Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ If It Makes You Happy ❯ Chapter Two ( Chapter 2 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
A change of perspectives.
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.19.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 4.8K | Visits: 922 | Status: Completed
A change of perspectives.
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.19.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 4.8K | Visits: 922 | Status: Completed
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
If It Makes You Happy:
Chapter Two
Richie wanted to lay his head over his desk, and bang it repeatedly against the hard surface, in hopes of somehow ‘fixing’ his vision with that action. He was having trouble seeing the board, and no amount of squinting could help him see what was being written. All the front seats had been taken, and he didn’t want to bother anyone with switching until he was able to get a new pair of glasses. Glancing around, he saw that Virgil was busy drawing cartoons over his notes, and whispering to Felix over some plotline they had going on with their project. Richie frowned, and tapped his pen repeatedly against his notebook, figuring on looking somewhere else for help. Frieda and Daisy sat two rows up, and they looked like they were taking everything down–he’d try and catch them after class to see if they would be so kind enough to let him copy their notes.
Setting his pen aside, he rested an elbow against his desktop, and propped his chin upon his palm. Yawning, certain that he could make it through the class without falling asleep, Richie stared at the ticking clock near the open door and wished for it to move faster. The end of the school day was near, and he and Virgil had plans to hang out that afternoon...the thought of going home made his stomach clench. He was trying to stall as long as possible to keep from setting foot at that place.
In a way, he felt grateful that Hotstreak happily obliged with his usual bullying, yesterday–that way, whenever anyone asked about why he was marked up, he could simply give the metahuman’s name in reply, and people would back off. He touched the left side of his face, where his father’s knuckles had made connection after hearing about his broken glasses. It hurt, feeling swollen and tender, but he was used to walking around with such things. After all, he received his fair share from superheroing as Gear, too.
Completely used to the abuse that he received at home, he didn’t dwell too much on the downing thoughts that bothered him as he touched his face.
Virgil suddenly let out a guffaw of laughter that startled the history teacher, and caused many faces to turn in his direction. Realizing the attention he brought upon himself, the teen straightened in his seat.
“Oh, sorry, man! I was–I was just thinkin’ how funny it was that Napoleon was only four foot eleven. Little guy, man. Then he was all tryin’ to take over the world? Y’know? Then I was wondering about little men, and–”
“We aren’t even studying Bonaparte, yet, Hawkins,” the teacher snarled as he turned away from the board. Several kids from the class, the ones that didn’t really care about their grades, sneered and laughed at the man’s upset. “I suggest paying more attention to the lesson at hand, rather than giggling with Foley over ridiculous things!”
I didn’t even do anything! Richie thought with a surprised expression, looking at Virgil, who glanced at him.
“Hey, it was all me, man! I wasn’t even talking to him! Can’t a man share laughter with himself, by himself?”
“I’ll tell you what, Hawkins–you can do all that in detention after school...”
“Aw, man! No! I mean–!”
“What?”
“Er...okay. Sir.” Virgil slumped in his seat as several kids snickered, Richie lifting an eyebrow and giving him a pointed look.
After writing out a detention slip, the teacher straightened from his desk, and began again with the lesson. Virgil sat up, looking first at Felix, then at Richie with a mournful expression. “Say hey, Rich–sorry. Almost got you in trouble.”
“Your dad’s gonna be so pissed, V,” Richie said on a slight chuckle. “He’s gonna kick your ass when you get home.”
“Shit...more than likely, I won’t be able to hang with ya for a couple of days–he’s gonna make me do all sorts of shit just to make this up! I can’t believe Hardston gave me detention–DE-TEN-TION! Can’t a man think aloud to himself in amusement?”
Richie rolled his eyes, grinning. “Not if it’s you, V. Then people will be thinking you’re all whacked in the head.”
“Me? Whacked? Whatever gave people that idea?”
Richie sighed as Virgil grinned brightly, then reached over to hit Felix across the back. As the two engaged in quiet mortal combat with the teacher droning on at the front of the classroom, Richie shifted position to rest his head into the pillow of his arms.
After school, Richie shouldered his backpack and began the long walk toward home. It was a bitch to walk without someone to talk to. After history, he’d asked to copy Freida’s notes, the red head happily to oblige when she realized why he wasn’t able to obtain his own. He was grateful for her helpfulness, but felt more than sheepish when she mentioned that he owed her. Lately, he’d been getting the vibe that she was interested in him as more than a friend, and that was quite scary for him. Freida was a nice girl–a little determined in some areas, and certainly rough enough to handle herself, but she wasn’t his type.
In fact, none of the girls in the school, or in the world, were his type. His type happened to be five foot nine, loud-mouthed, cheerful and friendly, and dark-skinned. His type also included dreads and a superhero secret. But he kept that bit of information to himself.
Thinking of bypassing his home, in favor of holing himself up in the public library until Virgil was able to escape detention, Richie thought nothing of the faint noise from up ahead. He was nearly five blocks away from school, and had already touched ground in the more rougher part of Dakota. It was nefarious for rude gang members and annoying bullies with terribly mean tempers. He looked up from the sidewalk, squinting to try and see what laid out ahead of him. His eyesight was poor, but he was able to see that Crankers, a store owned by a nice, elderly couple, was having some sort of sale. There were a lot of people milling in front of the entrance, and in the street, and all of them were shouting aloud in some sort of charged excitement. There was music pumping from different sets of vehicles, and all of it was amped and bassing to an obscene amount of noise that made one cringe.
Really, what was the point of listening to such music when one was shouting at another? Wasn’t the point of listening to music just that? Listening?
Wondering if he should make a detour around the excited bunch, Richie started to take a side alley around the mess and continue on toward the library. But at the first crack of sound, he stiffened, recognizing that particular explosion as several more rang out. Screams and the sounds of people running about left him feeling helpless as he whirled around, squinting as he tried to determine what was going on. People were still yelling as they ran about, most ducking behind cars, or vehicles taking off in a flurry of sound. Running forward, in case he needed to use this information as Gear, Richie could see several members coming his way, dressed in jeans and overly baggy shirts as several other members chased after them. Of course, a majority of this chase scene were armed, and he gasped in dismay.
He was knocked aside as the first group took his alley, someone pausing to fire repeatedly at those chasing him. Gunfire was exchanged just above Richie’s head, making him cry out in alarm as he curled into a ball, trying to make himself as small of a target as possible.
A bullet whizzed just above his ear, the resulting heat singing his hair. Panicked at being caught in the crossfire, he hurried to his feet and blindly made his way out from the sidewalk, looking to escape across the street. Amidst the gunfire and shouts, he heard the faint rush of a vehicle revving its engine, and glanced over to his left–the Lincoln Navigator was barreling down the street, with no intention of stopping.
Richie forced himself backward, narrowly avoiding becoming roadkill as the Navigator sped past him, a couple of members hanging out from the open windows and firing randomly down the alley.
Scrambling to his feet once more, Richie started to run again when several other cars barreled down the same street. He was trapped! With no cover to hide behind, and with bullets being shot on his left and speeding vehicles on his right, Richie had just resigned himself to flattening himself on the street and pray to the higher beings that he somehow survive when a pair of arms wrapped around his middle, and yanked him from the pavement.
“Idiot kid!” he heard his rescuer shout furiously, one arm loosening around his middle. Richie couldn’t believe his luck–Hotstreak had come through the firestorm to rescue him?
There was a swift suction of air, and an explosion of heat and sound as the older male released a torrent of flame toward a speeding vehicle. The driver lost control of his car, the vehicle spinning wildly out of control. The vehicle behind it slammed into its backside, its driver distracted and never seeing the first car losing control. The resulting accident sent the first vehicle spinning in a complete one-eighty, the second vehicle swerving and slamming into a parked truck.
Hotstreak gave a slight grunt, and Richie found himself pulled abruptly from the street, the metahuman’s speed enabling their escape. The driver of the third vehicle, gunning with enough speed to take him and his crew out of the scene before cops could arrive, didn’t see the accident in time. He let out an alarmed shout as he turned sharply, the front end of his vehicle slamming into the first. At that same instant, the car behind him, one filled with Hotstreak’s crew, slammed into their back. Their given momentum was enough to overturn the vehicle, causing it to roll.
It seemed that gunfire ceased as the vehicle smashed into the pavement, the obscene sound of metal bending and glass shattering ringing throughout the street. Hotstreak’s crew in the last vehicle swiftly reversed, and left the scene with another street, this one filled with wreckage that consisted of Ebon’s gang.
Hotstreak let go of Richie, and turned his fists toward the group of gang members that were standing in the alley, watching the wreckage of their cars. Upon seeing the metahuman’s attention turned to them, they began running madly to escape the heat.
Using the energy he’d gathered from his speeding movements earlier, Hotstreak let loose with the heat he’d retained, and watched the torrent of flames spread along the backs of two of the gang members. As they cried aloud, falling to the pavement to smother the flames, he heard the cracking sounds of gunfire once more. He turned to see who was still firing, seeing that a few of Ebon’s crew members were crawling out from their wrecked rides, and were firing randomly in his direction.
He moved swiftly once more, gathering more energy with his movements as he settled himself atop a parked vehicle, and sent several fireballs into the wreckage. Screams filled the air as men and metal burned. He turned his attention away from them to see what else he could do. But the streets were clearing of both members, and sirens were screaming nearby. He cursed under his breath, and leapt from the vehicle to the sidewalk. He spotted Richie curled up near the alleyway, trying to make himself invisible, and was at his side in an instant.
“Get up!” he snarled, yanking on the teen’s arm. He began walking hastily, grabbing the teen’s forgotten backpack on his way through the alley. “You an’ I got some talkin’ to do!”
“I didn’t do anything!” Richie cried in alarm, having no choice as he was yanked fiercely behind the older male.
Making their way out of the alley, and running through the side fence encircling a couple of residences, Hotstreak ignored his protests. He kept his grip as he stayed alert, looking for any remaining Metas and cops. The scream of the fire engine barreling up the street, combined with ambulances and cops made his adrenaline race as he wondered who else had seen the incident. He hadn’t used much of his powers, and what he did, he was sure would be explained. The two members he’d caught in the alley hadn’t been there after he’d decimated the wrecked vehicles, so he assumed they ran away. The wreckage was obvious–they wrecked, and exploded into flames. Yeah.
His speedy movements left the scene four blocks behind them, and he paused to catch his breath, glancing around himself to make sure he was in the clear. Assured of this, he muscled his way toward a nearby laundromat, of which he knew the owner, and which he knew was almost always empty. The owner usually holed himself up in the back, refusing to come out unless it was a dire emergency, or he’d ran out of whiskey. He shoved Richie inside, and locked the door behind him.
Someone’s clothes were being dried, but there was no sign of anybody inside.
He looked down at Richie, who looked terrified as he glanced about and looked at him. Advancing on the teen, making sure his fists were covered with flame to punctuate his intimidation, Hotstreak snarled, “What’d you see?”
“H-huh? I–I mean, I saw–! I saw what you saw!”
“What’d you see?”
“I–! People shooting at each other! People getting shot!”
“WHAT’D YOU SEE?” For a nerd, the guy sure was stupid.
Once Richie realized what was being suggested, he heard himself swallow hard. “Ah...nothing. I...I didn’t see anything.”
“Where were you?”
“Uh....library. I was walking to the library.”
“You took Tenth, right? ‘Steada takin’ Eighth. RIGHT?”
“...R-Right. I didn’t see anything. I wasn’t caught in crossfire. I didn’t see people burn to death. I didn’t see–”
“You didn’t see SHIT!”
“I didn’t see shit,” Richie agreed, shaking as Hotstreak turned one of his fists at him, the flames threatening to catch his hair, his clothing. He brought his arms up to somehow protect himself as Hotstreak pulled his fist back, the flames dispersing.
“If I catch wind of you snitchin’ on what you just saw, I’ll make sure you regret never takin’ the bus home. An’ if I don’t catch ya, I know where your friends live. I know where your parents live. I know all your shit, you little fuck. Got that?”
“I...er, I got it. I–I won’t say anything,” Richie said shakily, lowering his arms slightly to see Hotstreak’s intimidating face inches from his.
“An’ if that Static and his faggot friend come after me, an’ mention a few things, I’ll still be comin’ after you. You understand me?”
“Y-yes! Yes! I won’t say anything, Hotstreak! Honest!”
“I’ll burn you alive. An’ if it ain’t you, I’ll be burnin’ your friend, Hawkins, alive. Or those girls. Everyone you know, I’ll burn. Is that understood?”
“Oh, crystal.”
“In the meantime, I got my eye on you, punk,” Hotstreak then growled, whacking Richie’s head with his palm. “Next time you wander into somethin’ goin’ down, I’ll make sure you eat it. Ain’t no angel of mercy next time.”
Richie rubbed at his head as he watched the red-head turn to the door, unlock it, and stride out. Richie felt as if his bones had suddenly pulled a disappearing act, and he slumped to the dirty floor with a gust of air. He’d experienced his fair share of adrenaline rushes as Gear, and he’d seen his share of gruesome and horrifying things, but today’s unexpected gang battle startled him.
He hated not being able to see! If he had his glasses, he would have seen what was going on before he even got near the block. He wouldn’t be in this mess he was in, now!
Rising shakily to his feet, he grabbed his backpack, somewhat grateful for Hotstreak’s foresight. No matter that it benefitted the red-head in the end–he’d only been watching out for himself, really. If Richie’s backpack was found at the scene of the battle, the police would have questioned him later on, and Richie would have had to confess what he’d witnessed.
Slinging it over his shoulder, he left the laundromat in a panicked hurry, never seeing the darkly tinted Cadillac nearby. The occupants inside watched the teen leave the building in a rush, all of them a little puzzled.
“Just a white boy,” the driver muttered, drumming his fingers along the wheel. “Ain’t no thang.”
“But the cracker took effort to get him out of there,” Ebon mused, shaking his head. “He ain’t the type to be all angel of mercy on stupid fuckers gettin’ caught in the middle. Find out who the fuck that kid is. Let me know what the fuck.”
“You shittin’ me, man?” the passenger asked with disbelief clear on his face.
“Why would I be wantin’ things if they weren’t of any importance? Stop your fuckin’ questioning of my motives, nigger. I be wantin’ somethin’, you stupid fucks should be jumpin’ right on it without fuckin’ questionin’ me,” Ebon cursed, giving the man a dirty look.
The passenger raised his hands in placating gesture, face showing his remorse for daring such things.
“‘Sides, Ebon, man–fucker probably knows the kid,” the driver added, glancing over his shoulder at the shadowman. “Kid probably knows him. Hotstreak probably layin’ down rules an’ shit.”
“Yeah...prolly...still. Get that kid’s information. We might be needin’ it, later on. Let’s get out of here. Static probably all up on this joint, an’ would be gettin’ on my ass for shit. I don’t want to be bothered,” Ebon muttered, settling down in his seat.
The Cadillac moved away from the curb, and headed on down the road.
OooooooooooO
Richie exhaled with some relief as he dropped his backpack on the floor, flopping face first onto his bed. He still couldn’t believe what had just happened to him! It wasn’t that surprising that Ebon and Hotstreak were having a hard time keeping their opinions to themselves, and having their gangs speak their ire on the streets. While he and Static had interfered a few of these battles, Richie knew that the pair of them couldn’t stop them all while those two were on the streets.
As he wondered why the two were exchanging hostilities once more, he sat up on his bed, and searched for his Shock Vox, needing to relay information to Virgil. But once he heard the slamming of the front door downstairs, he hastily shoved the piece of electronics underneath his mattress, and rose from the bed. His father being home always made him tense and wary, and he picked up his backpack and sat down at his desk.
A little of an hour later, his father opened the door to his room, startling him from his homework. Seeing how the man’s face resembled a dirty scowl made Richie more than wary as he straightened in his chair.
“Just seeing if you were home, for once,” he muttered, shutting the door behind him.
Richie exhaled lightly, listening to the sound of his father walk down the hall to the bedroom he shared with his wife. Tapping his pen against his book, Richie turned around in his seat to flip on the radio. Judging from the scowl on his father’s face, and from the fact that his mother was in the bedroom, doing whatever she did behind closed doors, there was going to be another one of the infamous Foley fight scenes that their neighborhood was familiar with.
He sighed heavily as he heard his father’s low voice, his mother’s answering murmur coming out distinctively as a half sob. Focusing on his trigonometry and not on the rising voices from down the hall, Richie continued doing his homework, listening to the hip-hop station that played censored versions of Fifty and Snoop.
When his door opened again, he jumped in startled surprise, looking back to see his father stride into the room. Richie reached over to turn off his music, but the man’s sharp ears caught the beat of T.I. and looked murderous. Realizing that this was going to be one of those evenings, Richie rubbed his tired eyes and wondered what Virgil was up to.
Outside, Hotstreak glanced both ways before crossing the street. He’d changed from his yellow and white hoodie into a black sweater, a dark blue ‘Nike’ cap hiding his familiar shock of red and yellow hair. The evening was dark enough to hide his general shape and form, but he took careful precautions to avoid the street lamps.
He knew he didn’t belong in this neighborhood–while it was obviously home to the poor-middle class section of town, things looked too nice and well kept. It was as if he were venturing into the more upscale section of Dakota–well, at least into their garage areas, or something of similar form.
He knew Richie Foley lived in this area–once, he’d followed both him and Virgil, backed with his crew because the pair of them pissed him off for one thing or another. And he hadn’t heard of Foley moving anywhere–spying the simple two-story straight head, he rubbed a finger across his nose, and then brushed stray hairs of his goatee back into place. The place wasn’t much to look at–a simple two story in fading colors, and a lonely oak that looked ready to shed its last leaf. The front porch was decorated with flowerpots that held the remains of various plant-things, and cobwebs decorated the underside of the roof and balcony overhang.
Glancing around to make sure no one was watching him, he walked up the sidewalk and around the house, peering through the windows on the first floor to see what he could find. Most of the windows were shut with thick curtains, but from what he could catch, somebody was home.
He was just about ready to scale the balcony to peer into that window when he heard a man’s rising voice coming from above him. Stepping back, tensing as he wondered if he were caught, Hotstreak peered up at the window. The shouts were loud, at this distance, and he furrowed his eyebrows with thought. What was the man so upset about?
Though the walls muffled much of which were being said, he got the general gist as the shouting continued. Ever patient once his mind was focused on something, Hotstreak turned his back against the house, and leaned against it in a casual pose, drawing out a cigarette from his hoodie pocket. The calming feeling he felt from smoking made him feel relaxed as he stared out at the quiet neighborhood, the man’s shouting just barely audible above him.
He heard the clamoring sounds of feet on stairs, and exhaled slowly as he ventured around the back of the house, hearing the commotion near the kitchen area. That held a small window over the sink, curtains pulled slightly, and he held his cigarette out to the side as he cautiously peered in. The man of the house was yanking the little woman over to the stove, and slamming things around with an urgency that suggested his hunger. The little woman was sobbing quietly as she turned on the flame and hastily began rummaging through the cupboards for something to make as the man continued to rage.
Wasn’t anything new, but Hotstreak was interested. Here, he thought Foley had one of those picture-perfect homes where everything was dandy and cheerful–like that Brady Bunch show. With the way the blond acted and carried on at school, Hotstreak never suspected screaming men and sobbing women. Where was the kid...? Maybe he’d have to steal away toward Hawkins’ home, and see if Foley was hiding out there. If he was, Hotstreak could understand why the guy hung out with his best friend all the time.
He started to pull away from the window when the man of the house began pointing urgently at the kitchen table, and Richie hurried over to set it, face drawn with misery. As he pulled out dinnerware and silverware, his father was right on his back, breathing down his neck. Hotstreak snorted, rolling his eyes as he pulled away from the window, leaning against the window as he finished his cigarette.
The man wanted his ‘fucking family’ together at the table, and for once, he was going to get his wish. That was the gist he was getting from the frantic shouts emerging from the man’s mouth. Hotstreak tossed the butt of his cig away, rubbing his nose once more. At the sound of a dish breaking, he winced in reaction. He knew what that sound meant, and what followed. Thank God he left home when he was sixteen...any more time spent with a father that talked with his fists was time wasted.
He fumbled for another cigarette as he heard the telltale crack of flesh against flesh, and the obvious sounds afterward. But it was a real big surprise to find out that Foley came from the same background. One wouldn’t have guessed just by seeing the kid at school–he was always all smiles and cheer with his friends.
In a way, Hotstreak felt a sort of kinship with the kid–anybody that knew this sort of life was someone he could get along with, fine. Richie really couldn’t look down at him anymore, not when he lived this sort of thing at home. Not that Hotstreak cared, or anything.
When he looked back, peering through the kitchen curtains to see why it was so quiet, he saw the back of the woman working hard at the stove, mixing something together with hasty, jerky movements. From the way her shoulders jerked, it was obvious she was holding back sobs. He had to scowl at her–his own mother hadn’t stuck around to put up with the shit his dad put on them–as soon as she was able, she’d split, leaving him behind to deal with his punk father alone. To him, this one was just as bad as his own mother–leaving her kid to deal with the man of the house by himself...She was just as bad as the father.
Father and son were no where in sight, but he could hear faint shouts coming from somewhere within the house.
Figuring that he wasn’t going to be able to talk to the kid tonight, Hotstreak straightened away from the wall and walked off. He’d just catch him tomorrow at school.
Warnings: SLASH, violence, swear words galore, and...uh..we’ll see what else later on.
OooooooooooO means scene break
If It Makes You Happy:
Chapter Two
Richie wanted to lay his head over his desk, and bang it repeatedly against the hard surface, in hopes of somehow ‘fixing’ his vision with that action. He was having trouble seeing the board, and no amount of squinting could help him see what was being written. All the front seats had been taken, and he didn’t want to bother anyone with switching until he was able to get a new pair of glasses. Glancing around, he saw that Virgil was busy drawing cartoons over his notes, and whispering to Felix over some plotline they had going on with their project. Richie frowned, and tapped his pen repeatedly against his notebook, figuring on looking somewhere else for help. Frieda and Daisy sat two rows up, and they looked like they were taking everything down–he’d try and catch them after class to see if they would be so kind enough to let him copy their notes.
Setting his pen aside, he rested an elbow against his desktop, and propped his chin upon his palm. Yawning, certain that he could make it through the class without falling asleep, Richie stared at the ticking clock near the open door and wished for it to move faster. The end of the school day was near, and he and Virgil had plans to hang out that afternoon...the thought of going home made his stomach clench. He was trying to stall as long as possible to keep from setting foot at that place.
In a way, he felt grateful that Hotstreak happily obliged with his usual bullying, yesterday–that way, whenever anyone asked about why he was marked up, he could simply give the metahuman’s name in reply, and people would back off. He touched the left side of his face, where his father’s knuckles had made connection after hearing about his broken glasses. It hurt, feeling swollen and tender, but he was used to walking around with such things. After all, he received his fair share from superheroing as Gear, too.
Completely used to the abuse that he received at home, he didn’t dwell too much on the downing thoughts that bothered him as he touched his face.
Virgil suddenly let out a guffaw of laughter that startled the history teacher, and caused many faces to turn in his direction. Realizing the attention he brought upon himself, the teen straightened in his seat.
“Oh, sorry, man! I was–I was just thinkin’ how funny it was that Napoleon was only four foot eleven. Little guy, man. Then he was all tryin’ to take over the world? Y’know? Then I was wondering about little men, and–”
“We aren’t even studying Bonaparte, yet, Hawkins,” the teacher snarled as he turned away from the board. Several kids from the class, the ones that didn’t really care about their grades, sneered and laughed at the man’s upset. “I suggest paying more attention to the lesson at hand, rather than giggling with Foley over ridiculous things!”
I didn’t even do anything! Richie thought with a surprised expression, looking at Virgil, who glanced at him.
“Hey, it was all me, man! I wasn’t even talking to him! Can’t a man share laughter with himself, by himself?”
“I’ll tell you what, Hawkins–you can do all that in detention after school...”
“Aw, man! No! I mean–!”
“What?”
“Er...okay. Sir.” Virgil slumped in his seat as several kids snickered, Richie lifting an eyebrow and giving him a pointed look.
After writing out a detention slip, the teacher straightened from his desk, and began again with the lesson. Virgil sat up, looking first at Felix, then at Richie with a mournful expression. “Say hey, Rich–sorry. Almost got you in trouble.”
“Your dad’s gonna be so pissed, V,” Richie said on a slight chuckle. “He’s gonna kick your ass when you get home.”
“Shit...more than likely, I won’t be able to hang with ya for a couple of days–he’s gonna make me do all sorts of shit just to make this up! I can’t believe Hardston gave me detention–DE-TEN-TION! Can’t a man think aloud to himself in amusement?”
Richie rolled his eyes, grinning. “Not if it’s you, V. Then people will be thinking you’re all whacked in the head.”
“Me? Whacked? Whatever gave people that idea?”
Richie sighed as Virgil grinned brightly, then reached over to hit Felix across the back. As the two engaged in quiet mortal combat with the teacher droning on at the front of the classroom, Richie shifted position to rest his head into the pillow of his arms.
After school, Richie shouldered his backpack and began the long walk toward home. It was a bitch to walk without someone to talk to. After history, he’d asked to copy Freida’s notes, the red head happily to oblige when she realized why he wasn’t able to obtain his own. He was grateful for her helpfulness, but felt more than sheepish when she mentioned that he owed her. Lately, he’d been getting the vibe that she was interested in him as more than a friend, and that was quite scary for him. Freida was a nice girl–a little determined in some areas, and certainly rough enough to handle herself, but she wasn’t his type.
In fact, none of the girls in the school, or in the world, were his type. His type happened to be five foot nine, loud-mouthed, cheerful and friendly, and dark-skinned. His type also included dreads and a superhero secret. But he kept that bit of information to himself.
Thinking of bypassing his home, in favor of holing himself up in the public library until Virgil was able to escape detention, Richie thought nothing of the faint noise from up ahead. He was nearly five blocks away from school, and had already touched ground in the more rougher part of Dakota. It was nefarious for rude gang members and annoying bullies with terribly mean tempers. He looked up from the sidewalk, squinting to try and see what laid out ahead of him. His eyesight was poor, but he was able to see that Crankers, a store owned by a nice, elderly couple, was having some sort of sale. There were a lot of people milling in front of the entrance, and in the street, and all of them were shouting aloud in some sort of charged excitement. There was music pumping from different sets of vehicles, and all of it was amped and bassing to an obscene amount of noise that made one cringe.
Really, what was the point of listening to such music when one was shouting at another? Wasn’t the point of listening to music just that? Listening?
Wondering if he should make a detour around the excited bunch, Richie started to take a side alley around the mess and continue on toward the library. But at the first crack of sound, he stiffened, recognizing that particular explosion as several more rang out. Screams and the sounds of people running about left him feeling helpless as he whirled around, squinting as he tried to determine what was going on. People were still yelling as they ran about, most ducking behind cars, or vehicles taking off in a flurry of sound. Running forward, in case he needed to use this information as Gear, Richie could see several members coming his way, dressed in jeans and overly baggy shirts as several other members chased after them. Of course, a majority of this chase scene were armed, and he gasped in dismay.
He was knocked aside as the first group took his alley, someone pausing to fire repeatedly at those chasing him. Gunfire was exchanged just above Richie’s head, making him cry out in alarm as he curled into a ball, trying to make himself as small of a target as possible.
A bullet whizzed just above his ear, the resulting heat singing his hair. Panicked at being caught in the crossfire, he hurried to his feet and blindly made his way out from the sidewalk, looking to escape across the street. Amidst the gunfire and shouts, he heard the faint rush of a vehicle revving its engine, and glanced over to his left–the Lincoln Navigator was barreling down the street, with no intention of stopping.
Richie forced himself backward, narrowly avoiding becoming roadkill as the Navigator sped past him, a couple of members hanging out from the open windows and firing randomly down the alley.
Scrambling to his feet once more, Richie started to run again when several other cars barreled down the same street. He was trapped! With no cover to hide behind, and with bullets being shot on his left and speeding vehicles on his right, Richie had just resigned himself to flattening himself on the street and pray to the higher beings that he somehow survive when a pair of arms wrapped around his middle, and yanked him from the pavement.
“Idiot kid!” he heard his rescuer shout furiously, one arm loosening around his middle. Richie couldn’t believe his luck–Hotstreak had come through the firestorm to rescue him?
There was a swift suction of air, and an explosion of heat and sound as the older male released a torrent of flame toward a speeding vehicle. The driver lost control of his car, the vehicle spinning wildly out of control. The vehicle behind it slammed into its backside, its driver distracted and never seeing the first car losing control. The resulting accident sent the first vehicle spinning in a complete one-eighty, the second vehicle swerving and slamming into a parked truck.
Hotstreak gave a slight grunt, and Richie found himself pulled abruptly from the street, the metahuman’s speed enabling their escape. The driver of the third vehicle, gunning with enough speed to take him and his crew out of the scene before cops could arrive, didn’t see the accident in time. He let out an alarmed shout as he turned sharply, the front end of his vehicle slamming into the first. At that same instant, the car behind him, one filled with Hotstreak’s crew, slammed into their back. Their given momentum was enough to overturn the vehicle, causing it to roll.
It seemed that gunfire ceased as the vehicle smashed into the pavement, the obscene sound of metal bending and glass shattering ringing throughout the street. Hotstreak’s crew in the last vehicle swiftly reversed, and left the scene with another street, this one filled with wreckage that consisted of Ebon’s gang.
Hotstreak let go of Richie, and turned his fists toward the group of gang members that were standing in the alley, watching the wreckage of their cars. Upon seeing the metahuman’s attention turned to them, they began running madly to escape the heat.
Using the energy he’d gathered from his speeding movements earlier, Hotstreak let loose with the heat he’d retained, and watched the torrent of flames spread along the backs of two of the gang members. As they cried aloud, falling to the pavement to smother the flames, he heard the cracking sounds of gunfire once more. He turned to see who was still firing, seeing that a few of Ebon’s crew members were crawling out from their wrecked rides, and were firing randomly in his direction.
He moved swiftly once more, gathering more energy with his movements as he settled himself atop a parked vehicle, and sent several fireballs into the wreckage. Screams filled the air as men and metal burned. He turned his attention away from them to see what else he could do. But the streets were clearing of both members, and sirens were screaming nearby. He cursed under his breath, and leapt from the vehicle to the sidewalk. He spotted Richie curled up near the alleyway, trying to make himself invisible, and was at his side in an instant.
“Get up!” he snarled, yanking on the teen’s arm. He began walking hastily, grabbing the teen’s forgotten backpack on his way through the alley. “You an’ I got some talkin’ to do!”
“I didn’t do anything!” Richie cried in alarm, having no choice as he was yanked fiercely behind the older male.
Making their way out of the alley, and running through the side fence encircling a couple of residences, Hotstreak ignored his protests. He kept his grip as he stayed alert, looking for any remaining Metas and cops. The scream of the fire engine barreling up the street, combined with ambulances and cops made his adrenaline race as he wondered who else had seen the incident. He hadn’t used much of his powers, and what he did, he was sure would be explained. The two members he’d caught in the alley hadn’t been there after he’d decimated the wrecked vehicles, so he assumed they ran away. The wreckage was obvious–they wrecked, and exploded into flames. Yeah.
His speedy movements left the scene four blocks behind them, and he paused to catch his breath, glancing around himself to make sure he was in the clear. Assured of this, he muscled his way toward a nearby laundromat, of which he knew the owner, and which he knew was almost always empty. The owner usually holed himself up in the back, refusing to come out unless it was a dire emergency, or he’d ran out of whiskey. He shoved Richie inside, and locked the door behind him.
Someone’s clothes were being dried, but there was no sign of anybody inside.
He looked down at Richie, who looked terrified as he glanced about and looked at him. Advancing on the teen, making sure his fists were covered with flame to punctuate his intimidation, Hotstreak snarled, “What’d you see?”
“H-huh? I–I mean, I saw–! I saw what you saw!”
“What’d you see?”
“I–! People shooting at each other! People getting shot!”
“WHAT’D YOU SEE?” For a nerd, the guy sure was stupid.
Once Richie realized what was being suggested, he heard himself swallow hard. “Ah...nothing. I...I didn’t see anything.”
“Where were you?”
“Uh....library. I was walking to the library.”
“You took Tenth, right? ‘Steada takin’ Eighth. RIGHT?”
“...R-Right. I didn’t see anything. I wasn’t caught in crossfire. I didn’t see people burn to death. I didn’t see–”
“You didn’t see SHIT!”
“I didn’t see shit,” Richie agreed, shaking as Hotstreak turned one of his fists at him, the flames threatening to catch his hair, his clothing. He brought his arms up to somehow protect himself as Hotstreak pulled his fist back, the flames dispersing.
“If I catch wind of you snitchin’ on what you just saw, I’ll make sure you regret never takin’ the bus home. An’ if I don’t catch ya, I know where your friends live. I know where your parents live. I know all your shit, you little fuck. Got that?”
“I...er, I got it. I–I won’t say anything,” Richie said shakily, lowering his arms slightly to see Hotstreak’s intimidating face inches from his.
“An’ if that Static and his faggot friend come after me, an’ mention a few things, I’ll still be comin’ after you. You understand me?”
“Y-yes! Yes! I won’t say anything, Hotstreak! Honest!”
“I’ll burn you alive. An’ if it ain’t you, I’ll be burnin’ your friend, Hawkins, alive. Or those girls. Everyone you know, I’ll burn. Is that understood?”
“Oh, crystal.”
“In the meantime, I got my eye on you, punk,” Hotstreak then growled, whacking Richie’s head with his palm. “Next time you wander into somethin’ goin’ down, I’ll make sure you eat it. Ain’t no angel of mercy next time.”
Richie rubbed at his head as he watched the red-head turn to the door, unlock it, and stride out. Richie felt as if his bones had suddenly pulled a disappearing act, and he slumped to the dirty floor with a gust of air. He’d experienced his fair share of adrenaline rushes as Gear, and he’d seen his share of gruesome and horrifying things, but today’s unexpected gang battle startled him.
He hated not being able to see! If he had his glasses, he would have seen what was going on before he even got near the block. He wouldn’t be in this mess he was in, now!
Rising shakily to his feet, he grabbed his backpack, somewhat grateful for Hotstreak’s foresight. No matter that it benefitted the red-head in the end–he’d only been watching out for himself, really. If Richie’s backpack was found at the scene of the battle, the police would have questioned him later on, and Richie would have had to confess what he’d witnessed.
Slinging it over his shoulder, he left the laundromat in a panicked hurry, never seeing the darkly tinted Cadillac nearby. The occupants inside watched the teen leave the building in a rush, all of them a little puzzled.
“Just a white boy,” the driver muttered, drumming his fingers along the wheel. “Ain’t no thang.”
“But the cracker took effort to get him out of there,” Ebon mused, shaking his head. “He ain’t the type to be all angel of mercy on stupid fuckers gettin’ caught in the middle. Find out who the fuck that kid is. Let me know what the fuck.”
“You shittin’ me, man?” the passenger asked with disbelief clear on his face.
“Why would I be wantin’ things if they weren’t of any importance? Stop your fuckin’ questioning of my motives, nigger. I be wantin’ somethin’, you stupid fucks should be jumpin’ right on it without fuckin’ questionin’ me,” Ebon cursed, giving the man a dirty look.
The passenger raised his hands in placating gesture, face showing his remorse for daring such things.
“‘Sides, Ebon, man–fucker probably knows the kid,” the driver added, glancing over his shoulder at the shadowman. “Kid probably knows him. Hotstreak probably layin’ down rules an’ shit.”
“Yeah...prolly...still. Get that kid’s information. We might be needin’ it, later on. Let’s get out of here. Static probably all up on this joint, an’ would be gettin’ on my ass for shit. I don’t want to be bothered,” Ebon muttered, settling down in his seat.
The Cadillac moved away from the curb, and headed on down the road.
OooooooooooO
Richie exhaled with some relief as he dropped his backpack on the floor, flopping face first onto his bed. He still couldn’t believe what had just happened to him! It wasn’t that surprising that Ebon and Hotstreak were having a hard time keeping their opinions to themselves, and having their gangs speak their ire on the streets. While he and Static had interfered a few of these battles, Richie knew that the pair of them couldn’t stop them all while those two were on the streets.
As he wondered why the two were exchanging hostilities once more, he sat up on his bed, and searched for his Shock Vox, needing to relay information to Virgil. But once he heard the slamming of the front door downstairs, he hastily shoved the piece of electronics underneath his mattress, and rose from the bed. His father being home always made him tense and wary, and he picked up his backpack and sat down at his desk.
A little of an hour later, his father opened the door to his room, startling him from his homework. Seeing how the man’s face resembled a dirty scowl made Richie more than wary as he straightened in his chair.
“Just seeing if you were home, for once,” he muttered, shutting the door behind him.
Richie exhaled lightly, listening to the sound of his father walk down the hall to the bedroom he shared with his wife. Tapping his pen against his book, Richie turned around in his seat to flip on the radio. Judging from the scowl on his father’s face, and from the fact that his mother was in the bedroom, doing whatever she did behind closed doors, there was going to be another one of the infamous Foley fight scenes that their neighborhood was familiar with.
He sighed heavily as he heard his father’s low voice, his mother’s answering murmur coming out distinctively as a half sob. Focusing on his trigonometry and not on the rising voices from down the hall, Richie continued doing his homework, listening to the hip-hop station that played censored versions of Fifty and Snoop.
When his door opened again, he jumped in startled surprise, looking back to see his father stride into the room. Richie reached over to turn off his music, but the man’s sharp ears caught the beat of T.I. and looked murderous. Realizing that this was going to be one of those evenings, Richie rubbed his tired eyes and wondered what Virgil was up to.
Outside, Hotstreak glanced both ways before crossing the street. He’d changed from his yellow and white hoodie into a black sweater, a dark blue ‘Nike’ cap hiding his familiar shock of red and yellow hair. The evening was dark enough to hide his general shape and form, but he took careful precautions to avoid the street lamps.
He knew he didn’t belong in this neighborhood–while it was obviously home to the poor-middle class section of town, things looked too nice and well kept. It was as if he were venturing into the more upscale section of Dakota–well, at least into their garage areas, or something of similar form.
He knew Richie Foley lived in this area–once, he’d followed both him and Virgil, backed with his crew because the pair of them pissed him off for one thing or another. And he hadn’t heard of Foley moving anywhere–spying the simple two-story straight head, he rubbed a finger across his nose, and then brushed stray hairs of his goatee back into place. The place wasn’t much to look at–a simple two story in fading colors, and a lonely oak that looked ready to shed its last leaf. The front porch was decorated with flowerpots that held the remains of various plant-things, and cobwebs decorated the underside of the roof and balcony overhang.
Glancing around to make sure no one was watching him, he walked up the sidewalk and around the house, peering through the windows on the first floor to see what he could find. Most of the windows were shut with thick curtains, but from what he could catch, somebody was home.
He was just about ready to scale the balcony to peer into that window when he heard a man’s rising voice coming from above him. Stepping back, tensing as he wondered if he were caught, Hotstreak peered up at the window. The shouts were loud, at this distance, and he furrowed his eyebrows with thought. What was the man so upset about?
Though the walls muffled much of which were being said, he got the general gist as the shouting continued. Ever patient once his mind was focused on something, Hotstreak turned his back against the house, and leaned against it in a casual pose, drawing out a cigarette from his hoodie pocket. The calming feeling he felt from smoking made him feel relaxed as he stared out at the quiet neighborhood, the man’s shouting just barely audible above him.
He heard the clamoring sounds of feet on stairs, and exhaled slowly as he ventured around the back of the house, hearing the commotion near the kitchen area. That held a small window over the sink, curtains pulled slightly, and he held his cigarette out to the side as he cautiously peered in. The man of the house was yanking the little woman over to the stove, and slamming things around with an urgency that suggested his hunger. The little woman was sobbing quietly as she turned on the flame and hastily began rummaging through the cupboards for something to make as the man continued to rage.
Wasn’t anything new, but Hotstreak was interested. Here, he thought Foley had one of those picture-perfect homes where everything was dandy and cheerful–like that Brady Bunch show. With the way the blond acted and carried on at school, Hotstreak never suspected screaming men and sobbing women. Where was the kid...? Maybe he’d have to steal away toward Hawkins’ home, and see if Foley was hiding out there. If he was, Hotstreak could understand why the guy hung out with his best friend all the time.
He started to pull away from the window when the man of the house began pointing urgently at the kitchen table, and Richie hurried over to set it, face drawn with misery. As he pulled out dinnerware and silverware, his father was right on his back, breathing down his neck. Hotstreak snorted, rolling his eyes as he pulled away from the window, leaning against the window as he finished his cigarette.
The man wanted his ‘fucking family’ together at the table, and for once, he was going to get his wish. That was the gist he was getting from the frantic shouts emerging from the man’s mouth. Hotstreak tossed the butt of his cig away, rubbing his nose once more. At the sound of a dish breaking, he winced in reaction. He knew what that sound meant, and what followed. Thank God he left home when he was sixteen...any more time spent with a father that talked with his fists was time wasted.
He fumbled for another cigarette as he heard the telltale crack of flesh against flesh, and the obvious sounds afterward. But it was a real big surprise to find out that Foley came from the same background. One wouldn’t have guessed just by seeing the kid at school–he was always all smiles and cheer with his friends.
In a way, Hotstreak felt a sort of kinship with the kid–anybody that knew this sort of life was someone he could get along with, fine. Richie really couldn’t look down at him anymore, not when he lived this sort of thing at home. Not that Hotstreak cared, or anything.
When he looked back, peering through the kitchen curtains to see why it was so quiet, he saw the back of the woman working hard at the stove, mixing something together with hasty, jerky movements. From the way her shoulders jerked, it was obvious she was holding back sobs. He had to scowl at her–his own mother hadn’t stuck around to put up with the shit his dad put on them–as soon as she was able, she’d split, leaving him behind to deal with his punk father alone. To him, this one was just as bad as his own mother–leaving her kid to deal with the man of the house by himself...She was just as bad as the father.
Father and son were no where in sight, but he could hear faint shouts coming from somewhere within the house.
Figuring that he wasn’t going to be able to talk to the kid tonight, Hotstreak straightened away from the wall and walked off. He’d just catch him tomorrow at school.