Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ If It Makes You Happy ❯ Chapter Four ( Chapter 4 )

[ 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


If It Makes You Happy:
Chapter Four

Richie stared up at the other male with a questioning expression, definitely confused by what was happening. Hotstreak had always been the bully that he tried in vain to ignore and or avoid. As Gear, he’d always thought of the guy as a viable source of annoyance. Well...Hotstreak was all of that and more so in the intimidating factors, especially when Richie couldn’t hide behind his Gear facade.
The older male stood at six foot one, was broad in the shoulders, with definite muscle definition in his arms. Most of the time, he walked with that familiar limp that most of the students carried, and his shoulders were slouched out of boredom and lack of conviction. His hair, taken care of monthly by some rundown salon, was a red-orange color that was cut short around the nape and spiky on top. The blond streaks at each of his temples showed just a faint promise of slightly darker roots, but that wasn’t anything guaranteed. Richie noticed that he hadn’t completely blended the gel that the male used to keep his hair in that style.
Hotstreak had grown a goatee during Virgil’s and Richie’s freshman year; a clean, meticulously cared for patch of hair that many envied simply because of the image he presented–facial hair was always revered and attempted by many, because it signified maturity.
His face was mostly blurred with a scowl, or an annoyed expression that bordered on lack of sleep or boredom–his hawkish nose bore a sort of sunburn red color, his lips were always slack with the assumption of being bored, his hooded eyes looking for something to occupy his time–the guy was constantly on the lookout for something to entertain him. And when he couldn’t find it, he looked sullen. The only time he truly looked occupied was if he were either throwing fireballs at people, or if he were threatening someone on some tiny offense.
There was a maturity in his features that none of the others had–he had been held back a couple of times during his school years, so Francis Stone always looked older than the rest of them.
So, as Richie stared up at the other male with a foreboding sense of expectation, he wondered if he’d ever grow into his own features the way Hotstreak had.
“You ain’t said anythin’ to anybody?” Hotstreak asked, on the verge of a low growl.
“No,” Richie replied, hunching his shoulders. “Truthfully, I wouldn’t know who to tell.”
“They got all them signs sayin’ ta go to the fuckin’ counselor, or somethin’.”
“The counselor here always smells like booze–I don’t think anybody takes him seriously,” Richie said on a chuckle, then nervously cleared his throat to shut up.
“Just wanted to make sure. Seein’ if you were takin’ me seriously.”
“Oh, I am. I am,” Richie assured him, looking pained at doing so. “I...happen to like the way my friends are, now.”
“Whatever.” Hotstreak turned and began to saunter off, leaving it at that.
Richie remembered the teens that had tried taking him to some ominous member in the Navigator. “Wait. Wait!”
Hotstreak turned in his saunter, looking annoyed as he re-focused on him. Clearing his throat once more, Richie nervously picked at his hangnail.
“Um...some guys were trying to ask me the same thing,” he started. “I didn’t think it would turn out into some big thing. I really don’t want to be involved. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time–plus it just...makes matters worse that I’m blind without my glasses. So, um...I think I would appreciate it if... people would just leave me alone. I don’t want to be caught up in your situation.”
Hotstreak’s eyes narrowed, and Richie saw the minute flash of flame in that expression. “What guys?”
“Uh...I guess...Ebon’s friends,” Richie stammered, taking careful note of his reaction.
“What they say?”
“I...I don’t know. I kinda lost my sweater to them, though. But...uh...just so you know. I don’t want to get involved. This isn’t any of my business. There wasn’t any innocent people that got hurt–just some gang members. But...I can keep a secret, if I have to. I don’t want to be involved.”
“They say somethin’ to you?”
“I...I don’t know. They were here.”
Hotstreak looked thoughtful for a few moments, then shrugged, turning to walk off.
In confusion, Richie watched him go, and wondered if it were really worth a tardy slip or detention for five minutes’ worth of conversation.
He turned and walked back into the school, feeling more than puzzled by the odd encounter. As he strode into the classroom, the teacher pausing briefly in his speech, he locked eyes with Virgil, feeling somewhat clueless and unsure of how to describe what had just occurred.
After school, Virgil was walking home with him, and Richie was describing what had occurred.
“Man, you never told me that you got caught up in that shit!” Virgil exclaimed.
“Shh!” Richie hissed, glancing around them. “I’m not supposed to be talking about it.”
“So, Hot Head’s trying to keep you quiet ‘bout what went down, an’ now Ebon’s been wanting a few words with you? Since when did you become popular?” Virgil joked, giving him a once over, as if he’d never seen him before.
“Not funny, V. But just so you know, my popularity began overnight. People just started noticing that I’m actually a cool guy. A hot one at that.”
Virgil guffawed and slapped his back. “Well, it’s about time your balls caught up to your ego.”
The pair laughed as they continued walking.
“Well, shit, I guess we can handle it as Static and Gear, man.”
“Yeah, it’s no real big deal. I think they just don’t want witnesses to snitch on them, you know?”
“Obviously. Was Ebon even there?”
“Man, I so totally don’t even know. V, haven’t you noticed I’m without my glasses? I can’t see for shit beyond my hand!”
“Your daddy get mad at ya for that?”
“Dude, he was pissed. It’s hard for him to come by with extra money, so...” Richie shrugged, scuffing his shoes along the sidewalk. “I dunno. But I should have those repaired by the end of the week. In the meantime, I find it easier to look at people while I’m talking to them–being unable to see pimples and boogers peeking out from people’s noses leave me feeling ignorant and innocent.”
“Huh? What?” Virgil asked, withdrawing his finger from his nose and staring at it curiously.
Richie punched his shoulder, laughing as the two crossed the street.
“So, you’re going to be there, Friday, right?” Virgil asked, looking at him. “C’mon, Rich! I need you there!”
“In the next theater!”
“Yeah, but...if she knows it’s just me an’ her, she’ll prolly come up with some excuse or somethin’ to back out. I can’t go that route with her, yet.”
“Did you tell the others of your master plan?”
“Still workin’ on Larry. He’s going to try and ask Frieda, but I think she’s still pissed at him for dealing.”
“He’s still doing that?”
“He–”
“HEY! White boy!”
Both jumped in surprise at the shout, looking over to their left. Richie squinted, but could only see a blur of shapes emerging from a parked vehicle nearby. Virgil gulped, and grabbed his arm.
“Let’s go!”
“V!” Richie protested as he was yanked into a run.
At the sound of a chase, he picked up the pace, sticking close to his friend as they shot down the sidewalk. First off, he had no idea why he was running–second, it was hard to run when his backpack was weighed down with extra homework for the classes he was slacking in. But if Virgil was running, there had to be a specific reason why.
They veered down a byway, panting and straining to keep ahead of those running after them. Virgil grabbed his arm, and yanked him off balance. He started to gasp when he felt heavy weight fall on top of him, his indignation muffled by the taste of leather and heavy body odor.
“Get off me!” he heard Virgil yell, the sounds of a scuffle just audible beyond the heavy panting.
Richie grunted as he used both arms and legs to push at his offender, who was breathing heavily as he rose from him, yanking him up to his feet by his backpack.
“What the fuck you runnin’ for?” one of them demanded, whacking the back of his head. “We got words with you, you little shit!”
“Richie! Richie!” Virgil yelled, his voice filled with panic and helplessness. Richie couldn’t see him, being roughly yanked along between the two men. He glanced over his shoulder, to see if he were all right when he heard the obvious sounds of a fist in gut. He started to panic, then, fearful for his friend.
There was the ominous sound of a gun being pulled out from the waistband of pants and pointed at him, so he paused in struggling.
“Get in the car. We ain’t playing wit’chu,” the guy threatened, pointing the piece at him, and waving it in the direction of the vehicle.
Richie slowly exhaled, and nodded to signify his cooperation. Pausing to swing his backpack from his back before getting into the vehicle, he glanced beyond the two men to see that Virgil was on the ground, arms wrapped around his stomach. There were two men walking away from him, and he hoped that was all they were going to do with him.
He climbed into the backseat of the Camry, finding himself staring fearfully at both the driver and passenger, and the other member sitting at the other door–Ebon.
Ebon shifted his eyes to study him curiously, then plucked something from the front of his shirt. Richie startled at the feel of sunglasses being shoved over his face, roughly settling atop of his nose.
“Oh, snaps!” Ebon exclaimed. “Shit, ya’ll know who this is?”
“Boss, where we headed?” the driver asked as one of the men slid in behind Richie, shutting the door behind him. The car pulled smoothly away from the curb, and Richie wondered, in horror, if he were going to be seeing his friends and family again.
“This is the bitch that follows Static around!” Ebon continued, snatching his sunglasses away from Richie’s face. “He’s all in disguise!”
“Some disguise,” the passenger muttered, staring intently at Richie. There was a creepy way that his eyes bore into Richie that made the teen severely uncomfortable. Even more so than he already was. Too frightened to move, keeping his limbs to himself as much as possible (which was almost an impossibility, considering that Ebon and the other man liked to sit in a very relaxed posture on either side of him, their sides pressed against his), Richie swallowed hard and tried to keep himself from shaking in terror.
“You’re riding with us, for awhile,” Ebon said, his arm fitting on the backrest of the seat, bumping into the back of Richie’s head. “We gotta exchange a few words, get some things out in the clear.”
“I honestly don’t know what the hell’s going on here,” Richie protested, but it was weak and he was feeling quite pained with the small space of the car and for the fact that he didn’t know where they were going. He was hoping Virgil was Static by now, and racing to his rescue.
“Bullshit,” Ebon sneered, and Richie tried not to notice that the man smelled of weed and expensive cologne. “You ain’t all blind. Where’s your eyes, anyway? Your boyfriend break ‘em up?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about–”
“You a faggot, man?” the passenger asked, still staring at him.
“I–”
“We got us some questions we be needin’ answered,” Ebon said over Richie’s answer, waving a hand at the passenger. “An’ you’re the only one that could answer ‘em.”
“What happens after that?” Richie asked cautiously, hugging his middle.
“We’ll see. But I have to consider that you communicate with Static. So it don’t look good for you in the end,” Ebon theorized, shaking his head in mournful regret.
Despite himself, Richie felt himself shaking once more. How could the man say such things in such an... uncaring tone? As if he pulled this bullshit daily?
“I don’t know anything!” he finally cried, exasperated. “I was at the wrong place at the wrong time!”
“Word is, the po-leece are lookin’ for me,” Ebon said, frowning at him. “I don’t like when the fuzz are on my ass for something I didn’t commit–”
“Yet,” Richie spat bitterly.
“–and I like to cover my ends. You being mouthy ain’t somethin’ helpful for your predicament,” Ebon said on a sneer. “We could have done this nice an’ friendly, like. But with you running your mouth, I might make it more painful for you. Lucky here just got out of jail for assault. Maybe he be all lucky after I’m done with you.”
“God...you’re sick,” Richie muttered, wishing he could somehow disappear from the entire situation. The passenger, Lucky, grinned brightly.
“Ain’t no shame,” Ebon chuckled, shifting to sit more comfortably in his seat. Of course, this meant his leg was firmly pressed against Richie’s. “Let’s head on over to the docks on Pembroke. Ain’t nothin’ there.”
“Got it,” the driver said, smoothly hitting a stop at a red light, and patiently turning on his blinker.
“So, what your age, man?” Ebon asked conversationally, and Richie frowned at the casual tone.
“...Seventeen.”
“You be heading to college?”
“...I don’t know.”
“Get an ed-u-ma-ca-tion?”
“Is that how they taught you grammar in prison?”
All three of Ebon’s crew burst into laughter as Ebon shifted in his seat, glaring at Richie.
“Damn, man! He’s all mouthy!” Lucky laughed. “What’chu say to that, Ebon?”
“You better shut the fuck up, you lil’ punk!” Ebon threatened, withdrawing his arm from the back of the seat. “You talk to me that way again, an’ I’ll make sure I feed you to all my crew.”
“Hey, I ain’t like that, dawg,” the driver said, starting forward. “I don’t play that route.”
“Ebon, you like them white folk. Tell him that dream you had of that Gear guy,” Lucky persisted.
“What?” Richie cried, feeling more than just his skin crawl at that.
Ebon gave a scowl at Lucky, who looked fronted as he realized his mouth ran without his brain.
“Okay, I want to go, now. It’s been fun, seriously, guys, but I can find my way home from here,” Richie said, eyeing the door handle across the guy next to him.
“You ain’t goin’ anywhere til we have some words!” Ebon growled, snatching his arm.
“I think we’ve exchanged more than enough. Let me go!”
“Hey, guys, chill out back there!” the driver ordered, glancing in his rearview mirror. “We got us a pig behind us.”
‘Pig’...cop...COP! Richie turned in his seat, frantically banging on the window and hoping against hope that the police officer could somehow see him through the dark tint. Arms wrapped around his waist and pulled him back down onto the seat amid curses and shouts. Struggling fiercely, kicking at the passenger and driver seats, Richie struggled to make some sort of indication to the car behind him that he needed help.
He heard the gun’s safety lock being pulled, and stilled. Lucky had a gun trained on him, looking eager to pull off a round if he had to.
Richie stilled, yanking his arm out of the other guy’s reach and moving away from Ebon. Amid much shuffling and pushing, he found himself back in his stiff limbed position, arms hugging his middle. The car came to a stop at a light, and he watched with misery as the cop car pulled alongside them, then made a right hand turn.
“They ain’t shit,” Ebon then scoffed. “Light it up, nigga.”
Lucky lowered his gun, giving Richie a warning glance as he pulled a pair of tweezers fitted with a clip from the glove compartment. He plucked at something from the middle console, and tightened the clip around the tweezers. Watching numbly, Richie observed as Lucky then lit the small nub of a joint, and inhaled deeply. The aroma of marijuana crept throughout the car, and Richie shifted so that he could prop his heel onto the edge of his seat, elbow propped on his knee, his palm covering his mouth and fingers closing over his nose.
Ebon slapped the back of his head. “Stop bein’ a puss. Or are you one’a those crackers that say ‘no’?”
Lucky burst out laughing as he passed the roach to the driver. Exhaling the smoke he’d inhaled earlier, he cracked, “Drugs are bad. Never do ‘em. Drugs rot your brain.”
“Clear example,” Richie muttered behind his palm.
“Hey–!” Lucky started to complain when Ebon cursed, and the car swerved with a screech of tires.
Richie was forcefully thrown over Ebon as the driver tried to maintain control of the vehicle. For one hopeful second, Richie was sure that it was Static that had finally come to his rescue, but saw the bright flash of flames as several fireballs slammed into the side of the car. Ebon cursed again as the force of the explosions sent the car entirely onto two wheels.
The momentum of the car kept it running forward until it slammed solidly with something unmoveable. Unfortunately, no one was wearing seatbelts, and Richie found himself wedged between the two front seats with a painful lurch. The car then fell onto its side, sending everyone onto that end, except for Richie, who was trapped with Lucky pressed against his shoulders, pinning him against the driver’s seat.
There came another explosion of sound and movement, the car being forcefully moved onto its top, everyone falling to the ceiling in a very awkward jumble of limbs and weight. Richie couldn’t breathe, pinned by nearly four hundred pounds of weight of two men.
There was a jumble of sound–screams, shouts, metal upon pavement, fire–he couldn’t hear himself crying out with pain and panic. And then–nothing. There was a fleeting moment of breathlessness and darkness that made his head spin, and he was suddenly out in the bright afternoon air with an arm wrapped around his neck, inside elbow cradling his Adam’s Apple.
“Yo, Hotstreak!” Ebon roared, tightening his grip on Richie. If only he could see! He kicked fruitlessly as Ebon shifted position, moving as if he were shifting from foot to foot. “I got your bitch!”
What–? Richie thought in alarm, recalling his and Static’s words from the other night. I’m no one’s bitch! I’m not made of gold!
“Fuck you, nigger!” Richie heard Hotstreak’s bellow from somewhere at his right. “I warned ya! I fuckin’ warned ya that I’d kill you if you were ever on my turf!”
“You ain’t shit!” Ebon howled, punctuating this with a punch of his free arm. “Come an’ get me, you whacked psycho!”
“I’m not made of GOLD!” Richie howled, making both members pause briefly in confusion.
Someone let loose with a gunshot, making Richie jerk as he tried to determine what direction it had come to. Panic assailed him as Ebon shifted, teleporting once more. There was that feeling of displacement and weightlessness, and suddenly brightness again as Ebon reappeared somewhere else.
There were now more gunshots being fired, screams and the sounds of vehicles moving. Ebon was half dragging him, half pulling him alongside him, his arm still curled around Richie’s throat.
“GOD!” he shouted furiously. “What the hell did I do to piss you off?”
“Who the hell are you talkin’ to?” Ebon demanded, pausing behind a Dumpster. “An’ if you don’t shut your mouth, I’mina stuff it with something very unpleasant.”
“EBON! You fuckin’ COWARD! Get your black ass back out here!”
“Let me just freshen up!” Ebon roared in answer to Hotstreak.
From what he could see, Richie realized that Ebon had pulled him into an alleyway just behind a brand motel and a local clothing shop. He recognized it because it was Sharon’s favorite place to find pants.
“They ain’t made for white girls,” she’d said, showing them off. Virgil had made a crack about buffalo and cows, making him snicker. “We black women have bigger booty.”
Why that was coming back to him, he had no idea.
“Just let me go! I’m not involved! I’m NOT INVOLVED!” Richie howled in misery as Ebon began dragging him once more.
“I said, SHUT UP!” Ebon snarled, tightening his grip around his neck. He paused at the mouth of the alleyway, glancing out into the chaos. From the snippet that Richie was able to see before being dragged back in, the Five Alarm Crew was busy swarming the overturned Camry, dragging out the three that had been trapped inside. There wasn’t any sign of Hotstreak, and Richie couldn’t tell if he were happy or annoyed at that prospect.
And where the fuck was Static? What was taking his stupid ass?
Unless those other two men somehow...incapacitated him...
Ebon was withdrawing a gun from depths unknown on his shadowy form, and Richie wanted to laugh. Ebon was a well known meta, and he was packing heat? That was like arming Superman with a piece. There was simply no need for it.
But then he took that back when he felt the nozzle pressed against his head. Not good.
He moaned, wondering why the hell him?
“Look at me, fucker,” Ebon snarled, directed away from him. “Lookit what I got. Thinkin’ I ain’t noticed shit? Thinkin’ I’m so fuckin’ dumb?”
“What the hell you sayin’, nigger?” Hotstreak’s voice was filled with fury, and Richie could hear the sounds of igniting flames.
He could picture the male pacing nearby, gathering the energy needed to ignite. That was another thing about Hotstreak–in order for his powers to work, he had to be constantly moving. Which was why the guy’s metabolism kept him trim. Richie had to stop himself from snickering, remembering that he had to play the panicked, unaware victim. Thank God for the seasoned calm he’d picked up as a superhero, otherwise he’d been blubbering right about now.
Where the hell was Static?
“That’s it!” he roared. “I’m not your friend anymore, dammit!”
“What?” Ebon asked in confusion.
Flames shot past them both, Ebon moving quickly, his form stretching to avoid being hit, Richie giving a strangled cry as his shirt was singed from the blast.
“I’ll fuck him up!” Ebon nearly shrieked, jamming the gun against his head once more.
“Fuck it!” Hotstreak bellowed, firing another column of flame in their direction.
Ebon’s arm loosened slightly around his neck, and Richie forced himself deadweight, the action proving useful as he bumped to the street. Ebon paused once realizing he lost his hostage, then turned to retrieve him. Hotstreak was suddenly in his face, slamming a flame covered fist into the shadow man’s face, knocking him off balance. Ebon’s form shifted back to normal shape as he wheeled back, raising his gun. Instead of firing, he used the distraction to extend his other arm, reaching around Hotstreak, wrapping the appendage around the male’s legs and tightening the grip.
Hotstreak immediately stumbled, his legs pinned together. Ebon pulled his arm back, his finger working the trigger as he fired at the awkward angle, without any true aim. Hotstreak slammed both fists together, a column of flame blasting from the combination and at Ebon. Ebon dropped the gun as he was forced to withdraw to avoid being fried.
Richie clamored to his feet, and hurried off, blindly looking for a place to safely hide. Once he felt Ebon’s arms wrapping around him once more, he let loose with a strangled scream of frustration, his feet leaving the ground. Ebon was teleporting again, the distinct portal opening in the street.
“I’ll get you later, man!” he was howling, Hotstreak turning and moving quickly to gather his energy once more.
“Wow! You sure are popular, today, Foley!” came a cheerful voice from above them all. At the sharp crack of electricity and Ebon’s stiffened reaction to being shocked, Richie felt relief flood through him as he was released. Of course, he felt slight traces of the shock that had felled Ebon, his hair rising in reaction and his skin tingling, but nothing was more satisfying as realizing that Static had finally showed up. “Homecoming comin’ up sooner than I thought!”
“Fuck you, Static!” Ebon managed to croak as he finished his teleportation sans Richie.
Static gave a mock whimper as he turned to face Hotstreak, seeing the meta quickly take off in the other direction. He started to give chase when he remembered Richie, pulling his disc up as he spotted his friend. Seeing that the area was basically clear, that the police were finally showing up to chase away the members of the Five Alarm Crew, he came to a close hover to where Richie was sitting.
“It’s about fucking time!” he snarled. “Please tell me you were bleeding internally and had to have surgery before you came out here!”
“Whoa,” Static uttered, hands up in surrender. “Chill, man, chill! I’m sorry it took so long! But I had to take care of those two guys, first. Really, I’m sorry. Hey, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Okay? ‘OKAY’? Do I look ‘okay’?” Richie howled as he rose to his feet, gesturing at his rumpled clothing and at the overturned car down the block. “I am being pushed and pulled in all these directions by people that I don’t even like for something I don’t even want a part of!”
“Richie–”
“Don’t you ‘Richie’ me, Static! I’m pissed!”
“Okay, okay...but I’m glad you’re all right. It’s just adrenaline that’s makin’ you all crazy, bro. Just chill out.”
Richie sighed heavily, hands on his hips as he nodded in agreement. It wasn’t Static’s–Virgil’s–fault that he was somehow involved in this chaotic mess. He was taking out his anger on the wrong person.
Glancing around to make sure no one was really paying attention, or could hear them, he then said, “I’m sorry, V. I’m just...under stress.”
“I’ll say. I’d be pissed, too, if two guys like that wanted me to be their bitch,” Static muttered, giving serious thought to the matter.
He ducked to avoid the rock that Richie flung at him.