Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ One ❯ Chapter One ( Chapter 1 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Hotstreak's given a chance; will he abide to it? And what's this about Richie being racist...?
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 09.21.2005 | Updated On: 09.25.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 4.5K | Visits: 875 | Status: Completed
Hotstreak's given a chance; will he abide to it? And what's this about Richie being racist...?
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 09.21.2005 | Updated On: 09.25.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 4.5K | Visits: 875 | Status: Completed
Standard Disclaimers all fanfiction writers love to know: I DO NOT OWN STATIC and ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS! They all belong to those fab-tab-lous of all creators, Dwayne McDuffie and co. I am just borrowing them for some fun. Pooh.
AU, Out Of Character charas, TWT, and unusually questionable situations.
Warnings: Slash, swear words galore, and my usual angst and drama that’s carried out with...drawn-out finesse...
OooooooooooO means scene break
A/N: Welp, the story of Richie Foley and Hotstreak continues! Hope ya’ll like this fic as you would with the last...cuz there’s another one coming. BWA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! (Chokes)
One
Chapter One:
“...An’ it really was just one of those things, y’know? They just come outta no where. ‘Course, didn’t help that whenever we be facin’ off, my eyes were roamin’ all over him. Takin’ in his little ass, the fact that he ain’t all girly an’ shit...just a boy that needs to be taught. Shee-et, you ever notice that shit he wears just shows off err-thing? Just look at ‘im...Which, I’m sure, ya do. Ain’t no one ever wonder if he run around bare in that suit, or if he wear somethin’ underneath...” Ebon’s voice was tinged with the rough grammar that was familiar with the streets, contemplative and sneering as he spoke aloud.
Down the hall, the single guard on duty lifted an eyebrow as he turned the page on his magazine. The open windows of their cells allowed him to hear their conversation, but there were times when he grew tired of the banter that drifted from those locked doors.
The two men had been trading insults and ‘conversation’ for the past two months, waiting for the prosecutor to exchange a few words with the courts about their situation. From what he’d deigned to hear, Ivan Evans, AKA Ebon, had something of a fetish for one of Dakota’s young heroes. Not that he was noticing anything, either, but that Gear did wear some tight clothing.
And Francis Stone, AKA Hotstreak, was simply ‘horrified’ to learn that Ebon had some nasty-ass dream about the kid; something involving tons of jam, the back seat of an Escalade, and a teenaged hero that performed a lap dance while stripping out of trademark gear. He was letting Ebon know what he thought as the guard examined a pinup to a custom made Glock, pages fluttering loudly as he released the two page spread.
“..Fuckin’ fag, Ebon. You all fagged out.” Hotstreak’s voice was tinged with weary disbelief as he muttered in response from his cell.
“Tell me you ain’t noticed!”
There was the sound of chains clinking together as the shadow metahuman moved about in his cell–he’d been outfitted with a special design that kept his form humanoid and intact–no stretching of limbs or teleporting was allowed in this outfit. His voice was full of surprised disbelief as he spoke.
“I’m not checkin’ no kid out! Matter that it’s even a guy! Fuck that shit, Ebon! Fuckin’ Goddamned nigger...”
“Ain’t no thang...you be changin’ that tone in prison. Fact is, Francis, you be the one they all eyein’. Then you be thinkin’ about my dream, an’ really be lookin’ that boy close!”
“Fuck you!”
“Boys, boys,” the guard said on a sigh, rolling his eyes.
Frankly, while the story was semi-interesting, the guard was queasy at learning what a twenty-something criminal fantasized about super intelligent jailbait. People were getting sicker and sicker these days, he decided as he returned his attention to the latest Glock Monthly.
The holding cells were constructed especially for meta-humans; these two especially so. The law had more than their fair share of handling this distinct pair, and had special cells designed particularly for their containment. The city might as well as charged them for the state of the art design–one was specially formulated for a pyro with an explosive temper, and the other was formulated for a man that was living shadow.
Of course, the subject in discussion had helped out with this cause as well. How unfitting that he was being tossed around like a verbal skin-mag.
The guard was relieved a couple of hours later when one of them was finally released.
“Be seein’ you soon, Francis!” Ebon called from his cell, with something that sounded like a chuckle.
Hotstreak ignored that last comment, and tried to forget everything that had been exchanged during their stay here at the city jail. Not that it was anything very interesting or worthwhile, but it would help him to forget about things that made him uncomfortable.
The prosecutor looked a little hassled as he led the way to a conference room just downn the hall. Two security guards were walking alongside Hotstreak as he hobbled carefully with the chains on his feet. His hands were handcuffed behind him, and one of the guards was lugging around a drum of water with a heavy duty hose that came in handy if Francis Stone happened to lose his temper.
He was forced to sit in an uncomfortable folding chair opposite the prosecutor, who was looking over a few documents. He noted that his record, inches thick and practically spewing its contents, had to be taped over with various amounts of tape just to keep it together.
The prosecutor had worked many cases in his thirty-odd years in the justice department, and nothing haggled him more than defending the guilty. In this case, staring across the table at the hot-headed young man, he was sure Francis Stone was more guilty than he was being charged with. The gang member, infamous for his bouts of explosive temper and nefarious doings on the street, was one of his least liked clients.
He simply despised the meta, and resented working the cases he had with him. Staring across the table at the insolent expression, the way Hotstreak slouched in his seat and propped a foot at the table’s edge drove his backbone ramrod straight and urged a wave of superiority through him. Because this was all the man across the table was going to be for the rest of his life–however long it would be–a gang member that would never amount to nothing. That gave him some form of shortened satisfaction.
“Well, Mr. Stone,” the prosecutor began, blinking as he folded his hands together atop the table. “You happen to have escaped with nothing more than probation...which means, you’re under restricted–”
“I know what it means!”
“–under restricted bail. The city recognized that while you’re a known gang member and have a history of public harassment and disturbances, you have no real formal charges against you. You haven’t killed anybody yet–no one has bothered to charge you on any wrongdoings–and you happened to finish off your community service from the last time we met. But that’s already three charges, Mr. Stone. This is your last before you get slapped with extended jail time at Dakota Penitentiary...I’m sure you aren’t fond of that aspect, are you?”
Hotstreak found the deep furrow in the public defender’s eyebrows very interesting. It was a target, he was sure. For either a chair or a fist. Whichever, that small furrow had him riveted as he wondered what would hurt the guy most. Then he registered what was being said.
“So...I’m out, but on probation?” he asked, his tone insolent and more than thick with boredom. But he noticed the bristle the prosecutor gave.
“Yes.”
“Fuck...that ain’t shit. For how long?”
“Two years, Mr. Stone. For one full year, you’ll be wearing this lovely little contraption,” a velcro and plastic anklet was produced and set down on the table, “and you’ll be slapped with a few rules that you’ll have to abide to if you want to be released.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one thing–this pretty little bracelet keeps you under surveillance at all times...keeps you restricted from certain areas...and will record just how often you use those powers of yours. Of course, you realize that the state can’t continue to fund your little studio, so you’ll have to have a job. And we’re assigning you one. Part-time, of course. Because it has also come to sight that you’ve not yet passed high school. Education is important, Mr. Stone. And receiving a diploma should be top priority in every young person’s life...ATOP of all these requirements, you’ll also be partaking in anger management classes...”
“So what’s this shit mean?”
“You got some pretty jewelry to wear; you’re working part-time, you’re taking How-To-Be-Happy classes, and you’ve got to go to school. Congratulations, Mr. Stone. You got off pretty light. I’ll accept your thank-you card, written in proper English with perfect grammar by Friday.”
With that, the prosecutor packed up his files and left the room. Hotstreak flipped him off, but it was rather awkward with one’s hands cuffed behind him.
OooooooooooO
“Hey, Richie!”
Richard Foley turned away from Felix as Virgil Hawkins raced over, an expression of concern on his face. It was lunch time at Dakota Union High, and the outside tables were currently full as students tried to enjoy the good weather and warm temperature. Midwestern weather was screwing with Dakota residents–one day, it would be windy and tempestuous; another would be calm and beautiful. With Fall’s descent, the leaves had turned golden and the grass was fading to a faint brown.
It was really quite beautiful if one took the time to look around oneself...winter was coming along soon, and these were one of the last they had to enjoy before the snow began.
The table Richie was sitting at was full of the usual geeks; Felix, Wade, Chuck, and another student named Ducky. Everyone was having general fun over a sticky paper full of stickers, and Chuck had instigated a sticker war between them all. Neon colored stickies were being slapped, rather painfully, on various areas of reachable limbs. Food was flying; shouts and laughter rang out into the open air...other teens were giving them disdainful looks and grumbles as things began climbing out of control.
Virgil gave an exasperated look at Richie, who removed his glasses from his face to clean them. The others were currently decorating each other with various food stuffs and neon colored happy faces, and having a grand fine time with it. Amid all the slaps, yells and cackles of wild laughter, Virgil looked pointedly at Richie.
“Did ya hear?” he asked.
“What? Where have you been, or do I wanna know?” Richie asked, bumping fists with him in greeting. Virgil threw off his backpack, catching an unaware Chuck in the face as he sat down next to his friend.
“Man, word is, one of our local psychos are back on the streets,” Virgil said, stealing Felix’s untouched oatmeal cookie. He stuffed most of it into his mouth before continuing, spraying Richie with crumbs as he spoke. “Hotstreak’s out on probation.”
“Oh, not uh!” Chuck exclaimed, throwing Virgil’s backpack away from him. He and Richie were the only white boys within the group. His wild, floppy brown hair bore bits of mashed potatoes and string beans throughout the strands. “I thought he was heading toward prison for sure! He’s got all these charges racked up against him!”
“But he’s out,” Virgil insisted, stealing the white boy’s unopened Coke. “Them guys from third period know this cuz one of them’s brother hangs out with the Five Alarm Crew, and he heard it from this one chick who work down at The Big Burrito, and she knows this cuz she saw him hangin’ around his home down there in oakie-ville.”
“Oh, right...that was right after Mary Anne in third realized she saw Grand Master Slam down at the mall, but according to her best friend Martha from seventh period, who knows this personally from Trista that works over in Oakland, who personally witnessed his arrival in Dakota from the Hills while she was spying on that guy from the football team with her telescope–”
Chuck was shut up as Virgil whacked him across the head. “No! I’m serious! He’s out on probation. An’ check this–he has to come back to school. And he’s got a job!”
“Ooh,” the others said in unison, looking quite impressed.
“Guys...seriously!” Virgil exclaimed, slapping the table with annoyance. “I’ve got word, man! And it’s serious! He’s coming back here!”
“Well...that’s that, then.” Chuck shook his head. “Ah well. Hey, who’s up for a quick game of knuckles?”
Virgil sighed as they resumed their earlier frenzy, but Richie turned to look at him. His expression was surprisingly calm.
“So...it’s true? He’s out? He wasn’t in there for very long,” he said as he and Virgil picked up their backpacks and began walking away from the table. “It’s only been a couple of months...”
“Well, that’s just what I’m hearing. And it’s probably more than true, Rich,” Virgil said with a shrug. “Really, if you think about it–what did he do wrong?”
He’d burned those guys in that car, Richie thought to himself with a violent shudder, recalling their agonized screams.
The two men had been rushed to the hospital, their burns explained as the results of the multiple car accident that day. One of them had died from his injuries–the other had been transferred out of a state to the closest burn treatment center. Due to the confusion of that day, combined with the evidence of vehicular fire, Hotstreak had never been blamed for the incident. Which seemed odd, as Richie thought that Hotstreak would be the first to blame in that situation.
“Just another loser runnin’ around in a gang, an’ he got himself in trouble. But he didn’t do much trouble, considering the courts’ outlook on him. Who knows how the justice system works, anyhow? They got them insane guys running through a twelve month program and have them out the day they graduate! That’s how Arkham works...”
“Hotstreak isn’t in the same league as Joker or Scarecrow, V. Arkham is an asylum, not a jail. That’s a bad comparison.”
“There ya go, defendin’ him...”
“I am NOT! I’m just saying–!”
“Chill out, Rich! I was kidding.” Virgil peered at his friend curiously, noticing his riled state. Richie ignored the obvious stare, shifting his backpack to a more comfortable position as he walked alongside Virgil. “Besides, I never did get the entire story about you two. What sort of tutoring did you two do?”
“...Er...Algebra. History. The usual.” Richie shrugged, fiddling with the straps of his pack as he glanced at Virgil, then looked away.
Virgil’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. “Where did this fantasized tutoring take place?”
“The reality that is the library on Fourth. Why?”
“Man...” Virgil shook his head again as the bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch period. As they walked into the school, Virgil sighed. “There are times when I think I don’t know you, Rich.”
Richie chuckled, attempting a satisfied expression, but Virgil was right in that aspect. And he hoped to keep it that way.
OooooooooooO
Richie was aware he was staring off into space, tapping his pen against his cheek as his eyes focused on the ceiling. The class was minutely interesting–his thoughts had drifted for awhile after Virgil had given him that slip of news. He found himself distracted by the information he’d received, his mind producing many thoughts, but many having no answers. He was a little nervous about Hotstreak’s return to school; he was also embarrassed, scared, and uncertain, with many accompanying friends associated with his present situation.
While he’d acknowledged his ‘situation’ with Hotstreak a couple of months back, he was still unable to fully grasp what had happened. Of course, he knew what ‘happened’–oh, he wouldn’t forget all of that. He felt his face reddening as he ducked his head, a silly smile coming to his face. It had been....for the lack of a better word, surreal.
He’d literally slept with the enemy. In all literal terms. His face was turning a deeper red as he dropped his head into his arms. There was no way in hell he could forget what had happened that night...he found himself thinking back on it, trying to accept what had happened, what had changed. There was another side of Francis Stone that many didn’t see, or acknowledge. Sure, he was a hardened person that did things that weren’t on the bright side of things, but he was also one of them–striving hard to make a difference, to be somebody...no matter that it was something entirely different from what was acceptable.
He was fighting his own battles to be recognized; just as one fought to be accepted, he was fighting to be accepted. He was a person; an asshole, but a person. He could treat someone tenderly, yet retain his asshole status with a cautious vulnerability that had Richie reeling from its existence. That night, Hotstreak had been more human to him than anyone before, and he found himself constantly reflecting on things, just to make sure that it had been real.
And to cement things even further, the physical intimacy that had exploded between them had just been... fantastic. Never in his life, even for a second, would Richie have considered the older male in that sort of perspective. He’d never looked at the guy in that way. He was pretty sure Hotstreak had thought the same thing about him. There wasn’t a way he could forget about that certain aspect–how he knew personally of the freckles on the redhead’s shoulders; how he had several scars from knife fights on his ribs and forearms; how that spot on the inside of his elbow was sensitive to touch...Hotstreak was human like the rest of them–he just happened to be bad tempered and lacked certain judgement.
Richie couldn’t forget any of this. There was just no way he could ignore these new insights the next time he faced the redhead either as Richard Foley or as Gear.
Well, there wasn’t a way to ignore how abnormally warm hands had crept over his skin; strong fingers kneading sensitive areas; of a strong, masculine scent surrounding him as gentle suckling turned areas of his neck a light maroon...
“Richie, do you have the–?”
“I SWEAR TO GOD I WASN’T THINKING ABOUT THAT!” he screamed in surprise, head shooting up from his arms and arms flying.
The class turned to stare at him in wide-eyed silence, the teacher’s chalk screeching off the blackboard in surprise. Upon his humiliation, Virgil held his hands up in surrender and drew away from him, hissing, “It wasn’t me.”
“Mr. Foley...do you have an explanation for your outburst?” the male teacher asked, turning away from his scrawl upon the blackboard.
“I...uh...don’t agree with your theory.”
The teacher blinked, then looked up at the sentence written on the board. He turned to look back at Richie, who was trying to sink into his seat, his head visible just above the desk top. Raising an eyebrow, the instructor asked, “You don’t agree that Hitler’s genocide was wrong?”
Richie sighed, sinking even lower in his seat as students burst into frenzied whispers, and Virgil blinked stupidly, then gave his friend a severe once over. Well...things couldn’t get that bad...
OooooooooooO
“What’s on your mind, man?” Virgil asked on their way home from school. “Why you all suddenly racist and shit?”
Richie sighed again, head hanging as he shook it. “I told you, V! I was distracted. I wasn’t even paying attention, and...”
Virgil chuckled, adjusting his backpack. The wind had picked up, and he hunched his shoulders as a particularly large gust swept through them. “Having another brain blast? What was on your mind, anyway? It sounded pretty juicy...thinkin’ of that mysterious vampire that you haven’t even confessed to playin’ with, yet?”
Richie flushed, grimacing as he adjusted his hoodie, as if trying to hide the evidence–which had faded away as hickies did.
“Well...since I ain’t seen you with any new and mysterious friends at school, I’m assumin’ she don’t go to our school. There are a couple of other high schools out there, Richie m’man...unless you’ve snagged yourself a Dakota University sugar-mamma...”
“I told you before, Virg. I’m a man of many secrets...”
“An’ I told you before, Rich! You ain’t kept a secret in your whole frickin’ life! Like that time A.J. McClean came ta town, and you told them rabid fangirls about it...”
“It was the cheeseburger that made me confess! They tortured me, V! Any man would have relented!”
“An’ that time pops found that cherry bomb in my room...”
“I TOLD you he came to me! I can’t lie to your dad!”
“But then again, I guess you can be pretty secretive...especially when there weren’t no ‘study sessions’ being done at the library on Fourth,” Virgil added, looking at Richie suspiciously. The pair stopped at a light, traffic flowing freely as they waited for the go ahead to cross.
Richie blinked and looked at him curiously. “Eh?”
“Daisy an’ I had an interestin’ conversation. She was doing a group project for a couple of weeks for her English class...she been there every day since the tenth...an’ she didn’t see you or Hotstreak at that place like ya said you were...”
Richie felt his face warm at the discovery, but he schooled his features into that of nonchalance. “Who said we were inside? You know how that guy gets–place a book in front of him, and he gets all crazy-like...”
“Richie...I can tell when you’re lying.”
“Virg! Why would I lie to you about something like that?” Richie exclaimed, hands flung out.
“Your voice gets all high pitched; you look straight at me, unblinkin’–you get all squeaky, and your nose twitches.”
“MY NOSE DOES NOT TWITCH! He said that too, an–!”
“Who said what?” Virgil asked, looking at him closely.
Richie slapped his hands over his mouth, mind racing. “Dad. Dad said that, too! That----my nose–twitches. When you guys say that, I feel like Nicole Kidman in that horrible remake...”
“But I’m willin’ to bet that Nicole Kidman don’t lie about makeup study sessions with an enemy!”
“Hey! She slept with one!”
“That was Julia Roberts, an’ what the hell do you mean by that?” Virgil exclaimed, the pair of them moving forward as the light changed.
“How would you know–?”
“Sharon, idiot! Sharon has that movie!”
“You’re taking things out of context! Seriously, Virgil!”
“Then how the hell does Hotstreak know that you’re Gear?”
“I told you, I really don’t know! He’s actually smarter than you think!”
“There ya go, defendin’ him! I remember a time when you never said such things about that guy!” Virgil exclaimed, arms out. “You always had somethin’ bad to say, like me, but lately, it’s all–Hotstreak is smarter than the average bear, Virgil; Hotstreak is actually a nice guy, V; Hotstreak is a hot piece of ass, dude.”
“I NEVER SAID–!”
“An’ whatchu getting all mad for, Rich? I was just joking, but you’re taking things entirely too seriously! Like I can’t even joke about what a loser he is, an’ here you are, jumpin’ all over me and sayin’ that I’m wrong!”
“I’M NOT GETTING MAD!”
“Then what you yellin’, for?”
Richie snorted, glaring away from Virgil, who sighed and shook his head. “Somethin’ up with you, man, an’ you ain’t even talking to me. What is it that has to be all secretive? I thought we don’t keep secrets from each other, Richie!”
“Nothin...”
“Oh, Rich! Stop! Man, I seriously don’t know what’s up your ass, but–”
“Look, I gotta do something. I’ll catch you later.”
Virgil looked at him in exasperation as Richie turned and hurried across the street without any other word or look in his direction. His hands were flung into the air and slapped against his thighs in severe cluelessness as he watched his friend hurry away from him.
Continuing on his way, Virgil muttered, “What are you trying to hide from me, Richie?”
AU, Out Of Character charas, TWT, and unusually questionable situations.
Warnings: Slash, swear words galore, and my usual angst and drama that’s carried out with...drawn-out finesse...
OooooooooooO means scene break
A/N: Welp, the story of Richie Foley and Hotstreak continues! Hope ya’ll like this fic as you would with the last...cuz there’s another one coming. BWA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! (Chokes)
One
Chapter One:
“...An’ it really was just one of those things, y’know? They just come outta no where. ‘Course, didn’t help that whenever we be facin’ off, my eyes were roamin’ all over him. Takin’ in his little ass, the fact that he ain’t all girly an’ shit...just a boy that needs to be taught. Shee-et, you ever notice that shit he wears just shows off err-thing? Just look at ‘im...Which, I’m sure, ya do. Ain’t no one ever wonder if he run around bare in that suit, or if he wear somethin’ underneath...” Ebon’s voice was tinged with the rough grammar that was familiar with the streets, contemplative and sneering as he spoke aloud.
Down the hall, the single guard on duty lifted an eyebrow as he turned the page on his magazine. The open windows of their cells allowed him to hear their conversation, but there were times when he grew tired of the banter that drifted from those locked doors.
The two men had been trading insults and ‘conversation’ for the past two months, waiting for the prosecutor to exchange a few words with the courts about their situation. From what he’d deigned to hear, Ivan Evans, AKA Ebon, had something of a fetish for one of Dakota’s young heroes. Not that he was noticing anything, either, but that Gear did wear some tight clothing.
And Francis Stone, AKA Hotstreak, was simply ‘horrified’ to learn that Ebon had some nasty-ass dream about the kid; something involving tons of jam, the back seat of an Escalade, and a teenaged hero that performed a lap dance while stripping out of trademark gear. He was letting Ebon know what he thought as the guard examined a pinup to a custom made Glock, pages fluttering loudly as he released the two page spread.
“..Fuckin’ fag, Ebon. You all fagged out.” Hotstreak’s voice was tinged with weary disbelief as he muttered in response from his cell.
“Tell me you ain’t noticed!”
There was the sound of chains clinking together as the shadow metahuman moved about in his cell–he’d been outfitted with a special design that kept his form humanoid and intact–no stretching of limbs or teleporting was allowed in this outfit. His voice was full of surprised disbelief as he spoke.
“I’m not checkin’ no kid out! Matter that it’s even a guy! Fuck that shit, Ebon! Fuckin’ Goddamned nigger...”
“Ain’t no thang...you be changin’ that tone in prison. Fact is, Francis, you be the one they all eyein’. Then you be thinkin’ about my dream, an’ really be lookin’ that boy close!”
“Fuck you!”
“Boys, boys,” the guard said on a sigh, rolling his eyes.
Frankly, while the story was semi-interesting, the guard was queasy at learning what a twenty-something criminal fantasized about super intelligent jailbait. People were getting sicker and sicker these days, he decided as he returned his attention to the latest Glock Monthly.
The holding cells were constructed especially for meta-humans; these two especially so. The law had more than their fair share of handling this distinct pair, and had special cells designed particularly for their containment. The city might as well as charged them for the state of the art design–one was specially formulated for a pyro with an explosive temper, and the other was formulated for a man that was living shadow.
Of course, the subject in discussion had helped out with this cause as well. How unfitting that he was being tossed around like a verbal skin-mag.
The guard was relieved a couple of hours later when one of them was finally released.
“Be seein’ you soon, Francis!” Ebon called from his cell, with something that sounded like a chuckle.
Hotstreak ignored that last comment, and tried to forget everything that had been exchanged during their stay here at the city jail. Not that it was anything very interesting or worthwhile, but it would help him to forget about things that made him uncomfortable.
The prosecutor looked a little hassled as he led the way to a conference room just downn the hall. Two security guards were walking alongside Hotstreak as he hobbled carefully with the chains on his feet. His hands were handcuffed behind him, and one of the guards was lugging around a drum of water with a heavy duty hose that came in handy if Francis Stone happened to lose his temper.
He was forced to sit in an uncomfortable folding chair opposite the prosecutor, who was looking over a few documents. He noted that his record, inches thick and practically spewing its contents, had to be taped over with various amounts of tape just to keep it together.
The prosecutor had worked many cases in his thirty-odd years in the justice department, and nothing haggled him more than defending the guilty. In this case, staring across the table at the hot-headed young man, he was sure Francis Stone was more guilty than he was being charged with. The gang member, infamous for his bouts of explosive temper and nefarious doings on the street, was one of his least liked clients.
He simply despised the meta, and resented working the cases he had with him. Staring across the table at the insolent expression, the way Hotstreak slouched in his seat and propped a foot at the table’s edge drove his backbone ramrod straight and urged a wave of superiority through him. Because this was all the man across the table was going to be for the rest of his life–however long it would be–a gang member that would never amount to nothing. That gave him some form of shortened satisfaction.
“Well, Mr. Stone,” the prosecutor began, blinking as he folded his hands together atop the table. “You happen to have escaped with nothing more than probation...which means, you’re under restricted–”
“I know what it means!”
“–under restricted bail. The city recognized that while you’re a known gang member and have a history of public harassment and disturbances, you have no real formal charges against you. You haven’t killed anybody yet–no one has bothered to charge you on any wrongdoings–and you happened to finish off your community service from the last time we met. But that’s already three charges, Mr. Stone. This is your last before you get slapped with extended jail time at Dakota Penitentiary...I’m sure you aren’t fond of that aspect, are you?”
Hotstreak found the deep furrow in the public defender’s eyebrows very interesting. It was a target, he was sure. For either a chair or a fist. Whichever, that small furrow had him riveted as he wondered what would hurt the guy most. Then he registered what was being said.
“So...I’m out, but on probation?” he asked, his tone insolent and more than thick with boredom. But he noticed the bristle the prosecutor gave.
“Yes.”
“Fuck...that ain’t shit. For how long?”
“Two years, Mr. Stone. For one full year, you’ll be wearing this lovely little contraption,” a velcro and plastic anklet was produced and set down on the table, “and you’ll be slapped with a few rules that you’ll have to abide to if you want to be released.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one thing–this pretty little bracelet keeps you under surveillance at all times...keeps you restricted from certain areas...and will record just how often you use those powers of yours. Of course, you realize that the state can’t continue to fund your little studio, so you’ll have to have a job. And we’re assigning you one. Part-time, of course. Because it has also come to sight that you’ve not yet passed high school. Education is important, Mr. Stone. And receiving a diploma should be top priority in every young person’s life...ATOP of all these requirements, you’ll also be partaking in anger management classes...”
“So what’s this shit mean?”
“You got some pretty jewelry to wear; you’re working part-time, you’re taking How-To-Be-Happy classes, and you’ve got to go to school. Congratulations, Mr. Stone. You got off pretty light. I’ll accept your thank-you card, written in proper English with perfect grammar by Friday.”
With that, the prosecutor packed up his files and left the room. Hotstreak flipped him off, but it was rather awkward with one’s hands cuffed behind him.
OooooooooooO
“Hey, Richie!”
Richard Foley turned away from Felix as Virgil Hawkins raced over, an expression of concern on his face. It was lunch time at Dakota Union High, and the outside tables were currently full as students tried to enjoy the good weather and warm temperature. Midwestern weather was screwing with Dakota residents–one day, it would be windy and tempestuous; another would be calm and beautiful. With Fall’s descent, the leaves had turned golden and the grass was fading to a faint brown.
It was really quite beautiful if one took the time to look around oneself...winter was coming along soon, and these were one of the last they had to enjoy before the snow began.
The table Richie was sitting at was full of the usual geeks; Felix, Wade, Chuck, and another student named Ducky. Everyone was having general fun over a sticky paper full of stickers, and Chuck had instigated a sticker war between them all. Neon colored stickies were being slapped, rather painfully, on various areas of reachable limbs. Food was flying; shouts and laughter rang out into the open air...other teens were giving them disdainful looks and grumbles as things began climbing out of control.
Virgil gave an exasperated look at Richie, who removed his glasses from his face to clean them. The others were currently decorating each other with various food stuffs and neon colored happy faces, and having a grand fine time with it. Amid all the slaps, yells and cackles of wild laughter, Virgil looked pointedly at Richie.
“Did ya hear?” he asked.
“What? Where have you been, or do I wanna know?” Richie asked, bumping fists with him in greeting. Virgil threw off his backpack, catching an unaware Chuck in the face as he sat down next to his friend.
“Man, word is, one of our local psychos are back on the streets,” Virgil said, stealing Felix’s untouched oatmeal cookie. He stuffed most of it into his mouth before continuing, spraying Richie with crumbs as he spoke. “Hotstreak’s out on probation.”
“Oh, not uh!” Chuck exclaimed, throwing Virgil’s backpack away from him. He and Richie were the only white boys within the group. His wild, floppy brown hair bore bits of mashed potatoes and string beans throughout the strands. “I thought he was heading toward prison for sure! He’s got all these charges racked up against him!”
“But he’s out,” Virgil insisted, stealing the white boy’s unopened Coke. “Them guys from third period know this cuz one of them’s brother hangs out with the Five Alarm Crew, and he heard it from this one chick who work down at The Big Burrito, and she knows this cuz she saw him hangin’ around his home down there in oakie-ville.”
“Oh, right...that was right after Mary Anne in third realized she saw Grand Master Slam down at the mall, but according to her best friend Martha from seventh period, who knows this personally from Trista that works over in Oakland, who personally witnessed his arrival in Dakota from the Hills while she was spying on that guy from the football team with her telescope–”
Chuck was shut up as Virgil whacked him across the head. “No! I’m serious! He’s out on probation. An’ check this–he has to come back to school. And he’s got a job!”
“Ooh,” the others said in unison, looking quite impressed.
“Guys...seriously!” Virgil exclaimed, slapping the table with annoyance. “I’ve got word, man! And it’s serious! He’s coming back here!”
“Well...that’s that, then.” Chuck shook his head. “Ah well. Hey, who’s up for a quick game of knuckles?”
Virgil sighed as they resumed their earlier frenzy, but Richie turned to look at him. His expression was surprisingly calm.
“So...it’s true? He’s out? He wasn’t in there for very long,” he said as he and Virgil picked up their backpacks and began walking away from the table. “It’s only been a couple of months...”
“Well, that’s just what I’m hearing. And it’s probably more than true, Rich,” Virgil said with a shrug. “Really, if you think about it–what did he do wrong?”
He’d burned those guys in that car, Richie thought to himself with a violent shudder, recalling their agonized screams.
The two men had been rushed to the hospital, their burns explained as the results of the multiple car accident that day. One of them had died from his injuries–the other had been transferred out of a state to the closest burn treatment center. Due to the confusion of that day, combined with the evidence of vehicular fire, Hotstreak had never been blamed for the incident. Which seemed odd, as Richie thought that Hotstreak would be the first to blame in that situation.
“Just another loser runnin’ around in a gang, an’ he got himself in trouble. But he didn’t do much trouble, considering the courts’ outlook on him. Who knows how the justice system works, anyhow? They got them insane guys running through a twelve month program and have them out the day they graduate! That’s how Arkham works...”
“Hotstreak isn’t in the same league as Joker or Scarecrow, V. Arkham is an asylum, not a jail. That’s a bad comparison.”
“There ya go, defendin’ him...”
“I am NOT! I’m just saying–!”
“Chill out, Rich! I was kidding.” Virgil peered at his friend curiously, noticing his riled state. Richie ignored the obvious stare, shifting his backpack to a more comfortable position as he walked alongside Virgil. “Besides, I never did get the entire story about you two. What sort of tutoring did you two do?”
“...Er...Algebra. History. The usual.” Richie shrugged, fiddling with the straps of his pack as he glanced at Virgil, then looked away.
Virgil’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. “Where did this fantasized tutoring take place?”
“The reality that is the library on Fourth. Why?”
“Man...” Virgil shook his head again as the bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch period. As they walked into the school, Virgil sighed. “There are times when I think I don’t know you, Rich.”
Richie chuckled, attempting a satisfied expression, but Virgil was right in that aspect. And he hoped to keep it that way.
OooooooooooO
Richie was aware he was staring off into space, tapping his pen against his cheek as his eyes focused on the ceiling. The class was minutely interesting–his thoughts had drifted for awhile after Virgil had given him that slip of news. He found himself distracted by the information he’d received, his mind producing many thoughts, but many having no answers. He was a little nervous about Hotstreak’s return to school; he was also embarrassed, scared, and uncertain, with many accompanying friends associated with his present situation.
While he’d acknowledged his ‘situation’ with Hotstreak a couple of months back, he was still unable to fully grasp what had happened. Of course, he knew what ‘happened’–oh, he wouldn’t forget all of that. He felt his face reddening as he ducked his head, a silly smile coming to his face. It had been....for the lack of a better word, surreal.
He’d literally slept with the enemy. In all literal terms. His face was turning a deeper red as he dropped his head into his arms. There was no way in hell he could forget what had happened that night...he found himself thinking back on it, trying to accept what had happened, what had changed. There was another side of Francis Stone that many didn’t see, or acknowledge. Sure, he was a hardened person that did things that weren’t on the bright side of things, but he was also one of them–striving hard to make a difference, to be somebody...no matter that it was something entirely different from what was acceptable.
He was fighting his own battles to be recognized; just as one fought to be accepted, he was fighting to be accepted. He was a person; an asshole, but a person. He could treat someone tenderly, yet retain his asshole status with a cautious vulnerability that had Richie reeling from its existence. That night, Hotstreak had been more human to him than anyone before, and he found himself constantly reflecting on things, just to make sure that it had been real.
And to cement things even further, the physical intimacy that had exploded between them had just been... fantastic. Never in his life, even for a second, would Richie have considered the older male in that sort of perspective. He’d never looked at the guy in that way. He was pretty sure Hotstreak had thought the same thing about him. There wasn’t a way he could forget about that certain aspect–how he knew personally of the freckles on the redhead’s shoulders; how he had several scars from knife fights on his ribs and forearms; how that spot on the inside of his elbow was sensitive to touch...Hotstreak was human like the rest of them–he just happened to be bad tempered and lacked certain judgement.
Richie couldn’t forget any of this. There was just no way he could ignore these new insights the next time he faced the redhead either as Richard Foley or as Gear.
Well, there wasn’t a way to ignore how abnormally warm hands had crept over his skin; strong fingers kneading sensitive areas; of a strong, masculine scent surrounding him as gentle suckling turned areas of his neck a light maroon...
“Richie, do you have the–?”
“I SWEAR TO GOD I WASN’T THINKING ABOUT THAT!” he screamed in surprise, head shooting up from his arms and arms flying.
The class turned to stare at him in wide-eyed silence, the teacher’s chalk screeching off the blackboard in surprise. Upon his humiliation, Virgil held his hands up in surrender and drew away from him, hissing, “It wasn’t me.”
“Mr. Foley...do you have an explanation for your outburst?” the male teacher asked, turning away from his scrawl upon the blackboard.
“I...uh...don’t agree with your theory.”
The teacher blinked, then looked up at the sentence written on the board. He turned to look back at Richie, who was trying to sink into his seat, his head visible just above the desk top. Raising an eyebrow, the instructor asked, “You don’t agree that Hitler’s genocide was wrong?”
Richie sighed, sinking even lower in his seat as students burst into frenzied whispers, and Virgil blinked stupidly, then gave his friend a severe once over. Well...things couldn’t get that bad...
OooooooooooO
“What’s on your mind, man?” Virgil asked on their way home from school. “Why you all suddenly racist and shit?”
Richie sighed again, head hanging as he shook it. “I told you, V! I was distracted. I wasn’t even paying attention, and...”
Virgil chuckled, adjusting his backpack. The wind had picked up, and he hunched his shoulders as a particularly large gust swept through them. “Having another brain blast? What was on your mind, anyway? It sounded pretty juicy...thinkin’ of that mysterious vampire that you haven’t even confessed to playin’ with, yet?”
Richie flushed, grimacing as he adjusted his hoodie, as if trying to hide the evidence–which had faded away as hickies did.
“Well...since I ain’t seen you with any new and mysterious friends at school, I’m assumin’ she don’t go to our school. There are a couple of other high schools out there, Richie m’man...unless you’ve snagged yourself a Dakota University sugar-mamma...”
“I told you before, Virg. I’m a man of many secrets...”
“An’ I told you before, Rich! You ain’t kept a secret in your whole frickin’ life! Like that time A.J. McClean came ta town, and you told them rabid fangirls about it...”
“It was the cheeseburger that made me confess! They tortured me, V! Any man would have relented!”
“An’ that time pops found that cherry bomb in my room...”
“I TOLD you he came to me! I can’t lie to your dad!”
“But then again, I guess you can be pretty secretive...especially when there weren’t no ‘study sessions’ being done at the library on Fourth,” Virgil added, looking at Richie suspiciously. The pair stopped at a light, traffic flowing freely as they waited for the go ahead to cross.
Richie blinked and looked at him curiously. “Eh?”
“Daisy an’ I had an interestin’ conversation. She was doing a group project for a couple of weeks for her English class...she been there every day since the tenth...an’ she didn’t see you or Hotstreak at that place like ya said you were...”
Richie felt his face warm at the discovery, but he schooled his features into that of nonchalance. “Who said we were inside? You know how that guy gets–place a book in front of him, and he gets all crazy-like...”
“Richie...I can tell when you’re lying.”
“Virg! Why would I lie to you about something like that?” Richie exclaimed, hands flung out.
“Your voice gets all high pitched; you look straight at me, unblinkin’–you get all squeaky, and your nose twitches.”
“MY NOSE DOES NOT TWITCH! He said that too, an–!”
“Who said what?” Virgil asked, looking at him closely.
Richie slapped his hands over his mouth, mind racing. “Dad. Dad said that, too! That----my nose–twitches. When you guys say that, I feel like Nicole Kidman in that horrible remake...”
“But I’m willin’ to bet that Nicole Kidman don’t lie about makeup study sessions with an enemy!”
“Hey! She slept with one!”
“That was Julia Roberts, an’ what the hell do you mean by that?” Virgil exclaimed, the pair of them moving forward as the light changed.
“How would you know–?”
“Sharon, idiot! Sharon has that movie!”
“You’re taking things out of context! Seriously, Virgil!”
“Then how the hell does Hotstreak know that you’re Gear?”
“I told you, I really don’t know! He’s actually smarter than you think!”
“There ya go, defendin’ him! I remember a time when you never said such things about that guy!” Virgil exclaimed, arms out. “You always had somethin’ bad to say, like me, but lately, it’s all–Hotstreak is smarter than the average bear, Virgil; Hotstreak is actually a nice guy, V; Hotstreak is a hot piece of ass, dude.”
“I NEVER SAID–!”
“An’ whatchu getting all mad for, Rich? I was just joking, but you’re taking things entirely too seriously! Like I can’t even joke about what a loser he is, an’ here you are, jumpin’ all over me and sayin’ that I’m wrong!”
“I’M NOT GETTING MAD!”
“Then what you yellin’, for?”
Richie snorted, glaring away from Virgil, who sighed and shook his head. “Somethin’ up with you, man, an’ you ain’t even talking to me. What is it that has to be all secretive? I thought we don’t keep secrets from each other, Richie!”
“Nothin...”
“Oh, Rich! Stop! Man, I seriously don’t know what’s up your ass, but–”
“Look, I gotta do something. I’ll catch you later.”
Virgil looked at him in exasperation as Richie turned and hurried across the street without any other word or look in his direction. His hands were flung into the air and slapped against his thighs in severe cluelessness as he watched his friend hurry away from him.
Continuing on his way, Virgil muttered, “What are you trying to hide from me, Richie?”