denied what he wanted. His face scrunched into that of frustrated hate.
“You are the very same creature that he is,” he growled. “Tempting me with the freedom of being my own person, and then denying it for something that YOU want. You bastard...you rotten, fucking evil bastard...you’re all the same! ALL OF YOU! ALL THE SAME! ALL OF YOU ARE ROTTEN, FUCKING EVIL BASTARDS!”
The Thing hissed, a demonic beast prompted to defend itself primally. You could have rid yourself of this trouble, human! You could have silenced it all...but you refuse. You continue to hurt yourself, you masochist. Suffer, then. Suffer without any option for salvation.
And then it was silent–Richie felt that heavy feeling of being all alone, of being left behind. The Thing was gone–perhaps sulking somewhere over his failed attempt to draw him out. In frustration, he clenched his fists, hatred surging through him hotly.
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In the other room, Hotstreak was simply bewildered by the one-sided conversation he’d heard.
He’s losin’ it, he thought with a sort of frightened disbelief. The kid was finally losin’ it! Talking to things that aren’t there...bein’ all crazy...
He had an idea that Richie was speaking to those Things. But...but he wasn’t exactly sure, especially with Richie spoke with such hot hatred and fury that made him an entirely different person. It was like...listening to a Ghoul. Hearing it plan a savage death, reveling in its delight in torture and pain. Richie spoke of his hate with a vehemence that seemed wholly uncharacteristic for him; as he if were hiding another different personality that was a complete opposite of his submissive, beaten self that Hotstreak was familiar with. Plotting and hating humans, hating him–it was all so strong and...sickly...frightening.
He slept with his gun in hand and one eye wide open.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark. Oh, but I DO own original characters and creatures.
A/N: Sorry for taking so long with this chapter...I am STILL debating on which direction to take it! >.< And for those familiar with my fics and methods...you know how it goes. So, while I angst and stew over various options, I will be updating less frequently. Sorrah. But thanks for the continued interest in this rather...um...mad fic. XD
Tri: You know I love you. Eternally. XD A continued thanks for listening to me cry and complain and digging me out from the depths of my hiding spot to make me write.
Colddaye: Yeah, I’ve always thought that while Hs and R could have much happiness...there is also a really OTHER side to things that I love exploring. XD They just have personalities that are both stubborn and are over-dramatic...and I lurve those aspects. As for how R winded up with Jr...eh. In my first version of the story, he’d come to them on that he’d thought he was going to teach–but I don’t think I’ve addressed it clearly here. Still, there are many opportunities to do so, but until then! And as for fluff...um...that’s...soooo hard for me to accomplish! XD I’m a mistress of angst and drama, not...romancey-things. Read a V/R fic for fluff. Not mine LOL
I’m Alive: R is opening more than doors–he’s creating some for himself. O.O I’m kinda startled and afraid of what I’ll find when I finally end this fic. Poor dude...I should really let up on the torture...As for his communication with the things, THAT’LL be explained...er...one day.... >.> Eventually, things will be explained... SOMEWHAT. For I don’t want this to be a Save The World fic. Just...something that leads up to around it. Or...above it...below–whatever. >.< I want it to be confusing and having people in bewilderment, wondering–WTF??? Like...like watching a Tom Cruise movie. Is he, or isn’t he a cultist? XD
Chapter Twenty-Two:
Please Stop The Unborn Chicken Voices
Junior frowned down at Luna, his horse shifting with anxious regard. His mind was running with thoughts and with what he’d experienced since he left Luna, but most of the anxiety wasn’t with his return to Luna–it was with the almost alien feeling of plans running through his mind.
Before he had separated with Richie, all he could think about was using that kid’s mind for his plot against his father. To capture the trust and the loyalty of survivors that needed to know they were protected, for Richie seemed to notice things about the animals that no one else did. And there was potential in his intelligence for things that Junior could use; he’d fully planned on using the kid for that purpose, then...then things fell apart.
While since then he’d rethought all his previous troubles and regarded his callousness with that of regret and shame, he had to think how Richie could still be used for the purposes Junior had taken in, before.
His father didn’t know half the information he was sure Richie did. His father was a wise, intelligent man, but Junior was sure he didn’t possess the smarts that Richie did.
Junior was sure of that.
If Junior could use Richie’s intelligence, figure out the creatures’ weaknesses and strengths and use them to overcome them...he could build his own city, one that would rival Luna. All his supporters would leave his father and join with them, and Junior would have his revenge. His father would be crawling back to him. The utter satisfaction in that made him smile grimly, and his determination to follow through with his plans intensified. It was about time his father felt the anger and fury of wronging his own flesh-and-blood.
He could see that a group of gunmen had spotted him, and were trying to determine his motives as he looked over the town. Junior thought about approaching them, but realized that they’d tell his father. As much as he wanted nothing to do with the man...the men he was looking for was living down there.
Hopefully.
He thought of that tense moment in the kitchen, with Hotstreak ready to kill him if he made any move toward Richie.
He needed a lump of meat to lure the watchdog away from his prize.
Virgil had spoken constantly of trying to repair his relationship with Hotstreak; apparently, their history together was a very important one to him, and Junior retained that information without really thinking of it. It came in handy, though–perhaps Virgil could talk some sense into the redhead while he worked his own persuasive magic with Richie.
The boy was absolutely hateful of his current position. Perhaps...perhaps he’d like it better if his brain were used instead of his body. Perhaps he’d agree and cooperate faster if Junior suggested his line of planning...withholding the action of revenge against his father, of course.
As Junior stared out at Luna, his head began to pound with a heavy, utterly painful headache. It felt worse than a hangover–he slumped over his horse with a low groan, gloved hands curling over his head.
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“We will utilize every man that can hold and use a gun, an’ will fight for this town,” Alva commanded, his aged face tightening with determination and grit as he faced the hundreds of townspeople that listened to his every word. He was standing on the second floor balcony of his home, as if he were an old-world king commanding his kingdom peasants. Armed men stood at his sides, their faces as familiar as Alva’s. “We need all the help that we can get if we want to survive. Everyone in this town will pitch in–ain’t no one run out on their duties. Is this understood?”
At the murmurs of agreement, no one thinking much of ‘running out from their duties’, Alva was satisfied. His grim face, weathered by age and harsh command, seemed even older in the spring’s light. He surveyed all that was around him, then grimly eyed the outer area of Luna–without the sun, he had to wonder how the crops would fare this year. He had to wonder just how well this town would do without the necessities needed for life.
It wasn’t looking too good in that area, but he was too stubborn to let it all fall. They would persevere, even if he had to make those crops grow himself.
Still, even as he was studiously worrying about the crops and the needed necessities, his eyes scanned the crowd. Too proud to wear spectacles to appear weak and fragile in front of his minions, Alva searched secretly for a face he was inwardly hoping was part of that crowd. And when he found no familiarity of his son’s presence with the town’s members, he had to exhale lightly, straightening his shoulders and looking as commanding as possible.
Glancing around, Virgil wasn’t that surprised to see that no one objected to the commands tossed out. Alva was constructing a very harsh, but workable scale for Luna to stay protected by the measures he was commanding. In this town, everyone pitched in to help–women helped with the menial chores and worked alongside men in the ammunition factory near the south end. Children helped with lesser chores–men worked to protect the entire town from any unnaturals that happened about. All available animals and workers worked the fields that were being set up on the south end of Luna, near the water sources running from the mountains that rimmed that direction.
And day after day, more and more survivors arrived, hearing word of the protection Alva was able to provide. With every arrival, Luna continued to grow. Manpower grew with promising integrity.
Still, despite the promise the town provided in protection measures, it was obvious Alva was striving to remain in control, and running a sort of hierarchy that the survivors were powerless to resist.
Virgil and the others worked what they could, but only in that they were looking for Sharon. The man hoped that with each arrival of new survivors, Sharon was one of them.
“This is insane,” Adam whispered, rubbing his arms. It was nearing spring–the green all around them was apparent, as well as the warming of the air. It felt good to feel that warmth, but the sun was still hidden away by the thick clouds above. He, too, worried about the crops, but didn’t feel it important to bring it up with the others. Alva had that worry to deal with. “I mean, it’s like...yeah, he’s good with all the protection an’ order, but...there’s somethin’ fishy ‘bout it all.”
“I ain’t complainin’ yet,” Virgil confessed, glancing at him, then throughout the crowd once more. “It all good. It all workin’ just excellent, man. I ain’t complainin’.”
“But...still...” Adam trailed off, staring at the group of men that were coming into Luna. They brought with them a group of survivors, all of them astonished to see the population of the town, the factors of protection. He grinned, dismissing them already–Sharon was not part of that group. “It’s gettin’ real sucessful. More an’ more people comin’ in every day. Just...it gonna succeed, man. It gonna.”
Virgil shrugged, sliding his hands into his back pockets. Alva was still speaking, but he’d long since filtered him out. Looking around, he saw that everyone was looking up at the man with expressions of admiration and thanks. There were more armed gunmen everywhere–all of them alert and waiting to fight. While he and Adam were part of this group–every man had to fight, weapons provided if none were owned–he just found it amazing that everyone was willing to throw themselves into their duties with nary a complaint.
It seemed, on the frank side, that the creatures had passed through the area and left it as that. Despite the numbers that protected Luna, was it all just for show? There hadn’t been an encounter with creatures yet.
But it was best to be prepared.
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Hotstreak was in a dark mood as he pushed the sheep herd back to the house, a bawling lamb under one arm. Charger was chewing anxiously at his bit, and stumbling during the ride down the hill. The house was in sight–he stared at it with an expression of contemplation. He thought of Junior, the man’s unexpected appearance constantly sending swirls of black misery through him. What did he want? Where did he come from? How did he know Richie was still alive? How did he find him?
All of these bothered him, and the fact that Richie could so easily be taken from him left him feeling angry. And miserable.
Everything was taken from him. Everything was being ripped from his grasp. All without his consent, without warning: all that he felt precious to him was living in that house, alone and lost. All he had, really–Virgil was no where to be found, no matter how promising it was to know that the man was alive. Frankly, Hotstreak had grown more focused on what he had now to wonder about his dearest friend.
If Junior was coming back...intending to take Richie back with him–despite Richie saying he didn’t want to go with him, Hotstreak had his doubts. The boy had confessed to having feelings for Junior. For looking at him as some sort of savior, some sort of...of mentor. ‘Teaching’ him things? Helping him survive? All of it horseshit.
How could one look beyond all the horrors that had been committed and see something good? The only way that could happen was if...was if feelings were involved. This was Hotstreak’s way of thinking.
Richie had feelings for Junior, and for that...for that, Hotstreak was angry. He’d relaxed because Junior was dead–supposedly–and now that he wasn’t...?
He thought they were safe! Relatively speaking...there was still the threat of Indians’ retaliation, of the invasion, of zombies and those Things...but safe from Junior.
From all the others that could take Richie from him...
Now that Junior was alive and Richie knew this...was he going to leave him? Unexpectedly just up and leave while Hotstreak was outside, working? Would Junior come back secretly and ride off with him? And would Richie even look back, considering all the wrongs that Hotstreak had committed? Why hadn’t he seen the good that Hotstreak had done for him?!
Angrily, he spurred Charger into a quicker pace, eying the surrounding acreage around the house, looking for some sign of Junior. That wretched man...if only he’d had the chance to kill him...
That night, Hotstreak was too upset to eat. He picked at the stew Richie had made, staring at him with a contemplative expression as the blond busied himself with other things. Obviously, the younger male was lost in deep thought; his brow was scrunched, eyes holding that far-off look...while Hotstreak recalled that Richie had many questions for the demons, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was Junior that he was thinking about. If he were quietly plotting to leave him...he had to be.
Richie had to be considering leaving him. After all, he’d tried to take his own life! Wasn’t that a big clue of his misery here? Wasn’t that...wasn’t it obvious that he didn’t want to be with Hotstreak?
But the redhead was miserable–he’d done all he could to provide a home for the boy. He’d given him both herds; he’d cared and loved him. Why would Richie want to leave him? After all the horrors he’d gone through–even if sex had been forced, things should have evened out...after all, Hotstreak was never rough with him. He never threatened him, never hit him, never all these things–he never did! And he expressed all the good that he felt, and he asked questions, and he cared–all these things, and Richie would want to leave it all for some bum that would be careless with him?
He was getting worked up over it, gritting his teeth as he angrily speared the chunks of meat in his bowl.
Richie looked up at the loud clink of silverware on china, taking in Hotstreak’s angry expression. Wholly clueless to the man’s mood, he forced himself to stop wondering why the Things feared Hotstreak and why the man wouldn’t talk about that section of his past. He wasn’t sure how to approach the man with questions and expressed emotion–mainly because he’d cut himself away from him. This man was dangerous and insane; and while Richie wanted to care nothing more about it, about this life...Junior’s visit had changed everything.
Now...now that he had Purpose, he had a reason to wake up every morning. And he fully intended to find out why for his survival.
He tried to think of the things he’d done wrong, today. But he’d stayed inside all day, working on his notes and questions–he’d made dinner. Maybe...maybe there had been something expected, and he’d forgotten about it.
Feeling that dreaded caution of knowing that anger was going to be taken out on him, he lost his appetite. He set his fork aside, hating the feeling of knowing he did something wrong. He hated feeling that he had to bow down to this attitude, and hated himself even more for being reduced to this mess of human baggage.
Hotstreak set his fork down, frowning at him across the table. “You’d leave if you had the chance, wouldn’t you?”
Richie was really puzzled at that–but the anger in the redhead’s tone scared him. He didn’t want to meet the anger in those green eyes, so he focused on the table and wondered how he could skirt past all the anger with just remaining silent. That wretched fear of being beaten hit him hard; he had Junior to thank for that.
“If’n he came back ta git you. You’d go wit’ him. Wouldn’t you?”
Genuinely confused, Richie considered the question. While Junior claimed that he’d changed....it could all be a trick. He hadn’t given that thought. And he while he thought about it now, he wouldn’t go with the man. He was too afraid of resuming old positions.
Was this what the man was angry about? Had he been thinking about Junior’s surprise appearance all this time?
He wanted to look up, but he couldn’t do it. Making eye contact was just too damn dangerous.
He shook his head, head jerking as he did so.
Hotstreak took the gesture, but as the thick silence fell so heavily that the negative was taken opposite. He knew that lack of eye contact was Richie hiding the truth from him. He rose from his chair, throwing aside his food.
“You lie!” he cried, seeing thin shoulders jerk with surprise. “You lie. Once you git that chance, you’re gonna run off. Cuz you think I’m some sorta monster. You think I’m...I’m like them! You don’t like it here. After all I did, you don’t even wanna stay–! You’d go with him, an’ fuckin’ let all these fucks do you. Rather than me. Whatever I did, I sure did fuck up, didn’t I? That’s why yer gonna run. Yer plottin’ on it. When my back’s turned, yer gonna run.”
God, he’s so insane, Richie thought with a genuine flash of surprise as he listened to Hotstreak’s mad rant. He couldn’t help but recognize hurt and desperation in those words. He wanted to look up, but Hotstreak then kicked his chair away, and stomped off angrily. Feeling safe, Richie looked up from the table, bewildered by the accusation.
Why would Junior come back, anyway? If he did...Richie wasn’t going to go with him. Perhaps... perhaps thank him awkwardly. But...he didn’t want that life, anymore. He had a Purpose. He had something to do. And being with Junior wasn’t one of them.
That next morning, he was busy counting sheep and taking note of the number of gender in both when he heard the sound of a sharp shfft! from behind him. He turned to look for the noise, and promptly lost his position atop of the fence. He hit the ground on his shoulders, giving a startled cry as a wooden tonk! caught his ears. As his legs fell over head, and he rolled onto his backside, he heard Hotstreak scream something. A glance up the post revealed an arrow embedded deep into the word. He had to marvel at that for a few moments, at his ‘luck’ that had him escaping certain death by...clumsiness? He certainly had a lot of clumsy luck, nowadays.
Then there was gunfire–entirely startled, Richie was scrambling to his feet, sheep brawling with panic as they leapt and darted about the pen with frantic efforts.
Wholly confused, but recognizing a gunfight, Richie darted off toward the barn. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that several forms were coming up on horseback toward them–more were coming in from the field on the right. All of them were packing guns, bows and arrows tossed aside in favor of more upfront weaponry.
Indians! he realized with a panicked start. He had to hesitate–he knew some by face. He stopped running. He wondered how he was going to get their attention, to explain when a couple of them flew off their horses with pained screams. They were shooting at them, and Hotstreak was returning fire. In the midst of the fray, Richie didn’t want to die–his Purpose was far more valuable then dying by vindictive motives.
But at the same time, he didn’t want them to die because of a misunderstanding. As he was debating this, bullets whizzed by his form.
At that moment, his attitude changed. They wouldn’t listen to any explanations; they wanted revenge. They wanted their deaths in exchange for the murders of their families.
Frankly, if they were willing to die for their revenge, then he had no problem with fighting for his own life. Fuck it if they wouldn’t listen.
Resolved, he switched direction to the house, where the other guns were kept. He was still amazed at how he seemed invincible, bullets whizzing by him with their trailing heat and explosive power. He ran atop of the porch, Hotstreak covering him as animals squealed and men shouted fiercely. Richie hurried into the house, made way for the small arsenal they had stock piled, and quickly loaded a couple of rifles. He tossed an ammunition bag over one shoulder and took position near one of the windows as Hotstreak made his way into the house.
Without waiting for any plan, Richie began firing back at the men. He caught a couple in surprise, but the others were retreating for cover near the barn.
Reloading, panting heavily over coursing adrenaline and surprise, Hotstreak looked over at him. He himself was amazed at how Richie seemed to defy death so easily. He’d seen the Indian shoot that arrow–it was set to hit Richie directly in the back. Yet...yet, before his amazed eyes, he’d seen Richie fall from the fence just like that. No reasonable explanation. Just...he just fell!
He set that marvel aside and made his way to the other window, crouching as bullets lodged into the wood of the frame, into the door.
“They’re lighting torches!” Richie announced calmly from his position, firing almost casually from his window. A pained scream told Hotstreak that he was on target–he gaped at him for a moment, then looked out to see if this was true. Indeed, a couple of them had lit torches, and a few of them were hastily wrapping flammable bundles onto their arrows.
He busted out the glass of his window, and fired, return fire making him duck quickly. He changed position, then headed upstairs, figuring that Richie could cover the bottom just fine.
As he made his way into the bedroom that faced the barn, he busted out the glass there, and began firing. He hit one of the men that were set to fire a flaming arrow, but the other two released their shots. With alarming accuracy, and almost failing speed, the arrows hit the porch. They were going to loose their home if they didn’t take the Indians down.
Hotstreak felt bad for it, but he was fitted with survival mode–he didn’t hesitate or question, or regret. He’d do that later when he was safe; for now, he was going to kill or be killed. He didn’t have time to think about any other thing.
More arrows were fitted with flame, and one of the bolder Indians had his horse charging the house. A sure shot from the rifle downstairs had the man flipping backward from his mount, the torch falling harmlessly into the dirt. The others began shooting their flaming arrows, and another sure shot had one of them falling with a startled scream as his chest exploded. Rising smoke told Hotstreak that their house had caught the flame–he wished for a sudden explosion of rain as he fired at the group taking cover near the barn.
Richie could see the flames starting to catch along the porch and the support poles. With an anxious chewing of his lip, he looked over at the dinner table–where all his handwritten plans lay. The stacks were very valuable–much more so than the man’s life upstairs. He lowered his rifle and hurried over to the table, gathering them all and at the same time looking for something to put them in. He thought of the water bucket sitting nearby in the kitchen, but what was more important was gathering those plans and putting them in a safe place.
Hotstreak managed to lay down enough fire to stop the Indians from shooting their arrows again–but he was running out of ammo. He cursed his incompetence in that factor, and left his position to head for their small supply. He didn’t hear any gunfire from the bottom, and wondered with fearful panic if Richie had been hit.
But as he flew downstairs, he saw that the kid was occupied with stuffing all his documents into the pack that had once held his books. Rather than question his actions, Hotstreak picked up the remaining rifles and ammo, and took his old position. More arrows were landing onto the porch, and flame ate quickly at the posts, crawling up the side of the house. He glanced over at the water bucket nearby, and ducked when gunfire ate at the window around him. He looked out, then cursed the fire that began to grow, smoking him away from the window. He picked up all his weaponry and ammo, rushing to the side of the house.
“We’re gonna get burnt out!” he shouted, snatching up the fallen ammo bag that Richie had torn off. “There’s only seven of them left!”
Richie paid no attention to it–he merely frowned at the smearing of ink on one page. Then he glanced over to see smoke curling into the house, flames licking at wood. He threw the pack on, racing into the kitchen. He grabbed the water bucket, kicked the door open, and tossed the contents onto the fire. Bullets flew all around him.
He raced inside, Hotstreak looking back at him in shock. He raced over to grab him, pulling at him. Through the open door, he fired without real aim with his reloaded six shooter, managing to hit one of them square in the face. Richie ignored him, recovering from the movement to pour more water into the bucket from the supply that was kept for washing purposes.
The battle lasted in this fashion–by the time Hotstreak managed to take out the last of their attackers, night had fallen. The fire was out, but the porch was badly ruined. It would have to be repaired immediately. The bodies outside would have to wait until morning–really, Hotstreak didn’t want to chance an encounter with those Things, not when they were low on ammo for the moment. Now that they had a break...he felt his face harden into that of intense weariness and sadness. He’d known those men, too.
He’d known their purpose in their attack, but...he couldn’t die. Not by them.
He...he had a Purpose of his own...He looked over at Richie, who was frowning in concentration as he checked over his precious papers in the pack he’d kept safe.
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That same night, Richie lay awake, thinking over the attack. While he did start to feel bad about having to kill people he’d known–the kindest people thus far–he had to admit that his survival was more important than theirs. It was much too suspicious that he hadn’t yet died throughout the abhorrences he’d survived, and the fact that the dreams had come to him about the creatures, that so many questions burned at him with the same effect as physical hunger–! He was meant for something.
But...but what?
He heard the telltale creak of the Things. Brow scrunching, he sat up in bed, exhaling heavily in the darkness. Looking over at the window, image of those red eyes still burning in his memory, he thought of the questions that hadn’t been answered. The fact that these Things wanted his death specifically made him more convinced that he was needed...
But...for what?
Shifting in the room down the hall made him wonder just how much Hotstreak knew. From all that that man shared with him verbally, his ‘luck’ was questionable as well. Did they both have some shared Purpose? Were they meant to find each other? Was...was Hotstreak’s obsession with him meant for that Purpose?
He frowned over at the window once he heard the telltale scratch of a Thing that let him know it was watching him.
Richie stared over at the window, a little startled by the slow blink of red. He couldn’t tell which one was there. At the heavy thumps from the back, where the fire had burned, Richie jumped. He heard the annoyed and tired grumbling of Hotstreak as he rose from his bed; the telltale jangle of metal, and the scruff of his boots.
Richie watched his shadow pass outside his door, hearing his quiet cursing about everything in general as he went to investigate the noise.
He then looked back at the pair of red at the window.
Come outside, it said within his mind. Red burned into his mind as he found himself unable to look away, hearing the First’s scratchy tone in his thoughts. Leaving him feeling a little...crowded. Come outside...come out. I’ll answer all your questions. I’ll tell you all you want to know. I know you think about it...I can hear your thoughts. Let us trade information...I know you burn for what I can reveal to you...
A desire stronger than anything he’d ever felt raced through him at the promise. Richie’s hunger for the questions unanswered rumbled physically through-out his frame. He found himself rising to comply, more upon more questions filling him quickly.
Hotstreak startled him by opening the door, holding a portable lamp that immediately lit up Richie’s dark room. That desire was quickly squelched as Richie faced him with an expression of surprise. He realized that pushing his luck wasn’t smart–what if it ran out before being able to accomplish his Purpose?
Hotstreak stared at him for several moments with a bewildered expression, then frowned. He looked over at the window, but the pair of eyes were gone. When he looked back, a heavy force hit the window. Glass cracked with a sharp smack of sound. Both were startled by the sound, looking over hastily. Creaking movement up above told them the Thing was moving away. Hotstreak looked back at Richie, who twiddled his thumbs nervously as he waited for whatever it was the redhead wanted.
Silence grew thick, the pounding on wood commencing all over again.
Hotstreak looked back at Richie.
“We need ta repair the porch,” he said quietly.
Richie studied him with a small frown. Those burning questions persisted as he wondered about the Thing’s apparent fear of Hotstreak.
“...otherwise, they can make their way in. They already dug into the basement. Chewed right through the wood. It ain’t protected by this stuff.” Hotstreak wiped his nose, then fiddled with his gunbelt. He was trying to stop thinking about how adorable Richie looked as he stood there, hair askew and stupid flannel nightgown overtaking his frame. “They kin actually bring the house down. Ain’t nothin’ we can do, then.”
Richie nodded, still frowning. Hotstreak turned to leave, but Richie asked quickly, “Can you tell me how this all started?”
Hotstreak frowned at him, troubled by remembering the train robbery gone awry. He didn’t see how important it was for Richie to know. Richie already thought badly of him–what if it was all made worse by admitting his involvement?
“No,” he muttered, leaving the room.
Look how Virgil reacted with his tale. How everyone else reacted to hearing what he’d inadvertently done! Why would he want to earn more of Richie’s hate?
Richie stood still for a few moments, then turned wholly furious at the denial. Before he could stop himself, he shouted, “You owe me that! After all you’ve done to me, you could at least give me that!”
He heard Hotstreak’s heavy footfalls stop suddenly out in the hall. He immediately regretted the outburst. He feared what Hotstreak would do now, hearing him turn around to walk back to the room. He tensed, swallowing hard, hands fretting uselessly over his flannel nightgown. He then turned hastily to flip the bedcovers over, avoiding Hotstreak’s eyes as he walked back into the room.
“I ‘owe’ you?” Hotstreak repeated slowly, and Richie felt ice prickle his skin, turning his blood cold. He avoided looking at him, fiddling with the covers and wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. “I ‘owe’ you...after all I’ve done for you, I owe you?”
Richie swallowed audibly. His knuckles turned white as his fingers fisted in the blankets. Anger warmed him, and it was all he could do to stay silent.
“I don’t wanna be mean, man,” Hotstreak said, with a pleading gesture. His hands flitted with nervousness and a sort of helpless vulnerability through his matted hair. “But...but I don’t think you need ta know that. That’s...that’s a lotta shit I don’t wanna talk about.”
Richie’s eyes narrowed. He still didn’t look at him. “But don’t I deserve to know?” he asked tightly. “I can’t understand if–”
“It’s not any o’ your business! Ain’t nothin’ you can do wit’ it, anyway!” Hotstreak exclaimed, bewildered as to why Richie wanted to know that when they were the only two living souls out in the middle of no where.
“I deserve to know!” Richie argued, voice rising–almost a childish whine.
“You don’t either!” Hotstreak snapped, growing tired of the argument. He was exhausted from a battle and a hard day’s work. He just wanted to sleep. “Ain’t nothin’ important about it! Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it, either! I don’t wanna talk about that shit all th’ damn time!”
“But I need to know!” Richie protested, gesturing heatedly. “I need to know! It’s...it’s something that I just have to know!”
Hotstreak let his head drop back in impatient exasperation. He waved an arm around, as if dissipating that argument. As he turned to head out into the hallway, he said with aggravation, “You don’t need to know! It ain’t anything of yer business!”
Richie gave a frustrated noise. He had to make him understand that it was–! He needed to know, in the very same way one needed to eat and breathe! It burned him then, knowing that Hotstreak was part of that key origin that would give him more insight into the situation. And Hotstreak kept his control and his possession over him by holding that information away from him. Dangling it there in front of him, and making him run exhaustively in his efforts in trying to possess it.
I can tell you, came that voice again. It was further away–the Thing hidden somewhere safe. Richie was still bewildered as to why it wouldn’t show itself when Hotstreak was around. He’ll keep that information for himself...knowing that you need it. Just as he denies your freedom, he’ll deny your need for knowledge.
Fury ignited Richie’s veins. An uncharacteristic anger had him grinding his teeth as he heard Hotstreak walk off into his room down the hall.
Knowing that you want to know, he’ll flaunt that knowledge continually. Making you beg, plead and cry for it. Do you want to continue being that sort of helpless bitch? That helpless love slave? He’ll hold that information right over your head and continue to make you do the things you hate, the voice continued, smoothly manipulating him.
“But he’s not that important!” he growled angrily, unable to communicate in the same sense as the Thing. “This is all...just...some sense of control that he wants over me!”
Exactly! The Thing cried in exaltation. But I can tell you what you want to know. Just...come outside...come outside, and we’ll talk peaceably.
That desire to cooperate was stronger than ever. It drove Richie, making everything clash and collide with heavy emotion as he internally debated the pros and cons of that continued persuasion. He had to know! He had to know what Hotstreak’s origin was with the entire situation! Why, how, what, when, and who...all of it. And that Thing was promising him information...promising to feed him what he wanted to know.
But...if the Thing wanted to kill him...and it very may could. It could have that power to do so, if it was wanting to kill him. His luck may not hold out for very long against it.
Nonsense, it said smoothly–but there was a twinge of impatience in its tone. It was getting fed up with his constant internal debating. I am merely trying to help–I’ve noticed the constant unfairness that has been granted to you in such a short period of time. No one–no man–should have to endure what you have.
Richie thought of the crimes that had been committed against him. He thought he felt that Thing’s glee in his recalling of the pain and humiliation.
Think of it, it said. Every night he looks at you...wanting to do more. He wants you to be something precious to hide and use to his own delight. That’s why he isolates you. That’s why he kills others that try to approach you. He kills them, you know. That’s what he does. He’s a murderer–he has all that he loves murdered because they do not fulfill him in some way. And when it is time, it’ll be you that he’ll murder. Because, with your constant need to be treated fairly, he’ll tire of your needs and be rid of you. With his unsettled state, do you think he’ll do it quickly? There is no one to hear you scream, here. He’ll make you suffer. Do you want that, Richard? Do you want to suffer a long death? Filled with pain and humiliation? He has killed others with much less satisfaction, but your death...well...you aren’t exactly fulfilling his wishes and needs. He is developing a hatred for you, as well.
He’ll go against his promises, Richard. One day, you’ll push him too far. He’ll get too impatient.
Richie thought of Hotstreak’s obvious holding back whenever the blond hadn’t done something for him. The way those green eyes would narrow dangerously at him; the obvious repressing of emotion whenever Richie pushed too hard.
‘Murderer’? Hadn’t...hadn’t someone said he’d killed others? Hadn’t he confessed to killing someone during a train robbery?
His lips thinned. His head ached.
Come out, the Thing encouraged. Come out, and I’ll give you your precious answers.
“You’ll kill me,” he whispered, almost impatiently as he debated the choice.
He’ll do it.
“You have a purpose. You want to destroy my Purpose.”
You aren’t that important, Richard. You do not have a Purpose! Just questions to answers you’ll never receive the longer you continue to deny yourself the opportunity! The Thing’s voice grew low and impatient, growling with frustration. These questions will drive you insane!
“I have a Purpose! It is why I’ve lived for so long! I should have been killed a long time ago! I shouldn’t have survived being shot! I shouldn’t have survived being on my own! I should have died in the snow! I have a Purpose, and you want to destroy it before I even get to learn what it is!” Richie cried aloud, fists clenched. “You won’t destroy my Purpose! Not when I am so close to learning what it is I am destined for!”
You are destined for NOTHING! You are destined to be a whore the longer you refuse to meet with me! The Thing screamed, making him wince, his head pounding with sudden extraordinary pain.
“I am destined for something, and if I have to be a whore to do it, then that’s what I have to do! I will learn my Purpose! I will–!”
He’ll kill you! You’ll be a bitch for the rest of your life! That’s what he wants. To make you useless and fat and lazy. To make you miserable and depressed–you know you are destined for so much more, but you continue to allow this treatment happen! Because you like it, you sinner! You like what’s being done to you! The Thing hissed. We hear your cries! We hear you beg for more!
Richie clenched his fists into his hair, then gripped it as the pain worsened. His face reddened as he thought of the pleasure he’d received–remembering his body’s wretched, traitorous reaction to Hotstreak’s worshiping hands and mouth. How there were moments when he mindlessly begged for more without even realizing it right then.
“Shut up!” he hissed. “You shut up! You know not of my pain! You don’t know–!”
We hear enough to know that you like it, cumslut!
“SHUT UP! You wretched monstrosities! Shut up! You don’t know! You can’t possibly ever know that I hate it! I hate it all! I wish they would die! All of them! Especially him! All of those evil, shit-for-brains, fucking bastards! I hate them all!”
Yes, yes, humans are a wretched lot, the Thing encouraged. Why would you want them to live? To continue their evil? Do you think they’d change?
“...No...”
They will not! Because they love to dominate, they love to humiliate. Why allow them to live, Richard? Can you not fix this problem? Madelyn sees their evil, and she seeks her revenge. Which is why she destroys–which is why all the humans are being destroyed! Because they fail to listen to their God, they fail to abide by kindness and caring–you will continue to be used, Richard, if you don’t do something about it, now!
Richie thought about it. Thought of the faces he’d seen in Alva’s Town that had hurt the workers, had used them mindlessly and laughed at their pain. Had humiliated and bragged about it. How his own customers used him without thoughts of his comforts and pain. How Junior abused him and humiliated him. How this Hotstreak isolated and used him, promising a life of serenity on a farm and denying him what little he’d asked for.
And humans would just keep on doing this–using and hurting and–what was the point of it all? Wasn’t it good that they were dying anyway? Stop this endless cycle?
Yes, Richard, the Thing cooed softly. Yes, yes–! They don’t deserve this life! They deserve extermination!
“...Yes...they should...they should all die,” he said quietly, thinking of it. “Everyone. Start all over–what’s the point of it all if man will just keep hurting their fellow neighbors over such inconsequential reasons?”
That’s right, the Thing encouraged. That’s the way of thinking that Madelyn has adapted.
Richie thought about it, then his forehead scrunched. “Who’s Madelyn?”
The silence was deafening and disconcerting. And he felt the Thing’s cringe, that sheepish feeling of revealing too much.
“Who’s Madelyn?” he repeated aloud. “Why is she so important? What has she got to do with destroying the human race? Who is she? Where did she come from?”
COME OUTSIDE, and I’ll SHOW you! The Thing snarled.
And...just as quickly as it had come...his desire to have his questions answered slipped away. He felt angry over being denied what he wanted. His face scrunched into that of frustrated hate.
“You are the very same creature that he is,” he growled. “Tempting me with the freedom of being my own person, and then denying it for something that YOU want. You bastard...you rotten, fucking evil bastard...you’re all the same! ALL OF YOU! ALL THE SAME! ALL OF YOU ARE ROTTEN, FUCKING EVIL BASTARDS!”
The Thing hissed, a demonic beast prompted to defend itself primally. You could have rid yourself of this trouble, human! You could have silenced it all...but you refuse. You continue to hurt yourself, you masochist. Suffer, then. Suffer without any option for salvation.
And then it was silent–Richie felt that heavy feeling of being all alone, of being left behind. The Thing was gone–perhaps sulking somewhere over his failed attempt to draw him out. In frustration, he clenched his fists, hatred surging through him hotly.
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In the other room, Hotstreak was simply bewildered by the one-sided conversation he’d heard.
He’s losin’ it, he thought with a sort of frightened disbelief. The kid was finally losin’ it! Talking to things that aren’t there...bein’ all crazy...
He had an idea that Richie was speaking to those Things. But...but he wasn’t exactly sure, especially with Richie spoke with such hot hatred and fury that made him an entirely different person. It was like...listening to a Ghoul. Hearing it plan a savage death, reveling in its delight in torture and pain. Richie spoke of his hate with a vehemence that seemed wholly uncharacteristic for him; as he if were hiding another different personality that was a complete opposite of his submissive, beaten self that Hotstreak was familiar with. Plotting and hating humans, hating him–it was all so strong and...sickly...frightening.
He slept with his gun in hand and one eye wide open.