Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ Maybe You’ll Get What You Want This Time Around ( Chapter 25 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

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: Uh...warnings for...Junior using the 'n' word. Sorrah, forgot to include that in other chapts.


Chapter Twenty-Five:
Maybe You’ll Get What You Want This Time Around



Richie stared out at the empty fields, his mind running with various thoughts. It felt good to sit here in the porch swing, running his mind’s eye over the plans and various details he’d taken note of while he’d performed his examinations of the animals. It was all for a purpose, of course–he’d gotten what little he needed to determine his worth in the world. The cows’ anatomy had been similar to those of a Hound–almost the same basics, give or take a few different internal designs.

And the sheep...well, they were clues given in which animals reacted after death.

The zombies...well...it had been an interesting ordeal with zombies.

He had to wonder if this was all magic. Or some sort of psychokinetic determination of one individual, or another. He hadn’t been presented with those details to know what it was that had the invasion prompted. Was it an army of demons like the Things–known to Madelyn as the Seven Bad Men–or one individual such as this...Madelyn? Who was also this ‘him’ that Hotstreak and the others spoke of.

‘Him’...Madelyn...the First had mentioned that ‘him’ was a her. Which was correct?

Come inside, now, lovey, came Muh’s voice. It’s time to retire....they’ll be out soon.

Richie stared out at the horizon, studying the various colors that turned the clouds different shades. He heard thunder in the distance, and smelled moisture.

“Just a few more minutes, Muh,” he said faintly, thinking how closely the colors resemble those of the peaches Junior had given him that morning. His stomach turned and twisted–hunger made him wince. He hadn’t eaten in all that time he was away.

He could smell things cooking inside, and knew that it was Virgil doing the cooking. The spices were different and...Junior was cursing about something that the black man was using.

Richie thought about the conversation that he’d overhead. He knew Junior wanted to use him...but the determination of his reasoning produced him with nothing.

While he was practically aching to know what it was Junior had in mind, he kept thinking how the man was capable of trickery. Junior could probably just be using him to get him back into whoring his body.

Unconsciously, he lifted a wrist, testing the width with a quick match-up of thumb with the other fingers.

And Virgil was Hotstreak’s friend. Friends liked doing things in groups. Junior could probably bargain things from those two while they used Richie.

The blond had thought about that, and was scared–but at the same time...the information he could gleam from Virgil was endless.

Virgil kept claiming that he knew his friend. Well...how much did the man know? What if he knew Hotstreak’s origins in the invasion?

He licked his lips, hungrier than ever. Information could be his if he’d just...relax. Let things happen. If things did turn to that...he knew how to speed up the body’s want for orgasm. After all, he’d told the First he’d do what it took to get the information he needed.

But...but he didn’t want to be touched that way, again.

The internal battle began anew as he debated that route.

It’s time to be going in, now, Muh repeated, much more firmer. You don’t want to catch cold.

“One more minute,” Richie muttered, staring at the colors.

He inhaled deeply of something savory, and began reviewing an internal menu of safe foods to eat. He had to stay bones–the looks both Virgil and Junior gave him last night were satisfactory. Both gave Richie some lift that they found him disgusting and vile. And who wanted to touch something like that?

NOW.

When Papa spoke, Richie jumped, nearly falling out of the swing. “Okay, okay,” he muttered, picking up his quilt. The old man watched him scurry back into the house, quietly shutting the door behind him.

The pictures on the wall told him Muh and Papa were making sure he was obeying their gentle orders. They weren’t the bad ones, he’d grown to realize. They’d been there the entire time–watching over both men. They just hadn’t presented themselves to them because they had felt that it wasn’t needed–but the invasion of their house by an outside soul had been unforgivable.

Papa had been watching over Hotstreak–Muh assigned herself to Richie. Mainly because he looked like their firstborn, and Papa saw a man in the redhead. Richie didn’t much like Papa’s views, but...the old man sometimes knew what he was talking about. The old man was convinced Hotstreak didn’t sleep too well, and often ‘helped’ out with that aspect. Unfortunately, even in death, Papa’s ears continued to fail him, and he hadn’t heard much of the activity that Muh encountered.

Still...Richie was warming up to them both, mainly because they had been kind. And he was aching for some kindness. No matter if he found it in ghosts.

He started to head for his room when he saw Virgil standing alone in the kitchen, poking at something in one of the heavy pots on the stove. He hesitated on the stairway, listening for Junior or Hotstreak. Hearing or seeing none of them, he turned away from the stairway.

I’m scared, he thought anxiously. He didn’t want to be used, but he was desperate for information. What if Virgil left? What if he never had the chance for information then?

The horror of that question prompted bravery.

Virgil must’ve not noticed him standing there, because once the man looked up to grab something from a nearby cabinet, he let out a surprised shriek. Then looked embarrassed as Richie frowned at him.

“Sorry,” Virgil apologized with embarrassed chuckles. “You startled me, man. You hungry? Got some bread all made...ya’ll runnin’ outta flour. An’ those crops are shit. Better think of re-locating, or something. Cuz...damn.”

Richie spied the imperfect rolls of bread nearby. Though he could see blackened spots here and there, they looked absolutely scrumptious. He almost never heard Virgil continue speaking as he stared at the group of bread, wondering just how much he’d allow himself to eat.

“It’s gonna rain, too. Kinda nice night out, but I’ve been missin’ the moon. Say, you sick, man? I mean, not to be rude or anythin’, but you look really, really...really really really sick. I feel like just lookin’ atcha’s gonna break ya! Y’know? I haven’t heard you coughing, an’ maybe you don’t have the trots, but–”

“Shut up.” It felt good to talk that way to others. Richie felt a warming thrill race through him as Virgil complied, but looked taken back by the clipped tone. “I want to know about...your friend. They aren’t here, are they?”

Virgil busied himself with stirring the contents of the larger pot, then threw him a cautious glance. Richie felt himself grow impatient the longer the black man chose not to speak; he shifted his weight from foot to foot, then narrowed his eyes.

“They are,” Virgil said. “Hotstreak’s in his room, and Junior’s busy lookin’ through the basement.”

Secretly, Richie allowed himself a picture of seeing Junior ripped apart by the Things. He could just imagine how human skin would tear under tooth and claw. He wanted to imagine Junior quiet and still throughout the entire thing–because being silent and still wasn’t something common of the younger Alva.

It took a great amount of determination to stop that train of thought. As much as he liked to kill Junior in his mind, he had other things to do.

Virgil flicked a glance at him, uncomfortably at a loss of how to address or continue conversation with the kid. He started to speak when Richie asked, “What did he do? He started this entire war, didn’t he? He’s to blame for all these deaths and for all the creatures that have appeared–”

“He didn’t do nothin’!” Virgil interrupted fiercely. “He didn’t start nothin’! It weren’t his fault! Whatever he says, it wasn’t his fault! It could have happened to anyone!”

“Nothing’s ever his fault, is it?” Richie sneered. “He always has a reason, he’s always the loser. He’s the one losing everything. It’s never his fault, and he’s always the victim.”

“Geez,” Virgil muttered, shooting him a worried glance. “You didn’t have very good relationships with people, did you? You always doubt things like that?”

“People have given me reason to doubt them all, no matter how saintly they appear. Now, how did this all start? What did he do to prompt their invasion?”

“He didn’t do nothin’! It was a mistake, somethin’ he regrets to this day!” Virgil said on a huff. “An’ you need to work on your people skills. You turnin’ out just like Junior–all demandin’.”

Richie grit his teeth. “All I asked from you was how this all started, and why he was in the middle of it. That’s all the information I want.”

“...He ain’t talked to you about it?”

“...He refuses to delve into it.”

“Then if he ain’t comfortable wit’ it, I ain’t comfortable wit’ it,” Virgil decided. “That’s his personal business. If’n he wants ta talk ‘bout it, then that’s his choice. If he don’t, then it ain’t my place to share what’s his business.”

Frustration arose in Richie, and burned so greatly that his face twisted with malice. Virgil turned to search through a drawer for another spoon when Richie shoved the pot of food off the stove, toward him. Virgil turned in time to see this and quickly jumped back as the hot stew overturned in mid-air, spilling out onto the floor with a loud clang of sound.

“Jesus–!”

“I don’t ask for much!” Richie screamed at him, grabbing the pile of bread and hurling it at him. “You want me to work on my people skills?! You’re telling me to work on my people skills? Why don’t you get to know your friends a little more, instead of accepting what you see!”

“Crazy sumbitch! That was our dinner!” Virgil protested, hearing Junior race up from the basement, and Hotstreak hurrying down the stairs, both of them armed.

Richie stopped his shouting, turning to see them approach. Immediately, he skirted around Junior, but Hotstreak reached out to grab him as he took in the scene with a look of alarm.

Virgil shrugged helplessly as both men took in the overturned pot of stew that had spilled out on the floor. Junior worked his jaw, then turned to glare at Richie, who was pulling at his arm.

“Why’d you go an’ do that, ya dumb shit?” he demanded. “The hell’s th’ matter with you?”

“Virg, you all right?” Hotstreak asked over Junior’s demand, holding tight on Richie’s arm and ignoring his growls.

“Yeah...just...I didn’t expect...” Virgil trailed off, shrugging once more. “I can save some of it, but...food’s runnin’ out.”

“Sorry ‘bout that, man,” Hotstreak apologized, moving away from the kitchen and pulling Richie with him. “He weren’t this way before. I’m goin’ to take ‘im to his room.”

“If I were you, I’d beat his damn worthless ass,” Junior muttered, bending to scoop some of the food into a wooden bowl.

Virgil nodded in response to Hotstreak’s intention, watching as his friend led Richie away. The blond looked wholly subdued at this point, being jerked along toward the stairway. He felt apprehension as he watched them ascend the stairway, wondering what it was that he wasn’t seeing when he looked at them.

Wordlessly, Hotstreak led Richie toward his room, frowning with heavy thought as he mentally went over the scene in the kitchen. Whatever prompted the blond to try and attack his friend was something of concern to him. He kept thinking about that day, when Richie had mentioned his surprise over how everyone was ‘the same’. Wondering out loud why everyone had different colors.

He opened the door to his room, and stopped short. There was something different about the room–it gave him a sense of feeling that something had happened right under his nose. But...but what?

He pushed Richie into his room. Not looking at him, he growled, “You leave that one alone. He’s my friend. You do anythin’ to hurt him...I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Golden eyes narrowed, burning with hate so strong that Hotstreak felt the hairs on his arms stand straight up.

“You’d look for any excuse to hurt me,” Richie snarled. “All of you! All of you are all the same! You all just want to hurt the insignificant little bug just to feel as if you have some sort of power! Egotistical male freaks of nature–!”

“Hey!” Hotstreak bellowed over his rising shouts. “Knock it off. Keep it down. Don’t know what’s in yer head ta make ya all loony, but just stop it already, all right? We don’t need that sorta tension. An’ you need to eat. We’re runnin’ out of food. You got it in your head to slaughter everything–!”

“I couldn’t have killed them all,” Richie muttered, sitting slowly on the braided rug.

Hotstreak was relieved to hear that–but where did the rest of the herd go? He lowered his arm, studying the slight form before him. He hated feeling this way–hated feeling as if everything were his fault they were what they were today. He had the resigning feeling that he was the push into Richie’s personality before him–the guilt was suffocating.

With a scowl, he slammed the door shut. He knew he should lock it, but he couldn’t find the key. He’d just tell the others to sleep with an eye open to stay safe.

Dinner was tense as the other three ate. With what Virgil and Junior were able to save, it wasn’t much. Junior and Virgil were starting to get used to the sounds of the Things as they scurried about outside, their various feet hitting the floorboards of the porch.

Virgil kept tossing Hotstreak worried looks while the redhead played with his food, a far-off expression on his worn face; Junior frowned at both of them, wondering when he could bring up the subject of taking Richie with him when he left.

“He was askin’ about how it all started,” Virgil said, tossing Junior a cautious glance. “I didn’t think it was my place to say things about your past...Got all upset when I wouldn’t tell him.”

Hotstreak grunted, forcing himself to eat. “Gots it in his head that he has to know shit. I didn’t feel like tellin’ him all that. On such rocky grounds, anyway...”

“Gots to know what?” Junior asked, perked by information. He was ignored.

“He’s...a character. I feel bad for him, man. It’s like...it’s like he were never treated right.” At this, Virgil scowled at Junior. Junior blinked innocently, but he looked down at his food to avoid his accusing stare. “A mistreated dog bites back no matter how kind the owner happens ta be.”

Hotstreak shrugged, but couldn’t look up, either. He was much too guilty of his own crimes, but he was also frustrated at how things had turned out.

Virgil waited for something to be contributed into the conversation, but he sighed, lowering his fork. “You can’t think of stayin’ here, long. Why don’t you come back to Luna with us?”

Hotstreak shrugged again. “Said he didn’t kill all of them. They might be loose in the hills, somewhere...”

“Did you hear me? Come to Luna. I bet they’d need a guy like you around. Think of it–lots of people, lots of security...you won’t be so isolated over there.”

“...I don’t want to live in a town, Virg! I could have...enemies, there. Made a lot of them.”

“But think of it,” Virgil urged. “An’ the kid will have somethin’ to do. Maybe there’s a doctor there that can look at ‘im an’ see what the hell’s wrong wit’ him.”

“Can’t cure insanity,” Junior muttered. He sat back in his seat. “Give ‘im to me. I’ll put ‘im to work. That brain of his needs to be occupied with somethin’...”

“Man, who can trust you?” Virgil shot angrily. “You just a no-good sumbitch that–!”

“You ever hear that kid talk, nigger? He’s got smarts in him that nobody hears of. I hear it–he knows a lot that people can use if they just...kinda forget he’s insane. You get him talkin’ about how things work an’ how they can be taken apart, an’ it’s just all...fascinating.” Junior rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “He got ta talkin’ about them Hound creatures, an’ got me all thinkin’. If he can figure out how things work jus’ by lookin’ at them, what else can he do to contribute to things in the war?”

“What ‘war’?” Virgil asked, exasperated.

“He is a smart kid, Virgil,” Hotstreak muttered. He thought of the drawings, and rose from his chair.

Virgil tossed him a curious look while Junior, excited in his prospects, continued with, “He just needs a little controlling, here an’ there. He starts to lissen cuz he’s the type that can’t really be on his own, y’know? Anyway, just let me take ‘im off yer hands. He ain’t like the pair of you, anyway.”

“What makes you so sure that he likes you?” Virgil asked, exasperated.

“Aw, jeez, c’mon...it all obvious! He ain’t tried to kill me yet!”

“‘Yet’...”

“Yea h, ‘yet’. He knows better.”

“...Your damn ego and arrogance is just too much! How can you stand liking yourself!”

“Shit, I don’t look in the mirror everyday.”

Virgil sighed as Hotstreak returned to the table, tossing him a worn leather pack. Virgil opened it, and pushed aside various things on the table once he realized what was inside. Junior helped him clear the way as he spilt out the various sheets of paper. Upon seeing the written notes and drawings, Junior picked up a few sheets while Virgil tossed the pack aside.

“Been workin’ on them for days, V,” Hotstreak said, staring at the mess. “Alla that just from lookin’ at them. An’ they so on the point, too. Just from lookin’ at ‘em, Virgil, he knows what makes them tick an’ how to take ‘em down! I learned all that throughout the years, an’ it took another guy to come up with that!”

Junior let out a low whistle upon shuffling through the various notes about the Seven Bad Men. Virgil gaped at the drawings, not really reading the notes on the sides.

“Man o man,” Junior muttered to himself, grabbing more. “This is what he’s capable of, an’ you want ‘im on his back.”

“Shut up, asshole!”

“He could be used against those things!” Junior cried, slapping the papers on the table. “Think of it–he might be the key in destroying those creatures. An’ you wanna keep him here?!”

“You’ve got no idea why I do this!” Hotstreak growled. “Tryin’ to show him that not everyone’s out to hurt ‘im–!”

“But he still hates you! Says yer the ‘worst one’! Shows you you ain’t doin’ it right, you rapist.”

“Stop–! ARGH! Just–you sonnvabitch!”

“Knock it off!” Virgil commanded, lowering his papers. “Jeezus, you two...chill. Hotstreak, as much as I hate to admit it, Junior’s right. There’s a whole lotta potential in this kid to just...keep him isolated. Luna could use ‘im. Alva could use him to–”

“Oh, not uh, nigger! That old shit ain’t havin’ NOTHIN’ to do wit’ this boy!” Junior interrupted, flinging his papers at Virgil. “He ain’t goin’ to ‘im. He’s stayin’ with me. I’ll make sure that he works the right way...daddy just thinks of ‘im as property, an’ won’t even stop ta think of usin’ him any other way. I’ll work ‘im right.”

Virgil picked up the papers that had fluttered over the table and floor. “Do you ever stop to listen to yourself?” he exclaimed. “You act as if he’s not even human!”

“Far as I’m concerned, he ain’t. You heard him–he’s insane.”

Hotstreak drew his guns. “Let’s shoot ‘im, Virgil. No one would miss him.”

Virgil sighed, drawing a hand over his face. “I’d love that idea, but...the moral of it all is just wrong. We can’t kill ‘im...karma’ll come back to him.”

“...What’s ‘karma’?”

Junior relaxed once he realized that Hotstreak wasn’t going to shoot him. “Anyway, the point of it all is he ain’t goin’ to Luna. I’ll take ‘im somewhere else, and...well, we’ll see from there.”

“Oh, don’t tell me–yer gonna let him come up with all these plans an’ then try to either blackmail or sell them to the highest bidder to anybody that wants ‘em. In particular, you stupid dad,” Hotstreak said with an exasperated eye roll. Junior reddened considerably, his left eye twitching. “Yer all obvious, man. Obviously, you’ve no idea–”

“You’ve got a better idea, you pedophile?”

“...What’s a–?”

“Junior, you ain’t usin’ him!” Virgil snapped. “So knock off all that thinkin’! By the way, if’n you do want to hang out here, you should be workin’ on makin’ us happy an’ comfortable bein’ around you. Cuz...I dunno. Two or three against one? Don’t sound like good odds...”

Junior frowned at the threat.

Virgil began putting all the papers away. “Let’s all hit the hay. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out what ta do. But I definitely don’t wanna stay here much longer, Hotstreak. An’ I don’t think we should be lettin’ that kid think the way he does. Obviously, he ain’t all right in the head. Mebbe a doctor can figure somethin’ out ta help him.”

He left the table, picking up a tray. “I’m gonna take him some food.”

“Virg, I can do that–” Hotstreak started to say, reaching for the tray when Virgil held it out of his reach.

“No, I’ll do it. I’ll apologize. Somethin’. I’m sure he’s a good kid...just ain’t rightly influenced. You two don’t kill each other while I’m doin’ this, either.”

“Virg...don’t show him yer back. Seriously. He...”

“It’s all right,” Virgil said, shooting him an annoyed look. “Geez, he’s just a kid.”

Hotstreak frowned, but let him go. Then he looked over at Junior, who was slinking away as quietly as he could to escape clean-up duties. “Hey! You get back here an’ help out, asswipe. You ain’t above it all.”

Virgil’s head was swamped with thoughts as he carefully balanced the tray in both hands, making sure the stew didn’t slop over the bowl’s rim. He made sure to add a couple of rolls of bread and a cup of fresh water, as well as some salt to flavor the stew. The room was dark when he walked in, so he tried to be as quiet as possible. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he felt a sharp chill race up his spine as he felt the consuming feeling of being watched very closely. A glance around told him that the bed was occupied–carefully, shuffling quietly in the darkness, he made his way over to the dresser nearby.

He set the tray down, then carefully rearranged the various items atop of the dresser so that he could push the tray more firmly onto the surface. It was tough working in the darkness, but he managed to accomplish his task just by using his hands to feel around. He’d just pulled his hands down to his sides when the hairs on the back of his neck seemed to tingle–the creak of the floorboards behind him alerted him to movement, and he started to turn in automatic reaction.

It felt like he was punched at the base of his spine–he jolted forward against the dresser, tray knocked and contents sloshing as he steadied himself. Then the fiery sensation of having his skin rendered made him scream aloud with pain and surprise, almost paralyzed by the agony that raced throughout his body.

His arms flailed, smacking Richie directly across the face. He used that moment to shove blindly, his back burning with pain that made him arch. His pained scream had already alerted the other two men, both of whom barged into the room. Junior was carrying an oil lamp and waving a Colt around with one hand, and Hotstreak was armed with a rifle.

Upon feeling his blood on his palm, Virgil stilled, looking entirely taken by surprise as he shuffled away from his attacker. Junior held the lamp up high, fumbling to light the candles that had melted to puddles of hardened goo atop of their holders. Hotstreak saw Virgil moving awkwardly, and looked at Richie accusingly. It took some light to see a bloodied paring knife clutched tightly in one thin hand.

“Virg, you okay?” he asked, seeing Virgil examine his hand once more, bent painfully as Junior craned his neck to look at the wound.

“Jus’...jus’ fine,” Virgil rasped, wincing as his back burned with pain. He looked back at his attacker, seeing very wide, fear filled eyes that was trying to keep all three men in sight while keeping his knife firmly held in both hands.

Instead of feeling anger at being stabbed, Virgil just felt sorry for the pathetic creature that stayed crouched on the floor. It was as if he were looking at a cornered dog that was blinded by fear, snapping at anything that moved, unwilling to listen to reason.

Hotstreak whirled around, visibly furious. Immediately, the knife was dropped, and fear intensified to dread that made pupils dilate and blood to fall away.

“He was in my room–! He was in my room! He was going to use me–!” came the thin, reedy protest. “He was sneaking–! He was–you let him! You let him–you let him have me, he’s faking it, all of you are faking everything–!”

“I told you ta never touch him–!” Hotstreak barked furiously, fury rising in him as he looked over Virgil’s bloodied shirt once more.

Virgil grabbed his arm upon reaction, seeing the redhead make a move toward Richie. “It’s okay, man. It’s all right. Let’s get it fixed, all right? I’m gonna bleed to death, cuz I’m sure as hell as NOT lettin’ Junior get to me.”

Junior shrugged. “Blood makes me queasy. I’d prolly let him die, too.”

Hotstreak gave a short snarl, shooting Richie a furious look. Virgil’s fingers tightened on his arm, and he forced himself to look away. Virgil gave Richie a concerned look as he let Hotstreak help him out of the room.

Junior crossed his arms, frowning after the pair, then looked down at Richie. The blond was desperately trying to wipe his face, obviously very upset with the whole situation. He scoffed.

“Stop yer bawlin’,” he commanded. “Jeez. He ain’t even touched you, an’ you bawling like a damn baby.”

Richie looked up at him, struggling to keep his hysterics from getting the best of him. Shaking, he tried to rise from the floor, but he kept slipping. It was obvious he lacked strength to do that simple thing.

Junior set the oil lamp down, then kicked the knife away from him. “You stick anything in me, I will come back from the dead an’ make yer fuckin’ life miserable. Then when you finally off yerself, I’ll make that life miserable, too. Now, git up.”

“...He was gonna...he was gonna touch me...he was goin’ to–he was there, I woke up an’ he was there–he was–!”

Junior grew impatient with the rising hysteria, shooting him an annoyed glare as he grabbed Richie’s arm, yanking him to his feet. “Oh, knock it off. I doubt that nigger knows what to do wit’ his prick. Stop bein’ such a damn ninny. You’ve handled worse, probably.”

“Waking up–! I don’t wanna wake up–! I didn’t sleep–I hadn’t slept–then when I do, he’s there!”

Junior really couldn’t understand what Richie was saying between his hiccups and suppressed sobs, so he gave up on trying. He pushed the blond toward the bed.

“Just git ta bed. They’ll kiss each other better, I’m bettin’, an’ all will be forgotten. They already think you all crazy in the head. They’ll just think it all that an’ not bother with a thing.”

“Don’t wanna–! Don’t want them–! Don’t wanna wake up–!”

“I said, knock it off!” Junior commanded. “I don’t even know what you tryin’ to say with that girlish crying goin’ on, there. Jeez.”

“He did that–! He woke me up–! Can’t ever sleep, knowing that they’re right outside–gonna wake me up by touching me–!”

“No one’s gonna touch you! Damn. Who would want to? Gawd, it’s like lookin’ at a damn, like, one o’ them, like....things that starve!” Junior gave up on an example that matched Richie’s physical description, finding it just too strenuous to do so. He frowned as he observed the shaking shoulders, the splotchy face and tears. “I said, stop cryin’! You show those men that weakness, they just gonna pounce all over it. Didn’t those girls ever tell you that? ‘Sides, you don’t wanna show them no weakness, damn it. They just run all over you. Damn worthless nigger an’ his dumb cowpoke friend. Together, they both make up the rotten end of a–never mind. Stop that cryin’.”

There was something soothing in Junior’s rough actions. The same sort of comfort that Richie had found acceptable earlier on, while they were trying to survive together. In many ways, Junior was the strength that Richie needed. He was always looking out for Richie that way–toughening him, showing him around the ways of humans and their selfish ways.

Through the haze of indescribable fear that exhaustion and hunger had created, Richie heard those exasperated words and was growing steadily clear-headed as Junior fussed about in his own ways. Wiping his eyes with his sleeves, Richie blinked in the dimly lit room, finally realizing that Virgil had been setting a dinner tray atop of his dresser–it had been so dark, he didn’t have his glasses; he’d just fallen asleep, just to be awakened by some small sound; he didn’t even think or hesitate. He thought Virgil had been sneaking into his room to use him. The knife had been convenient, as he’d taken to sleeping with it under his pillow. He’d attacked without hesitation, wanting to save himself. Not wanting to be touched.

“When they come back, they’re prolly gonna be real mad,” Junior theorized, moving away from the bed. He grabbed the tray, and hauled it over to the bed. Stew and water had sloshed over the surface, but there was still some left in the bowl. “They’ll prolly beat you real good, y’know? Virgil bein’ his long lost bitch an’ all. Eat this up. You prolly won’t get a chance to, after that guy slaps you around a bit just to make ‘im feel better.”

Richie froze, staring at the food–his allotted menu was lost somewhere within the fear-tinged haze of his mind, and his body practically surged forward just to have at it. Before he could think, he was forking the stew into his mouth–then spitting it out.

“It’s gross,” he observed with a frown.

Junior gave him a cross look. “Don’t be gettin’ that way! Just eat it! It’s good.”

“...It’s cold.”

“It don’t matter! It’s fuckin’ food!”

Richie shoved his tray away, pout registering over his features.

Junior stared in silent exasperation, then shoved it back atop of his lap. “Just eat the damn thing! It’s all you get!”

“I don’t want it. It’s gross. It’s cold. There’s water all over the tray. My bread is soaked. I don’t want it.”

Junior snatched the tray from his lap, hissing, “You ungrateful piece of shit! What I wouldn’t give for somethin’ like this out on th’ damn trail! What the fuck will get you ta eat it?”

“...It’s cold. And my bread is soggy. I don’t like soggy bread.”

“Piece of shit princess. You think you all good? Maybe you shouldn’t get any food at all, huh? You gonna be that way...shit. You’d think for all them brains you got, you wouldn’t care ‘bout this sorta shit. ‘Soggy bread’...’cold’ food. Shit.”

With a sullen expression, Richie watched Junior stomp out of the room with the tray in hand. He was a little puzzled at the man’s behavior, and was sort of bewildered. At the same time, he was curious if Junior would change the menu, or go about to pretty up the tray to make things a little more palatable. Still, apprehension over the consequences of his actions were more troublesome–he couldn’t hear Virgil or Hotstreak, but he was fearful over the redhead’s revenge.

He’d warned Richie not to touch Virgil–that was his ‘friend’.

...But Hotstreak obviously never knew the extent and weight of Richie’s fear. Hotstreak would never wake up after just falling asleep after many insomnia stricken nights to feel instant fear upon seeing someone in the room. He’d never know the feeling of knowing that he was going to be used. His body used against him.

Hotstreak would never feel that–after all, the man was...well, huge. And intimidating. No man would ever look at him and think awful thoughts about using his body. He was the far opposite of Richie, and...and it wasn’t fair. None of it was.

Richie looked up to see Junior re-entering the room, grumbling. The bread was dry, the stew was slightly steamy...and there was a little container of salt and pepper next to the bowl. As Junior tossed the entire thing onto his lap, Richie had to wonder if this was a one-time act...or could he gleam more from him? After all, Junior did want to use him–for whatever purpose. He’d practically crawl on hands and knees if he had to...because Richie knew he could give the man trouble. He was power Junior wanted–Junior had to bow down to him to get what he needed.

Suddenly realizing that he could get away with a great deal of things by Junior alone, Richie glanced at the man cautiously, thinking of ways he could use him.

Meanwhile, Virgil winced as Hotstreak finished the last stitch. It had taken three of them to close up the wound Richie had made in him.

“Kinda...funny reaction from him, huh?” Virgil asked, feeling the awkward pull of forcefully closed skin. He was still in pain, the entire area throbbing with the painful sensation of being stabbed–he was just thankful that the knife had a small blade, and the kid hadn’t been strong enough to cause more damage. “Wonder what would make him do that?”

Hotstreak didn’t say anything as he set aside the needle and thread.

“Junior must’ve really terrorized ‘im, huh? But...it’s like...he’s so attached to the fucker, it’s kinda odd that they’d be so...an’ he really looks at you like yer some kinda devil,” Virgil continued, crossing his arms in front of him and resting his chin atop of them. He heard Hotstreak cleaning up the small batch of medical supplies that he had, and frowned at the lack of contribution to his words. “He keeps claimin’ that yer not what I think. Y’know? I take you for a nice guy–just a bit dim, but not a monster. I don’t see you hittin’ or usin’ that boy. ‘Course, I kinda wonder why Junior keeps sayin’ shit, an’ why you guys are livin’ together in th’ middle of no-where–”

“Virgil, I–” Hotstreak cut himself off suddenly, guiltily realizing he was about to confess his side of the crimes. Mainly because...there was a sudden need, to.

Because...because having his friend stabbed by someone that he thought he’d loved told him something was entirely wrong. Maybe insanity couldn’t be cured–but he still had Virgil.

At the same time...would Virgil even accept what Hotstreak had to confess? What if he lost him, too?

“What’s up?” Virgil asked. He lifted his head to look back at him. “Just tell me, man. I mean...there shouldn’t be secrets between us. I tell you everythin’.”

“That’s...that’s just it. I mean...what I got ta say...you can’t get mad.”

“Why would I get mad?” Virgil asked.

Hotstreak worked his jaw for a few moments, then took a deep breath. “There’s a reason he–Rich, there’s a reason why he’s that way.”

“Yeah. We decided that it was all Junior’s fault. From livin’ in that whorehouse.”

“Virg...he was all right when we first came here. He wasn’t so...anyway...Virg, I loved that boy. Like...like...like your father loved your mom.”

The silence was thick, and Virgil wasn’t sure if he heard right. But he definitely understood the last sentence, seeing in his mind’s eye his father and mother’s relationship. He could see them hugging and kissing and having conversations that never seemed to end. He could see their smiles and hear their laughter–could see their love for each other in their expressions when they’d looked at each other.

And...to apply that very same notion to his manly friend and to that sickly teen?

Virgil’s mind just popped with the strain.

“...Wha’?” he asked, managing to roll onto his side to look at Hotstreak better.

Flustered, and very visibly so, Hotstreak avoided his eyes. “I loved that boy, Virg. Wit’...wit’ everything I got. Think I did from the first moment I saw him. I...I had ‘im on my mind since we left Alva’s, an’...whenever we were separated...I was lookin’ for him. I just...he was just...I just wanted ta make the world better for him. An’...an’ I fucked up wit’ it.”

Thick silence followed, and Virgil blinked. He was still absorbing what was being said–while in disbelief that Hotstreak was finally admitting his feelings for the boy (and such gossip it was!), Virgil had to immediately wonder what it was the redhead had done wrong. After all, he’d learned that whenever Hotstreak warmed up to a person, he did all that he could to please them. He was a loyal man, and always willing to take their side no matter what. How could he have failed this kid, who was so abused by a damn asshole? Virgil would have thought that Hotstreak made Richie feel entirely safe and better.

“I...I...wanted to give ‘im everything. Show him that I....that I love him. That...that things would be better.” In frustration, Hotstreak ran his hands through his hair, fingers clenching on the strands. “An’...an’ you know me, Virg. I fucked up. I fucked everything up. I got ta thinkin’–I lose everything. I lose everyone. Everything that I...that I hold close, an’ that I love gets taken away from me cuz I’m so fuckin’ stupid, an’ cuz of this damn invasion. I...I got desperate. I...just...I didn’t wanna lose ‘im. I did things that I shouldnt’ve with other people. I thought...”

Virgil sat up slowly, grimacing, but able to think past the pain to focus in on Hotstreak with dawning realization. Horror started to fill him, then, but this was his friend–! This was a man he cared about as a sibling–what was he supposed to think?

“He was fine, Virgil, until I...I just wanted to show him that things would be good between us. In all things, an’–an’ I didn’t think...I thought he was into it, too, but–!”

“You–! No....you....!”

“I just wanted ta show him, Virgil! An’...an’ I fucked up, anyway. He...he was starting–an’ then I did that, then–! All he wanted ta do was hide from me. He hated me–he tried killin’ himself, then–! Then those Things started talking to him, then he got all insane–! An’ it’s all my fault! All of it is my fault!” Hotstreak ended in a frustrated cry, flinging his arms about. “I fuck up everything, an’...an’ I fucked this up! He’s all demented and insane, an’ who’s ta blame?! Me! Because I’m fucked up! Because I’m so fucking fucked up, I have to fuck everything up all around me–! I hate it, Virgil!”

“No...no, man, it ain’t all about that,” Virgil said weakly, but he felt as if he were punched in the stomach. Just thinking about Hotstreak taking Richie against his will made him sick. He felt like throwing up. He couldn’t imagine the horror Richie must have felt, trapped with some man that had followed him through Hell just to use him–but at the same time, he felt angry at his friend...and felt sorry for him as well.

He knew Hotstreak didn’t have the best track record for luck. And Virgil knew that Hotstreak lost all that was dear to him in unfortunate events...so he could sort of understand why the redhead would be desperate to isolate Richie.

But he definitely didn’t understand forcing someone when they were abused thoroughly enough before. Maybe Hotstreak did have the right intentions–but not the best ideas.

“Just...you...stopped when he wanted, right?”

“...No. I...I always made sure he----he always...y’know...I made sure that he–first.”

Virgil’s face immediately scrunched. “So...not only are you taking him against his will, you’re making his body betray himself?”

“...I...I had thought....since he was a whore, he had to put other people first...I thought...”

“Goddammit, Francis!” Virgil shouted, riled enough to rise from the bed. He ignored the pain that flared up and down his back. “No wonder he’s all fucked up!”

“I know, Virgil! Damn! I regret it all the fucking time. There ain’t a day that goes by when I regret doin’ all this stupid stuff...things could’a been different, if I just thought–!”

“You obviously don’t think, man! You don’t! You’re so...like, hyped up on thinkin’ yer gonna lose things, then you rush on things! Makin’ it worse!”

“...I know that, Virgil!”

“Then why don’t you think things through?!”

“It makes sense right then! If I didn’t...I would have lost him...I...I would never have the chance...an’ I couldn’t help but be attracted, he was different then–!”

“Oh, God,” Virgil muttered, dropping his face into his hands as he fought not to be sick.

Hotstreak looked at him helplessly, fearing the loss of his friend at his confession. The silence was thick, and they could hear Junior saying something muffled to Richie in the kid’s room down the hall.

The longer the silence stretched, the more Hotstreak began to panic over the possible loss of Virgil’s friendship. He knew how morally tight Virgil was–how he scorned bad decision and immoral concepts. This situation was as immoral as it could possibly get. Hotstreak may never have raised a hand to Richie, or abused him as Junior did, but he certainly contributed to breaking him in other ways.

Swallowing hard, Hotstreak peered at Virgil’s hidden face, fearing his reaction. “V?...Virg? You...you there?”

Virgil inhaled deeply, his hands shaking as he pulled them from his face. He looked at Hotstreak, but couldn’t see the visage of his friend–the same man he’d laughed and joked with, worked with. The man he cared so much for, and grew to think of him as a sibling. Now that Hotstreak was confessing his more monstrous mistakes, how could Virgil look past that? How could he justify such actions as... ‘okay’?

“Virg...? Man...say something. An’...an’ I know I fucked up, just...you’ve got to understand why I did it. Why I did it all.”

“I...I can see...but...I....”

“V, what I did was wrong, an’ I know this! I know it was! I can’t help but see this whenever...whenever I see him. I’m a monster to him, Virgil. An’...that wasn’t my intention at all. I just...I just loved him, I’m sure I did, an’...I just...God.” Hotstreak straightened away from him, drawing his hands over his face. “I’m goin’ to lose you too, ain’t I?”

Virgil shook his head, but he couldn’t help but feel sick at the evidence of Richie stabbing him in self-protection. One look at Hotstreak, another one at Richie–while he did recognize that his friend had good things in mind, he just...he couldn’t accept the actions that had been taken. They were too monstrous.

He rose, hitting Hotstreak across the head angrily. “Fucking bastard! Why don’t you use them brain cells, huh? Thinkin’ like that, that ain’t right! You don’t treat people like that–ever! Ain’t no excuse!”

Hotstreak rubbed his head painfully.

“I just...I...don’t believe that...”

“It ain’t right! Ever! Goddamn...none of it’s right...” Virgil shook his head, slowly making his way across the room. He stopped at the doorway, but he didn’t turn around. “I don’t know what ta say right now, man. It’s just...it wasn’t right of you to do that. But...I understand what you were tryin’ ta do. Kinda...I just...”

Shaking his head again, Virgil left the room.

Hotstreak watched him go, but the feelings inside of him were growing thick with agony over the situation. Anger flared through his veins, warming him instantly. He was wondering who else to blame–wondering what to take it out on. He could lose everything, now–as fragile as it was.

Sure, Richie’s craziness was seriously taking a toll on him, but...

Virgil may never look at him the same, now. Knowing what he did.

His fists clenched, and his chest grew tight.

He heard Virgil walk into his room, closing the door behind him. Standing motionless in his room, Hotstreak stared at nothing and felt the warmth of his frustration, hate and anger sweep through him. Frustration at making the wrong decisions, hate for what he’d caused and lost, and anger because he knew he’d just continue making them.

He felt worthless as a person–cruelly destined to make mistakes.

He felt so low and dirty at that point, knowing that he’d continue to make mistakes that would further isolate himself from others...it was such agony to bear.

Two angry steps had him striding to the door, slamming it shut with enough force to ring throughout the house. Fury welled up inside of him, and he angrily swept things off various surfaces, liking the crashing sounds of things breaking. He picked up the heavy chair that sat in front of a vanity table, and hurled that through a window. The sound of breaking glass was satisfactory.

He jerked off all the sheets and quilts off his bed, and tore the mattress from the frame.

Panting, he kicked one of the supports of the frame, hearing wood crack in protest.

Angrily, he turned and stormed out of the room, reaching for one of the six-shooters that rested at his hip. He marched into Richie’s room, startling both Junior and Richie. Even as he took in the scene of them together, doing whatever they were doing–Hotstreak was filled with jealousy.

It was always Junior, Junior, Junior. Richie listened to Junior more than anybody–Junior was constantly tracking Richie down. It was a relationship that Hotstreak had no true grasp of, but the gist was obvious–Richie would always chose Junior.

And...as much as he had feelings for Richie...Richie would always see him as a monster.

Letting go should be easier when one knew they couldn’t keep the one they loved when they loved someone else.

He had the gun pointed at both of them, both of them startled by his appearance and fury.

“In the mornin’, I want both of you gone,” he snarled low, his tone leaving none to argue or protest. Junior clamped his mouth shut, but the younger Alva was very gleeful inside. “No arguments. Nothin’.”

He looked at Richie, staring down at that pale visage, the deeply shadowed eyes. The glitter of helpless fear and hate. It was something he should be used to, but the knife still cut deep whenever he saw it. It could have been different if he hadn’t been so...desperate.

And he was angry at Richie for never trusting him. For never accepting that he was trying to do good for him.

“I hope to never see you again,” he said, even as it hurt to say. But it was the truth. For everyone’s sakes, it was the truth. “What shit I did...I can’t take back. I just...you just never accepted what good I did do. Well you know what? Fuck you, too. Selfish prat, you always figgered it was all you. All about you. You wanna be insane, it ain’t because of me. But I hope you die somethin’ awful, man. I hope you suffer. Because that’s what you want.”

“Man, you–!” Junior started, reddening in the face. Hotstreak didn’t bother listening to that–he hit Junior with his gun without any warning, the younger Alva crumpling to the floor with nary a sound.

Richie didn’t take his eyes away from Hotstreak for a moment, but the moment Hotstreak straightened to face him once more, he was tensing–keeping himself from blinking.

“Wish I never knew you,” he confessed quietly, feeling that. “Wish I never...felt the way I did. Cuz, in the end–it’s me that gets it, anyway. You’ll just go on, doin’ whatever...I have to live wit’ what I did. All of it. You just another added pain. I fuckin’ hate that–I fuckin’ wanna hate you...so badly.”

Hotstreak looked into those amber eyes, and shook his head. He looked away, and walked away from the bed. He could feel Richie’s eyes on him, but...there was nothing more to say. Just...anger and frustration. Regret and reluctance.

He felt there was something on the tip of his tongue–so he hesitated in the doorway. But it didn’t come out, and he walked out. He looked down the hall toward Virgil’s room, knowing the man was listening–but he felt that stonewall begin to rebuild once more.

Virgil wouldn’t look at him the same. Now that he knew Hotstreak was a monster.

God...was there a place on this Earth that would just...take him away from everything? Keep him from destroying more lives?

Pain made him growl, and he whirled toward the stairway. Again and again and again–he wasn’t fit for anything. Why was he even here–the scapegoat for all things horrible? Was that his stupid ‘Purpose’?

He immediately gathered his things, and grabbed several loaded rifles. He grabbed an ammunition bag, and tossed on the jacket that hung nearby. He was not going to stay–the morning would be too awkward.

He heard Virgil call his real name, but he ignored that. He headed outside, hearing the scurry of things. He whistled for Charger, and while the stallion galloped toward him, he turned to the shadows snarling, “Take ‘im. All of them. Don’t care, anymore. Burn the fuckin’ place down. Ain’t nothin’ good in there, anyway.”

He heard silence in response, but he was used to that. The Things never communicated with him.

Charger’s ears were laid flat once he reached Hotstreak, but upon recognizing his owner, he settled somewhat. Hotstreak grabbed his halter and headed for the barn to grab his saddle. Virgil was still calling for him, but his injury hindered his movements.

“Fuck this place,” he spit angrily, hurt welling up inside of him. “Fuck this place, fuck him–fuck you. Don’t–! I’m always doin’ things wrong! Always...always fuck–I never do right! I...I can’t even...can’t even give a home–dammit!”

Solemnly, the stallion waited for him to grab his saddle, and his movements were brisk as he began piling on the blanket and the heavy leather-made setup. He didn’t bother with supplies–he just wanted out. Far away from it all.

“Just...worthless! Never–never do right! Ever! Fuck-up, ‘m always fucking up–!” Each word was a painful gasp, and he was shedding angry, frustrated tears as he mounted his horse.

Of course, you realize that it’s meant to be this way...

Hotstreak and Charger reacted with surprise upon hearing that voice. It was something clear–as if the person were standing next to them. The stallion paced restlessly, caught in a power it was helpless against. Hotstreak stared out into the darkness, hearing the hiss of demonic things as they sought cover from the intruder.

“...Wha’? What....where...who...?”

All thirteen of you have to be this way...each of you will be groomed for your exact Purpose. None of it will be pleasant, but in the end...it’s how things must be.

Hotstreak blinked in confusion.

It must hurt so much, and while I cannot imagine your pain, you must realize that it is forming you into the person that you need to be when the time comes. Just as the other is being groomed for his position when his time comes...

“What you talkin’ about? What the–?!”

Sometimes people are given painful and hard tasks–when they have a hold of it, they are unable to withstand the consequences and the actions they encounter afterward. They lose themselves–unfortunately, the tasks that you will have to take will require your newly formed personality in order to overcome. But it is not all for naught–in the end, when everything is accomplished according to plan...the pain will stop.

Hotstreak wasn’t sure what he was supposed to understand from that cryptic message, but one thing was clear–he just wasn’t going to believe some disembodied voice. He grabbed his gun, and fired randomly into the night, Charger whinnying anxiously.

“Whatever. If’n this is one of those things creepin’ ‘round the house all the time, you can just forget it. I ain’t gonna stop nobody. You want ‘im? Take him. I ain’t got nobody to fuckin’ hold me down, anymore...”

The pain will stop after you’ve accomplished your Purpose, Francis, the voice began again. But your grooming will continue. I’m so sorry it has to work this way...I’m so sorry that in order to be strong, you have to be hurt. But it’s that way for the other twelve–it has to be. The task that you all will face will be an arduous one–decisions have to be made. But they will be made after your grooming has been completed. Afterward, things will be righted. Things will be fixed.

Hotstreak wanted to believe all that. He truly did. But for the moment...this weird woman was speaking some odd things to him, and he was still angry and hurt. For the now, this message meant nothing to him. He just...wanted to get away. From all of it.

He sneered at the darkness, but he grew embarrassed at the fact that his eyes were overworking their tear ducts again.

“Fuckin’ lies, man. Alla it. Talk your bullshit with someone that fuckin’ gives a damn. Cuz I don’t. None of it. Nobody. I’m done. I’m done with...with hurtin’ everybody. I’m done gettin’ all attached to stupid fools! I’m done!”

...I am so sorry...please...I’m so sorry...

Hotstreak shoved the gun back into his hip holster, and he was giving Charger a sharp heel kick in the sides. The stallion protested angrily, bucking forward, then sprinting off down the road in a furious run.

The Things continued to hiss and verbally threaten the woman that separated herself from the shadows, her face drawn with misery. The whiteness of her dress contrasted sharply with the night, and her angelic features were tight with worry. The gray stripes in her hair contrasted with the darkness, fluttering with the gentle breeze as she looked over at the house.

Muh stood in the doorway, a tight frown on her aged face. She nodded solemnly in her direction.

Things were in place–things had been accomplished.

Jean sighed tiredly, but she knew things were on-course.

They would just have to wait for the others to catch up.