Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ If It Makes You Happy ❯ Chapter Six ( Chapter 6 )

[ 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 Six

That night, Richie sighed heavily as he leaned onto his palm, checking over his homework. His mother’s dinner had gone well, considering that he spent it thinking over the situation given to him as of late. While he had a faint idea of how he could use the situation to their advantage (re: Static and the police), he wasn’t very sure if he, Richie Foley, was in any real danger. While he theorized that the only reason why he became a suddenly precious ‘item’ between the two was this–Ebon had somehow seen Hotstreak rescuing him that other day, during the street battle. Ebon had wondered why Hotstreak had thrown himself into such a predicament, and wondered–why? And on that note, since he, Richie, had been the focus of Hotstreak’s sudden ‘bad judgement’, Ebon was sure he could use Richie against Hotstreak.
This made him laugh out loud. Hotstreak cared for no one but Hotstreak. And the thought that Ebon thought he could use him, Richie, against Hotstreak–? Ha! The thought launched him into hysterics. It was a good thing his father wasn’t home–he’d left more than an hour ago to sit at the pub a few blocks down. Otherwise, he would be questioning the uproar being conducted in Richie’s room.
He rose from his chair, walking over to his window. It was a quiet Wednesday night, and though his window gave him a distinct view of a very small backyard and the backs of other houses, he could see the skyline of Dakota if he squinted. He sighed as he pushed the curtain aside, leaning down to rest his elbows on the windowsill.
If that were the case, how was he going to explain it to Static without being mercilessly teased in return? He knew Virgil was getting a kick out of the entire thing–not that he couldn’t laugh about it, either. It was just...hilarious. Two big bad guys like Ebon and Hotstreak fighting over him. HA! Over him, Richie Foley! He would understand if he were Gear in Richie’s situation–at least Gear was explainable. But in this situation, he was just plain Richie Foley.
All of it was based on misunderstandings–it had to be! If Ebon was serious about getting rid of him as an eyewitness to the gang fight the other day, he wouldn’t have taken Richie for a car ride. He would have just shot him in the alley, like he did to other witnesses or innocents. Ebon was the type to follow through with protecting Ebon–he wouldn’t waste the chance to kill someone if it meant covering his ass.
The only plausible explanation to his being of interest to the shadow-man was his earlier theory–that Ebon thought Hotstreak had something for Richie. And he figured he had leverage against Francis Stone if he used Richard Foley against him.
That made him laugh out loud again, opening the vertical blinds and his balcony doors, letting the cool air sweep in. He was wondering if he should just pack up and meet Virgil somewhere as Gear when something cracked down below him. He started to look down onto the balcony floor to see what had made the sound when a pair of hands clasped down onto his balcony ledge, and a shadowy form climbed up and over.
He gave a startled yell, pausing when he realized who it was.
He was so startled that he stumbled back from the window, sucking in a gasp that made him choke. Hotstreak scowled at him, walking into his room as Richie forced himself even further from the male.
“What the hell–?” he squeaked, blinking repeatedly, wondering if what he were seeing was true. That Hotstreak, AKA Francis Stone, AKA F-Stop, AKA One of Gear’s Most Worst Enemies, was in his room.
“Your parents home?” Hotstreak asked casually, wiping dirt from his black baggy jeans and dark blue t-shirt. He was wearing a black and navy beanie to hide the obviousness of his hair, and looked, in all sense of description, just like another young male caught up in the thuggish side of life. He didn’t wear a watch, or any sort of jewelry, and even his shoes were tied.
But Richie was still stunned that he was being paid such an unexpected visit. And stunned shock turned into panic, in that his mother had heard the commotion earlier.
“M-my mother!’ he stammered, unable to move from his position on the floor. In a way, he was embarrassed that Hotstreak was in his room. This was a guy he fought against as Gear–and Hotstreak was examining his models from various sci-fi shows and comic books with an unreadable expression. Just taking in his room with a sort of air reserved for...well...friends. Not enemies. It was a surreal moment, and he had a hard time adjusting to it.
“Just you two?” Hotstreak asked, reaching out to tap a Millennium Falcon model that hung from the ceiling. Then he poked at the various Star Wars action figures that were set in various positions on top of a very crowded bookcase. As the toys clattered to the floor, he started to move onto look at something else, then picked up the Darth Vader action figure. “I remember this guy! He was all fucked up...you’re a fuckin’ nerd, man.”
“Have you just now realized that?” Richie asked, rather sullenly as he slowly picked himself up from the floor.
Hotstreak snorted, setting Darth carefully aside. He ignored Richie’s tone and switched his attention to a painted spread of Plantman done by some guy named Alex Ross. He turned and examined a pile of graphic novels that were stacked in a neat column next to the bookshelf. One of them looked pretty interesting–he made a note to check it out, later.
“What are you doing here?” Richie demanded, keeping his voice quiet as he shot a nervous glance at his closed door. “How did you know where I live?”
“I’m psychic. What the fuck is this?” Hotstreak then asked in a disgusted tone, reaching out for a small glass jar that sat, nearly buried, underneath another pile of comic books. The Rhino beetle swung from side to side within the formaldehyde that kept it preserved. He shook the jar, grimacing at its ugliness, and for the size of it.
“A, uh, beetle. Listen, man, I don’t know what your problem is with me, but I’d appreciate it if you don’t bring it here!” Richie hissed, snatching the jar out of Hotstreak’s hand. “My mother’s here! And if she hears you–!”
“She gonna tell yer daddy, yer daddy’s gonna be pissed, an’ he’s gonna slam the both of ya around,” Hotstreak muttered, finding himself distracted by a couple of black and white photos of crime scene photos that were lying next to a medical text. “You gonna be a doctor?”
“I–what–I–don’t know where you’re coming from, Francis, but that certainly isn’t true!” Richie huffed, snatching the photos from him and setting them aside. Hotstreak started to snarl, but found himself distracted by the sight of a couple of CD’s that were sitting atop of what looked to be a filing cabinet.
“Yer into this?” he asked, looking over at Richie, who looked ready to snatch those from his hands as well. “Who knew you were into rap. You look like th’ type to be bouncin’ to fuckin’...Strezzard, or whatever the fuck...”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about, but don’t you take those! Those are mine!”
Hotstreak snorted at the implication that he would steal the things right from his room–but he had considered pocketing one of them when the boy wasn’t looking–and set those aside as he opened a drawer of the filing cabinet.
“EXCUSE ME!” Richie then snarled, throwing himself over the cabinet, which housed a lot of college application forms and various other things that he deemed important. “You can’t just come in here and start snooping around, man! What the hell are you doing here?”
“What’s that smell?” Hotstreak asked curiously, following his nose to the desk that was fitted against the corner of the bedroom, covered with various books, papers, CD’s, comics, and a dinner plate.
“Damn it! I asked you a question!”
Hotstreak picked at the half-eaten slice of roast beef and mashed potatoes that had mixed bits of string beans and garlic. His stomach growled at that instant, but he found himself distracted by a book composed entirely of crime scene photos.
“What’s with ya an’ all these things?” he asked, picking the book up. “You all into dead people, an’ shit?”
“I asked you a question!” Richie growled, snatching the book from him. Hotstreak grew annoyed at his constant buzzing, and snatched the book back. Not wanting to let go and trying to get his point across, Richie tugged and pulled at the book, grunting as he tried to get it back.
“You’re doin’ that nose twitch thing,” Hotstreak noticed.
When Richie let go of the book, he gave a victorious grunt, and turned away from him to flip through the book. Richie scowled at his back, rubbing at his nose. Glancing around his room, he wondered if he could somehow alert Virgil to this unexpected visitor...have Static run him out of here, since he wasn’t doing a very good job of it.
But he was intensely curious to know why Hotstreak was here–how he knew he lived here. What was his purpose?
“Please...Francis,” he tried again, trying a different approach. “I...man, what are you doing here? How’d you know–?”
“I thought them beetles were illegal here in the US. Somethin’ about them being on the endangered species list,” Hotstreak said out loud, looking from the book. He shrugged a shoulder. “Somethin’ I caught on some channel somewhere.”
“I...uh...not really. You’re confusing that with another beetle that is closely related to the Rhino beetle. But, uhm...I...didn’t know you were into that type of thing,” Richie said, trying to remember where he’d hidden his Shock Vox. He glanced around the room, and then watched as Hotstreak made himself comfortable in his desk chair, flipping languidly through the book.
He stood helplessly in his own room, staring at someone that shouldn’t be there. And as he stood there, he began to realize that with all of Hotstreak’s flair for not caring about things, for his trademark locks to be hidden beneath a beanie and for him looking through a book–he almost seemed so normal. Harmless. Just another curious person trying to make conversation.
The more he stood there, realizing all this, the more he began to see that Hotstreak wasn’t being a threat to him. He was just...looking. Why he was in his room, looking, Richie just had to know. Unfortunately, he knew he wasn’t going to get the answer the way that he’d been trying, earlier. He had to use another approach, once more.
He cleared his throat. There was a chance that Hotstreak was setting him up–for some sort of reason, for some sort of thing.
But there was another chance that Hotstreak was just here just to be here. But his mind refused to accept that. It didn’t want to.
Aimlessly, he glanced around his room, and at the open window nearby. Glancing at the digital clock on his nightstand, he sighed, shoulders slumping. Since Hotstreak wasn’t moving any time soon–judging from the enthralled expression on his face as he slowly flipped through the book–Richie decided to play this by ear. At any sign that the guy was going to threaten him or his home, he was going to...do...something.
Slowly, as if not to agitate the scarily quiet male in his desk chair, Richie moved over to his desk space, and pulled out his homework.
Hotstreak was busy playing with his goatee and studying the pictures of death in the book, not paying him any attention at all. He didn’t look up as Richie retreated to his bed, piercing him with a confused stare the entire time. Flicking glances in his direction every little while, he completed his homework in silence, needing desperately to talk to Virgil about this strange occurrence.
“You ever seen a dead body in real life?”
Richie jerked at the sound of Hotstreak’s voice, his pen scratching over paper. It had been quiet for so long, and he’d been focused on his Lit assignment, that he had almost forgotten the other guy was still there. Blinking his thoughts away, he looked over at Hotstreak. He couldn’t tell him that he had–but only a few. A couple of homeless men, a suicide, an overdose–not very many, but enough to familiarize himself with death. And all as Gear.
He shrugged. “No.”
“You lookin’ to be a doctor, or somethin’?”
“Not...really. I just...I don’t know. Morbid curiosity, I guess.”
Hotstreak snorted, and shut the book. Quiet time was over, Richie thought as he looked completely away from his book.
“You have a lot of these,” the goateed one said, picking up a handful of comics, and giving them a distrustful glance. “I hate reading.”
“There’s pictures in there, if you think it may help,” Richie suggested.
Hotstreak gave him a scowl, tossing the stack aside, much to Richie’s pained regret. “You have a big room,” he said, taking in the blue colors of the carpet and walls. “Nothin’ in here’s green.”
“What are you–”
“So, you an’ Virgil...been friends forever?”
“Ah...since grade school.”
“You’re close.”
“It should be obvious, by now,” Richie murmured, fiddling with his pen. “You’re either beating him up, or me.”
“It’s cuz the both of you piss me off. Him more so than you, though,” Hotstreak amended, reaching over to pluck Darth Vadar from the bookcase. “He never fuckin’ shuts up.”
“Do you have a home? I mean, you must go somewhere...”
“Got my own place up Rock. Ain’t nothin’. No one bothers it, ‘cept when the police are lookin’ for me. Otherwise, I’m just out.”
“Around here?”
“I came by, the other night. To set you straight,” Hotstreak interrupted, looking over at him. Richie froze, wondering what that meant. “‘Cept your dad beat me to it. Does he do that a lot?”
“W-what are you talking about?”
“Don’t play blond with me. I saw it. Hell, my daddy did the same thing, anyway. Ain’t like it all rare, or shit. Just always pictured you all perfect an’ happy with a smilin’ family. You ain’t like the others that come out all fucked up.”
Richie continued to stare at him, his brain racing. So, did this mean Hotstreak knew about the abuse? Did he actually see his father hit him? And when? And what? And why–?
Hotstreak shrugged, and picked up Luke Skywalker. “Ain’t nothin’. Shit. Happens to a ton of people. Compared to most, though, you got it lucky. Got a roof over your head, food–shit, toys...”
“What do you want, Francis?” Richie asked quietly, frowning as he lowered the pen. “You obviously came here for something...let’s get it all out on the table.”
“...Don’t know what you be talkin’ about. Just sayin’. ‘Sides, I think I already made my point,” Hotstreak said, setting down both toys.
“I...don’t...why me, Hotstreak? You never bothered coming out of your way for anything, before.”
“Ebon, man. Plus, just makin’ sure you don’t snitch, or anythin’–I heard that APB is out on his nigger head. Someone else must’ve reported it, cuz I don’t think you’d even try against that one.”
“I couldn’t see, that day!” Richie repeated, almost spitting the words. “I can’t see without my glasses! I–!”
He was cut through mid-rant as Hotstreak lifted his eyeglasses from his face, and fitted them over his own. Blinking, Hotstreak began walking about with those glasses on his face, Richie staring after him bewilderedly.
“You’re fuckin’ blind!” Hotstreak crowed, laughing. “No wonder you can’t see shit when these things come off! They’re heavier than my shoe, man. Coke-bottle dweeb.”
“And you are acting like a girl! Only girls steal glasses from guys!” Richie growled, quickly leaving his bed to snatch his eyewear back. Hotstreak had to blink several times to get his vision adjusted once more.
“Which also reminds me–there was this guy I knew. Back in the day, before the Big Bang,” Hotstreak began, picking up the Yoda figure, and tossing that across the room. He picked up the Darth figure and twisted it about in his fingers, contemplating it. “He all shifty. Toughest punk there was, besides me. Could gut a man with a shiv an’ be out before the dude noticed. Muscles the size of Dakota’s mountains. Took on five policemen one night, an’ always had to be pigtied and tasered ta get into a car. Nigger was so tough, he took bullets with a smile. Everyone was all lookin’ at him like he was a fuckin’ God. ‘Cept, only thing was...the guy had a thing with this other guy. Some fuckin’ flunky from up tracks. Never got that.”
Richie stared at him, wondering, with silent horror, what the story was leading to. He couldn’t find strength to swallow as he wondered how Hotstreak knew.
Hotstreak turned and looked at him, lifting an eyebrow. “Hadn’t noticed it before, but I saw it today–you all up for Hawkins. When I be callin’ ya fags, you really are.”
This time, Richie worked his mouth, his brain failing to support the right words he needed to say. He felt he had to deny it, had to say something–! But he couldn’t. He could only stare at Hotstreak in silence, a terrified cold sweeping through him. If Hotstreak knew...was he so obvious? Did everyone know, even though he tried hard to hide it?
How...?
Hotstreak narrowed his eyes, an evil smirk crossing his features. He tossed Vadar back onto the book case, and found interest in the light blue sweater that hung over the edge of Richie’s bed.
He picked it up, contemplating the material within his hands as the silence spilled thickly throughout the room. He heard the soft ascension of footsteps on a staircase, and paused as Richie stilled in shock. Smirking, Hotstreak dropped the sweater, and ghosted quietly toward the closet. He was in and sliding the door shut as Richie’s door opened, Maggie peering in with a tired expression on her face.
“Time for bed, baby,” she murmured. “It’s almost eleven.”
Richie looked at her, brain freezing with what Hotstreak had said moments earlier. He swallowed and forced himself to nod. “Right. Good night, mom.”
“Take that dish downstairs after you’re done with it,” Maggie said, shutting the door. There was the soft sound of her steps as she walked down the hall toward the room she shared with his father. The door shut tightly behind her, and the house was silent.
He turned to face the closet, where Hotstreak had hidden himself.
“What do you want?” he finally croaked.
The closet door opened, where Hotstreak was crouched on the floor, with a bored expression. “Ya’ll got moth balls in here. You don’t use it?”
“What do you want?”
“Don’t know where the attitude came from.” Hotstreak rose from the floor, shutting the closet door with a quiet click. “You don’t look like your mother.”
Richie stared at him in silent inquiry, feeling his stomach frozen with foreboding and a sense of despair. If Hotstreak let Virgil know–but Virgil wouldn’t listen. The guy couldn’t see the clues, and why in the hell would he listen to someone like Hotstreak? Still, if the suggestion was planted...Virgil could start to question him, and everything else, and–and Richie knew he couldn’t lie very well when Virgil asked things from him. He couldn’t–if Virgil asked him right out, he knew he would confess in an instant.
Hotstreak noticed the state Richie was in, and snorted. He went right back to the desk and pulled up a picture of the famed Plantman. It was a crude drawing, sad at most–the nerd didn’t have talent in the art department.
“Francis–!”
“You would do anything to keep it quiet, eh? Money? Homework? Shit like that?”
Richie heard himself swallow hard. Hotstreak had his back turned to him as he rifled through the mess atop his desk. His fists were balled, and his stomach cramped unmercifully. The thought of Virgil turning away from him–ignoring him–not wanting to be his friend–all of it made the cramps almost unbearable.
“You...you’re fucked up,” he murmured quietly, in despair. “Why? Why do this to me? What have I ever done to you? I–this isn’t–he’s my best friend, damn it! I can’t–if I–you’re fucked up.”
Hotstreak turned away from the desk, lifting an eyebrow. “Planted you in a corner, didn’t I?”
Richie turned his head away, feeling utterly helpless. Gear couldn’t help him out here. Neither could Backpack, who was hidden underneath his bed. This was something he had to deal with on his own. Something that could destroy him–destroy his friendship with Virgil. Virgil was tolerant, but–if Richie’s secret came out–especially that he was in love with his best friend–!
“You know Hawkins don’t swing that way,” Hotstreak continued, plucking a Post-It from the computer monitor. “When guys look at other guys, most of them get iffy. Get sick. Get violent. Did I tell ya what happened to ole Burner? Shit, once the crew found out he all loved up on that boy, they all jumped his ass. Took him out. Kinda sad, actually. He was a good guy–just found company in the wrong place. Kinda makes ya wonder what would happen if someone like you were outed at high school. Prolly get your ass kicked. Make sure that you don’t look at them.”
Richie knew. He wasn’t blind or ignorant to such things–in a place like Dakota High, he was more likely to be ostracized than embraced. People simply didn’t warm up to the thought of the same sex loving the same sex....and since he was a minority...it just wouldn’t go well. He knew this.
Hotstreak then shrugged. “Say...what’s this called?”
Numbly, Richie looked over at him, as he held up a Time magazine. The cover displayed a picture of an American soldier carrying the body of an Iraqi child. He had to furrow his forehead at the abrupt and confusing switch in subject. “Time.”
Hotstreak glanced at the cover, then looked back at him. “Mind if I borrow it? Need a topic for History.”
More confusion. The guy did homework?
He nodded without really acknowledging the function.
Hotstreak rolled the magazine up and slid it into his back pocket. “On that note, let me look at this.”
Again, Richie nodded. He was still stunned and panicked by the simplicity Hotstreak used to acknowledge his sexuality. And the threat it posed to his very life.
Hotstreak looked at him once more, noted the paralyzed state he was in. Tucking the graphic novel he’d found interesting near the bed into his sweater pocket, he reveled in the power he held over the teen before him. Not only that, but the lost expression on Richie’s face was just...suddenly...captivating.
Without thinking, he closed the space between them, and pressed his lips against his. Richie was so stunned at the unexpected action that he didn’t move as the older male pulled away from him. Hotstreak’s eyes took in the teen’s paralysis and took advantage of it, stealing another kiss, this one more pressing and solid.
Then, before anything more could happen, he straightened and left the room through the window.
Richie could only stand there, utterly struck at what had just occurred.
What the hell had just happened?

OooooooooooO

Static yawned loudly, stretching his arms over his head. The night was slowly fading into early morning, and they had just finished breaking up an unrelated gang issue. He and Gear were taking a break atop of an apartment building near the projects, and were tossing things back and forth between each other.
“It isn’t as if I’ve noticed,” Static began, giving a half grin that always made Gear’s stomach flip, “but you’ve been preoccupied all evenin’. Bein’ in love does that to a guy...”
“I’m not in ‘love’,” Gear muttered, ducking his head. Yes, he’d been ‘preoccupied’–how could he NOT be? The very least likely person had come to his room last night, and...and had kissed him. How could he act normal? He had told Static of Hotstreak’s visit, but not the kiss. Oh, God, if he said something about that..
“I’m just...really...stuck on what the hell, you know?”
“It is pretty weird,” Static agreed, shifting to look at him closely. “He didn’t threaten you, or anything?”
“...No. I mean, he just...Static, he was just all up on my things like you were the first time you came into my room. Just poking and looking here and there...I can’t find my Darth Vadar anywhere,” he added with a sullen pout. “I think he lifted it.”
Static laughed, sitting down at the edge of the roof as Gear joined him, sighing as he looked out over the street. There were a couple of hookers working the corner down the block, but from the carry of their voices, they were joking about something unrelated to work. At their shrieks of laughter, he looked over at Static.
“Why do you think he came over? He didn’t threaten me,” he wasn’t going to touch Hotstreak’s story of ‘Burner’, “and it was just...I don’t know. It was really creepy, V. I mean, I didn’t know what to think! I was thinking he was setting me up, but he just...he just sat at my desk, and looked through my book.”
“Which one?”
“...Huh?”
“Which book?”
“Er...the...oh. The crime scene photos from Houston.”
“Dude,” Static whistled, eyebrows rising. “A sucka can get preoccupied with that one no matter the fucker!”
“It was so unreal, Static! I mean...c’mon! Hotstreak? In my room? Not threatening me and not beating me up? V! I don’t know what to think! It’s driving me crazy with not knowing the reason why he would do so,” don’t think about the kiss, “especially when he hates me!”
“I don’t know either, man. Maybe we can find him, question him.”
“No, that would be so obvious, Static,” Gear snorted, shaking his head from side to side. He lifted his visor, taking a breath of fresh, city night air. “Man, I’m just...I just don’t know what to do. I mean...he was in my room.”
“You’re so obsessing over it, like a girl,” Static laughed. Gear socked his shoulder. “Ow. Well, if he ain’t threatenin’ you, or somethin’, then...shit. See what he does at school, tomorrow. Figure it’s the only way.”
Backpack emitted a warning signal, and as Gear slapped his visor back into place, Static rising to glance around them, Gear realized that he felt awkward at the thought of seeing Hotstreak in school. He felt his face flush as data began streaming down the interface, alerting him of metahuman activity nearby.
“We’ve got some bang babies a couple of blocks down,” he reported with a sigh.
“Don’t even stress about it, man,” Static then said, pulling out his disc and alighting it. “Put it all aside. You all intact. He didn’t say anything, just–ignore it. Focus on things tonight, eh?”
“Yeah. Well...let’s go see why Carmen Dillo and Chompers are raiding a Dollar store,” Gear said, following after Static. Still...he couldn’t just brush aside the incident of the kiss. How could he? He could consider Hotstreak a mortal enemy–why would he kiss Richie Foley? What the hell did it all mean?

OooooooooooO

Most of the night passed in this manner–as soon as they were finished with Carmen and his friend, another call had them across town to stop Puff from tearing out Aqua Maria’s eyes for something that they didn’t understand. Females.
By the time they had all four in police custody–the two women being held on unrelated charges–they were contemplating sleeping on their feet. Until the Chief called them into his office, needing to talk to them.
“It’s getting out of control,” the police chief, Aaron Lewis, muttered. He’d taken over when Chief Barnsdale had abruptly left the force, on the account of health problems related to the stress of the chaos Bang Babies had inflicted on Dakota. He had finished running through the damages and activity that Hotstreak and Ebon had caused with their turf war, the pair of superheroes automatically knowing what was coming next.
He ran a hand over his bald head, shifting through the latest reports of gang activity. “I am admitting out loud that we don’t have the manpower, nor the patience to continue letting this go. People can get seriously hurt if they continue this.”
“So you need us to officially interfere,” Static said, grinning. “That’s no problem.”
“I don’t know why both Ebon and Hotstreak decided to start this shit now...but people are scared–it’s a damn miracle no one has been hurt with all them bullets flying around. I just want you two to do what you have to to get those guys out of the streets.”
“We’ll do what we can, sir,” Gear said, hands on his hips.
“Even if you have to take them down by force–hell, they’re only criminals. Isn’t like they feel anything, or they’re human,” Lewis muttered, picking up a folder and rifling through it.
The contempt he held for the two metahumans was very obvious as he spoke. Gear looked away, an image of Hotstreak lounging in his desk chair coming to mind. Of him borrowing a Time magazine for homework. Certainly not criminal behavior, but...
“Ebon’s been through the system since he was thirteen years old. Ivan Evans...meanest little shit the system worked with. Then when the Big Bang occurred...He’s escaped death penalties and all this shit–there are times when I wish one of you guys would just put the guy away permanently.”
“Getting a little frustrated, Chief?” Static asked good-naturally, seeing that the file he was flipping through was mentioned metahuman.
“More so, sometimes, kid. Job burns me out.”
“We know what you mean. Upon that note, it’s about time for us to jam. Hey, we’ll work on this Ebon and Hotstreak problem for ya, all right? Straight up.”
The Chief shot him a wiry grin, shaking his head. The two were leaving his office, hearing the older man mutter about teenagers. On the way out from the police station, Static socked Gear’s arm companionably.
“Well? Any plans?” he asked.
“Well...we can just...bust in on them like we had the other night, but we’d have to go through Ebon’s crew just to pick him up,” Gear theorized. “Or we could lure him out...”
“Using what? Richie Foley? Tied with a Christmas bow----OW! Ow! Lay off the hair!” Static screeched as Gear grabbed handfuls of his dreads and yanked.
“Knock off the jokes, asshole.”
“I was just kidding, man, chill,” Static complained, the pair of them ignoring the questioning looks the desk clerk was giving them.
“Or try and catch the next battle, and snatch one. You know, Static, we’ve taken them down so many times in the past, it’s not even funny. It’s practically arms tied behind your back. I’m sure we can do this without much brain damage.”
“Hey, there’s no damage for me. I ain’t the one thinkin’ up the plans.”
They walked out from the station, into the cool morning air. Both sighed heavily as glances were giving to the town square clock nearby. They both exchanged tired looks, and hung their heads as they realized they had an hour before school started that morning.