Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ If It Makes You Happy ❯ Chapter One ( Chapter 1 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Disclaimer: I do not own Static Shock and associated characters. Just manipulating them against their will.
Warnings: SLASH, violence, swear words galore, and...uh..we’ll see what else later on.
OooooooooooO means scene break
A/N: Oi...for those of you that still remember me, I am back. But, um...I bring with me another fandom. Please be nice. They’re my brand-new babies...(Grins)


If It Makes You Happy:
Chapter One



It was another one of those days at Dakota Union High that made Francis Stone, AKA Hotstreak, more than antsy. He hadn’t remembered his reasoning in why he’d decided to make an appearance, today–just that there hadn’t been anything else to do. His scowl nearly hidden within the depths of his hood, he muscled his way through the heavy traffic of students, wandering aimlessly for the moment. The bell had rang, signaling lunch, and he had nothing to do. He’d bullied his last frosh a couple of minutes ago, and left with some chump change that wouldn’t get him a full meal. Not that he minded–he wasn’t interested in cafeteria food, anyway.
Making his way outside through the side doors, he squinted briefly at the bright blaze of afternoon sun, and rifled through his pockets for a cigarette. A pop of flame later, he exhaled smoke as he took a careful survey of the cheer that took place outside of school. His eyes narrowed from one table to another, until they landed on one near the common grounds. A snort accompanied a scowl as he ventured in that direction.
Nerds. How he loved tormenting them.
This gaggle was excitedly exclaiming over something of inconsequential thought as he muscled his way over, knocking aside a girl that walked into his path. Ignoring her surprised cry and the sound of her tray overturning, he reached the table, using his height and identifiable presence to capture the dawning attention of the lesser liked group.
“I thought I smelled cabbage,” Virgil Hawkins, Idiot Extraordinaire, exclaimed. His eyes widened and his dreads bounced as he watched Hotstreak settle behind his friend, Felix. Felix cowered with a hiss escaping a scrunched mouth, posing as if he were going to be hit at any second. “Here, I was blaming it on the lunch ladies.”
Hotstreak narrowed his eyes, and snatched the book from a cringing nerdie before him.
“I got a proposition for you stupid geeks,” he began, glancing at the filth he held in one hand. “How about you all cough up your money, an’ none of ya gets burned?”
“How about we think about it, and get back to you later?” Virgil asked, leaning back on the bench, cocky grin alighting his face.“‘Sides, it ain’t like you’re gonna get much from us, man. Truth to tell, we spent nearly a month’s worth of allowance on the more finer things in life. We can do without food for awhile, but we couldn’t do a thing without the latest issue of Plantman.”
Hotstreak glared at him, and used both hands to tear the comic book into two. He then tossed both ends at the closest nerd’s head, growling.
“I don’t think you’re taking me seriously,” Hotstreak snarled, balling up a fist, and ramming it onto the table. One of the nerds managed to slip away from the table, running as if his very life depended on it. “I don’t give a fuck about plants. I just want your money. Now, hand it over, an’ no one gets hurt. Understand?”
A couple of the nerds quickly took out their wallets, and flung what they could find at the taller boy. Virgil gave an exasperated eye roll as they took off. Hotstreak picked up the cash, rolling it before tucking it into his pockets. Pointing at Virgil, he said, “I’ll be seein’ you later, man. I don’t take mouthing monkeys lightly.”
“I just signed my death sentence, didn’t I?” Virgil sighed, leaning onto the table with his chin in his palm. Hotstreak was already making his way to another table, using the same threatening method to obtain more money from the frightened students.
Across the table, Richard Foley snorted, picking up what remained of the comic book. “More than likely. But let’s just pretend that was made in jest, and hope he’s picked up during sixth period for disturbing the peace. He reeked of bodily funk, dude.”
“Aw, man, he fucked up my newest issue!” Virgil complained, taking the ruined comic. “You know how long I waited for this issue to come out?”
“Twenty-nine days, twenty hours, fifty-eight minutes and twenty-three seconds. I know. I’ve heard it, before.”
“Man, I sacrificed at LEAST two weeks worth of Burger Fool eats ESPECIALLY for this issue! Wait... Wait...I think...I think if we use half a roll of tape, and a tube of super glue, I can put this thing back together again, just in time to see what happens on page ten.”
As he watched Virgil try and put the book together, Richie shook his head. The comic was ruined, definitely. No amount of tape or super glue would fit the thing together again. But he was amused by Virgil’s effort, taking in the determined expression on his best friend’s face.
Still, the pathetic attempt had him snorting as he leaned against the table. “Besides the fact that our only source of entertainment was destroyed...”
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a folded up piece of paper, tossing it to Virgil with a careless air. “I was told to deliver this directly to you.”
Virgil set down his ruined comic, and took the paper with an interest rise of his eyebrows. “What’s this?”
Richie sighed, turning his bored expression up to the afternoon sky, shutting his eyes with disinterest.
“I can’t say until you read it,” he recited.
“Really?” With interest, Virgil unfolded the note, feeling more than curious as to who would want to write him something so secretive. As he settled down to read it, Richie shifted once more on the bench across from him, sighing heavily. “Ah...one of THOSE. ‘Check the box if you like Thora Green’...tell me, Richie...since when did Check The Box become popular in high school again? Am I really missing that much classtime, here? I thought we outgrew these things in fifth grade...”
“I don’t know, V. Just check the damn thing, and let me return to my master. I’ve got Kibbles waiting for me.”
“Who the hell is Thora Green, anyway? Give me a pen. I need to mark down a new damn category,” Virgil declared, rifling through his backpack for a pen. As he wrote, he said aloud, “Are You Over The Age Of Nine? Check ‘Yes’, or ‘No’.”
“But then again, V, Thora could be a hot Tyra Banks look-alike...and you turnin’ her down will turn ya into one of those wacky social outcasts that makes out with his hand, crying about missed opportunities.”
“Aren’t I already a wacky social outcast? I mean...I hang out with you.”
“Ouch, V. I’m your best friend, remember?”
“Oh, yeah!” Virgil folded up the note, and flung the thing at Richie, watching as it bounced off the blond’s head. As Richie retrieved the note, slipping it into his pocket, Virgil scoffed as he leaned back in his seat, flicking his pen about. “What’s Hotstreak doin’ back in school, anyway? I thought he was all occupied with Ebon and his crew. Him makin’ a comeback to high school kinda makes me curious.”
“Why’s that, V?” Richie asked with heavy disinterest, resting both hands onto the table, and propping his chin onto them as he slouched low.
“Well, what the hell’s he doin’ here?”
“They don’t get along, anyway, man. He’s probably getting all exasperated by Ebon’s controlling, All-God attitude, an’ came to blow off some steam. Y’know?”
“Or he could be re-thinking things, my white friend. I overheard Benton in Third sayin’ how Francis Stone needs ta pull a little ass in his classes, or else he’s gettin’ held back again.”
“The guy’s, like, thirty years old, V!” Richie chuckled as he settled more comfortably against the table. “I wouldn’t be surprised that by the time we graduate college, he’s just finally passing tenth.”
Virgil laughed, rising from the bench. “I’m gonna go find Daisy. She promised to help out with my history.”
Richie snorted, straightening from his position, and giving Virgil a scowl. “You’re passing history, Virgil. You’re just making up excuses to hang out with her.”
“Hey, what can I say? I get suckered easily for a pretty face, man. Later.”
Richie scowled as Virgil walked off, whistling cheerfully as he went in search for their classmate. Sighing with an exasperated air, Richie leaned into his palm, crossing his ankles underneath the table. It seemed that Daisy Watkins was the only real subject Virgil tended to focus on, lately. He blamed hormones, mostly–Virgil was at the age where anything with breasts and soft flesh captured his attention. While he had no ill will toward the girl, Richie often found himself annoyed by her very presence.
As soon as she came around, Virgil focused on nothing else. Richie, the best friend since grade school, was often shoved back behind curtains when those two were together. It was exasperating and very annoying, to say the least. He rose from the table, swinging his backpack over one shoulder. Well, if Virgil was going to be making googly eyes at Daisy this lunch period, he’d just have to find something else to do. Which wasn’t hard, considering he’d had much practice before.
That afternoon, Hotstreak had met his quota of terrorizing his fellow schoolmates, and was taking time during gym to count out what he was able to round up during lunch. The gym was full of noise, the teacher allowing for free activities as long as kids were up and moving around. The man had long ago learned not to bother the red-head if the young male didn’t feel like moving around like the others. Hotstreak glanced up from his rolled bills and change, yawning loudly as he watched a basketball game being conducted by some boys on the court. He wasn’t interested in the outcome of said game–just needed something to do while he rested from the strenuous task of counting today’s capture.
His eyes alighted on the various groups that were clustered through the gym, noting the popular girls that talked amongst each other as they batted a volleyball around; the lazy I-Have-A-Doctor’s-Excuse kids that laid out over the bleachers, and the small group of kids that were aimlessly tossing a Nerf Football to each other in the corner.
Virgil Hawkins, the eternal thorn underfoot...the pest that bothered him with his overly cheerful voice and chirpy liners that drove Hotstreak up the wall with the need to pound his face in. The African-American stood a few inches shorter than him, around five foot nine, and was built like a nerd with his thin, barely muscled frame and overly baggy clothes. Clothes that were at least three sizes bigger than what he should be comfortable with, and with some color combinations that severely irked Hotstreak with their brightness. His dreads were short, and arranged in messy askance to complete his nerdish appearance. Hotstreak, whenever he looked at the boy, could barely stand the way Virgil’s mouth constantly flapped as he talked, and could barely tolerate the boy’s constant movement. Even the way he wore his baggy jeans irritated the red-head. Don’t even get him started with the way Virgil dragged his loosely laced shoes as he walked, scuffing both the carpet and the rubber thread.
His sidekick and equally as annoying best friend, Richie, drew his attention. The blond had shorter, golden colored locks that were messy at best, as if barely given thought to. He wore glasses to complete his uniform, a pair of thin wire glasses that hid dark, shy eyes. He and Virgil were nearly the same height, but V had an inch over him. He was built like Virgil, appearing neither jockish or delicate. His sense of fashion was just as screwy as Virgil’s, and lived in baggy jeans and hoodies. Hotstreak couldn’t remember ever seeing the guy without the overly large coverings, except for a few times in gym. This wasn’t one of these times. But the kid preferred a lot of green, and horribly matched orange and brown. Really, neither was exceptionally pretty or interesting to look at–both were nerdy with their own ways, and quite irritating with their cheer. Though, Richie was quieter than Virgil at times–but then again, who could outflap that guy’s mouth?
Hotstreak saw them together a majority of the time, as if they couldn’t function without the other. He often suspected something fishy between them, but he’d seen Virgil with that Watkins chick more than a few times, and then there had been that Frieda Goren business...
He scowled as he remembered Virgil’s mouthing off earlier, and carefully began scooping up his money.
The teacher had retreated to his office for something or another, so Hotstreak found no interference as he descended the bleachers and made his way toward the laughing boy.
Seeing that Virgil was conveniently near the back exit doors, Hotstreak cleared his throat and cracked his knuckles as he ignored the stares being directed toward him. Virgil was in the process of throwing the football, and had just let the ball fly when Hotstreak grabbed his collar and pulled him after him as he shoved through the exit doors. It was good for Virgil that the boy was wearing his orange sweater shirt, today. Any other shirt would have torn under the force the red-head had used.
Tossing the boy carelessly against the back wall of the gym, Hotstreak growled, “I told you, man, I wanted ta talk to you about your mouthiness.”
“Hey, c’mon!” Virgil exclaimed, getting over his shock of being handled in that way. He rubbed the back of his neck as he faced Hotstreak, nervously glancing around them. “Lay off! It wasn’t as if I hurt your feelings, or anything! Like you would take my God-send words seriously! I’m just a low-life geek compared to you, o-homie-G!”
“I don’t think you take me seriously, Hawkins,” Hotstreak mused, scowling at the boy. “It’s about time I taught you the better values of life–which includes taking me seriously.”
“Aw, I didn’t think you’d let a few words like mine pull ya down!” Virgil tittered nervously, holding his hands out in a pleading gesture. “C’mon, Francis! I don’t feel like gettin’ my ass kicked, today! How ‘bout we try this Friday, so I have the whole weekend to heal?’
“How about you just shut your trap? The worse you flap your mouth off, the madder I get,” Hotstreak snarled, balling his fists as he advanced on the boy.
“Can’t we all just...get along?” Virgil cried, waving his arms about. “I mean, c’mon! How long have we known each other? Why ruin our beautiful friendship this way? Think about it, man! Years of our lives spent laughing, talking, rubbing each other’s shoulders–!”
“Shut it, freak! You–!”
“Guys, guys, guys!” Richie shouted, bursting out through the door. Many curious faces were peering out through the frosted glass of the doors as they shut, Hotstreak and Virgil looking away from each other as Richie placed himself near Virgil. “He said he was sorry, Hotstreak. Aren’t you tired of beating him up all the time? Surely you’ve gotten bored of beating up on the same person day after day, right?”
Hotstreak considered this, glaring at both boys as the wheels churned in his head. Flicking his hair from his face, he gave a firm nod. “You’re right, man. Actually, I am tired of beatin’ this dweeb all the time. Makes the same sounds, the same face, the same everything...Thanks, man. Monotony was gettin’ to me. Makin’ me all crazy.”
Virgil and Richie both exhaled heavily in relief, glancing at each other with respite. Hotstreak then narrowed his eyes, and grabbed Richie by his hair, yanking him forward.
“So, I’ll just haveta settle for you!” he snarled, raising a fist. Virgil dove forward and latched himself onto Hotstreak’s arm, preventing the fist from falling.
The kids that were watching from the frosted glass of the doors pushed out to watch the fight with a sort of transfixed air, all on the verge of horror and fascination as Hotstreak kicked Virgil away from him. The sound of boot against body made all of the kids wince, then wince once more over the sound of fist against flesh.
By the time Hotstreak felt satisfied for avenging himself for the lunchtime incident, he let go of Richie’s shirt and cracked his knuckles once more.
“Pair of fags, anyway,” he snorted, spitting in their direction as he walked away from gym.
Virgil swiped a dread from his face, exhaling heavily as Richie slowly picked himself up from the ground. The dark skinned teen found his friend’s glasses, and picked them up, noting the cracked lense.
“Man, my father’s going to kill me for breaking these,” Richie sighed as he tried stanching his bloody nose with the sleeve of his hoodie.
“I’m sorry, man,” Virgil said, his face drawn with heavy remorse as he took in Richie’s bloodied nose and defeated expression. “I...I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, V. It’s my own fault I resemble a punching bag.”
Both of them snickered, Virgil reaching out to sling an arm around Richie’s shoulders, guiding him to the doors as the interested crowd hurriedly dispersed.

OooooooooooO

After school, Hotstreak left campus and headed directly west, his mind intent on a bottle of cold liquor and a pack of Marlboros. School had been nothing but a headache for him today, and he was looking for the easiest way to relax. It wasn’t hard to miss the six foot one menace as he strode down the sidewalk, dressed in his yellow and white hoodie. Most people hurried out of his way, and those that didn’t received a hard jostle for their troubles.
He had just left a mom and pops store with his favored malt, a cigarette dangling from his lower lip when he was approached by a few members of his gang. Greeting them companionably, uncaring what sort of impression he made on those around them, Hotstreak found himself relaxing with his crew as the rest of the day passed by with no real activity.
He was already on his third bottle and second pack of cigarettes when the hard bass of music and flurry of grunting curses caught their attention. His crew and himself recognized the approach of several flashy vehicles as they slowly made their way up the street to the park. All windows were darkly tinted, chrome shone brilliantly, and the screech and squeak of hydraulics ripped through the hard-core rap. The park that the Five Alarm Crew inhabited was full of the usual hotheads that Hotstreak surrounded himself with, with the occasional bystander timidly moving here and there.
Most of the people that weren’t involved with either Hotstreak’s Five Alarm Crew or Ebon’s gang hurriedly left the park, children being snatched into protective arms and basketballs being quieted as the courts cleared. Hotstreak rose from his prone position on a bench near the water fountain, sitting his bottle aside and a local honey being shushed with a wave of his hand.
From the cars emerged Ebon’s crew, all of them a mostly black collection of thugs and G’s that Ebon surrounded himself with whenever he wasn’t rolling with other bang babies. Ebon himself, a shadowy humanoid form that declared himself ‘boss’ of Dakota, appeared shortly after the settling of his crew. The distinct portal in which he used to teleport himself about stretched through the air near Hotstreak, and vanished with a slight screech of sound.
Utterly annoyed that Ebon’s gang had taken an offensive circle around the park, enclosing his crew within, Hotstreak hocked a loogie at Ebon’s foot as the shadow man walked over to him.
White eyes narrowed in contempt, Ebon’s shoulders settled with a slouch as he faced the red-head. Even though his facial features were hidden within the shadow that made-up his body, Hotstreak could tell that his action, and whatever reason Ebon decided to use to grace his presence with, had annoyed the man.
“So, what’s this, Francis?” Ebon asked, his gravelly voice marred with a sneer, shadowy hands gesturing around himself. “I hear you’ve been avoiding me, lately. Came to see what was up with you.”
“Nothin’,” Hotstreak muttered, narrowing his own eyes. He felt himself tense with the closeness Ebon used to confront him with, ready to strike out at any moment. All guards were up whenever he was around the man–Ebon was the type to strike without warning, and there was no way Hotstreak would leave himself open to such things. “Whatchu doin’ way out here, Ebon? You know this ain’t your turf. This is all my shit.”
“Nothin’ in Dakota’s your shit, Stone!” Ebon cursed with a shake of his head. His eyes were wide with disbelief as he stared at Hotstreak. “I own this mother! All this shit you see before you, an’ all that’s beyond, is all mine. This is my city, my fuckin’ territory. You ain’t got shit out here, cracker!”
“Don’t you be comin’ all the way out here, fucker, an’ tellin’ me what I own, an’ what I don’t! Far as everyone knows, this shit is mine! Get you an’ your stank ass group of wannabes the fuck outta here, before shit goes down.”
“You want shit to go down, cracker-jack? Me an’ my crew can handle your bullshit. You ain’t nothing, son,” Ebon snickered, looking down at the red-head, his voice full of contempt. “I was gonna come out here, an’ offer you somethin’. Somethin’ that might seal your sick, sad little future in this here city o’mine, but seein’ you’re so ungracious for my bargaining, leaves me no real choice. You either fuckin’ shut your trap an’ do what I say, or fuckin’ find another zipcode, boy. Preferably one across the continent. ”
“Nothin’ you say or fuckin’ do will make me consider some shit of yours, man,” Hotstreak said on a snort. “Whatchu been thinkin’, man? You all up on that crack an’ shit? Rot your brains, or somethin’? For you to think that I would listen to some shit like yours–man, you’re all fucked up.”
“Hey! I was just tryin’ to be all friendly, Francis,” Ebon stressed his name with a bark, his form stretching slightly to loom over the red-head, finger jabbing his chest. “Just tryin’ to be all neighborly, an’ shit. Then you go an’ fuck things up with your bullshit. Stop while you’re ahead. I ain’t come all the way across them tracks just to be slammed by some piece of trash.”
“Fuck off, negro.”
“Damn cracker-jack whackjob! Seein’ as you ain’t wantin’ a piece of my good grace, we out. We all out.” Ebon turned as Hotstreak snorted once more, hocking another loogie at the shadowman’s feet. At the splatter of matter over his shoe, Ebon turned and looked at Hotstreak with a slow perusal that would have made anybody else nervous.
But Hotstreak held his ground, stubbornly refusing to back down from the other male’s attitude. He’d taken enough of Ebon’s crap in the past, and wasn’t going to lose face in front of his crew–or Ebon’s.
“Watch your back, man,” Ebon then said as way of parting, signaling for his crew to leave. “Seein’ as I’ll be watchin’ you real close...”
“Missin’ prison, Ebon? Lookin’ at me to get your rocks off? Fuckin’ faggot.”
“Shee-et, white boy. You ain’t nothin’ but shit underneath my shoes. Be figurin’ on war, man. I don’t like it when people talk shit to me, an’ look down at me. Watch your back, son.”
“You watch yours, fuckin’ nigger.”
As Ebon’s group began moving away from their encirclement of Hotstreak’s, Francis wondered, belatedly, what it was Ebon had wanted in the first place. If the man hadn’t come over talking smack first off, he’d been willing to listen. But since shoulda, woulda, coulda, applied in this matter, he wasn’t going to bother himself with wondering What If?...
He turned to see Ebon’s crew pile back into their shiny new cars, and glanced around at his. Once the group had left, his began to relax. Snorting at the interruption of his evening, Hotstreak picked up his malt and began drinking again.

OooooooooooO


The next morning, Hotstreak was busy trying to ignore his classmates as their English Lit teacher had them working in the school library for an assignment. He’d propped himself at a table in the back of the library, his back against the wall, where he had a clear view of his fellow classmates as they searched the shelves and messed around while finishing their assignment. He had on his red baseball cap, his hood pulled over the ensemble, and had made little change from his clothing of yesterday. Propping his untied G-Unit shoes on the edge of the table, and leaning far back in his seat, Hotstreak glared at those that ventured close to him, and sneered at those that dared glance his way.
He thought about what had transpired yesterday, between himself and Ebon. While he was certain Ebon was true to his word in such things, he had to wonder if confronting him and issuing the warning was his original plan...or if he truly had something else on his mind. He had thought he wouldn’t bother himself so much with it, but it was bugging him.
He and Ebon had never been on good terms with each other–the only thing they ever agreed on was getting rid of Static. At the thought of the metahuman, Hotstreak growled, curling his fingers into fists. That guy, along with his partner, Gear, always managed to get in the way of things. Whether it was a gang fight down at the docks, or a simple B and E, the guy was always there to fuck things over for Hotstreak and or his crew. It didn’t matter what the plan was for–Static and Gear always messed it up.
Same for Ebon. That, and only that, kept the two talking, at times. Either conspiring to challenge the two superheros, or accidentally falling into each other’s plans, which, curiously, managed to mirror the other’s. He and Ebon shared some qualities together, but there was always the underlying understanding that the two couldn’t stand each other. They both wanted to rule. They both had rules they wanted the other to follow. Hotstreak wasn’t about to follow Ebon through the shadowman’s bidding and plans–he had his own to contemplate.
He sighed as he shifted back in his seat, rolling his eyes to the clock hanging behind the librarian’s desk. He’d come to school, mainly to pass time, and to have a safe place to think over Ebon’s threats.
He heard familiar snickers nearby, and lazily turned his head to see what the hell Hawkins was up to, now. If, by any chance, the African-American was talking about him, he was gonna...
But Virgil was paying Hotstreak no mind–no, he was busy making Daisy Watkins laugh with his impressions of the teacher, the both of them huddled in a book aisle nearby. Hotstreak wanted to barf at the antics that spelled ‘desperation’. Maybe he should go over and kick his ass just for being annoying...
Then his eyes narrowed as he searched the shelves for Virgil’s sidekick, and found Richie muttering to himself an aisle away, flipping through a reference book.
Hotstreak considered kicking his ass just for being so damn noisy, but found it too much trouble to move from his comfortable spot at the table. He resettled in his seat, snorting as he adjusted the bill of his cap over his eyes. Maybe he’d take a nap for a few minutes...just until the bell rang. Hey, no one was making him doing anything...may as well as pass the time intelligently.
But something made him re-open his eyes and look up once more. Something was missing from Foley’s appearance...he was wearing that horrid teal and orange monstrosity that hurt Hotstreak’s eyes a day after heavy drinking, but...what was it...?
Then he registered what it was that was missing–those glasses of his. Without them, Richie looked oddly naked, his eyes constantly squinting as he searched the books for whatever it was he was doing. Hotstreak chuckled as he remembered why they were missing–yeah, he remembered kicking the boys’ asses yesterday, behind the gym. Served them right for being so damn...beatable.
He cracked his knuckles in remembrance, slouching lower in his seat. Then, as he was getting ready to catch some shut eye, he looked back over at Richie, catching something else–he remembered hitting the guy in the face a couple of times, but he didn’t remember catching the nerd on THAT side of his face.
But it didn’t really matter, anyway. Like he cared what he left behind on his victims. Hotstreak lowered the bill of his cap once more, and settled for a quick nap, his more pressing matters being shoved aside in favor of sleep.