Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ One ❯ Chapter Two ( Chapter 2 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Hotstreak was assured that this job was 'cake'. Richie contemplates gym ethics.
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 09.25.2005 | Updated On: 09.25.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 5.5K | Visits: 724 | Status: Completed
Hotstreak was assured that this job was 'cake'. Richie contemplates gym ethics.
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 09.25.2005 | Updated On: 09.25.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 5.5K | Visits: 724 | Status: Completed
One
Chapter Two:
His nametag stated that his name was ‘Francis’. A blue thread that ended every curl with sissified curlicues and rankled his mood whenever he tossed the apron on. His ‘job’ was nothing more than a simple janitor/cashier at a local bakery...a bakery. His eyes narrowed and his fingers curled into fists as he stared at the freshly made loaves of bread and desserts displayed in the glass containers throughout the shop. The couple that ran it also employed their teenaged son, who attended a private academy and was more than stuck-up. Luckily, he didn’t stick around very much.
The prosecutor had assured him that this job was ‘cake’–Hotstreak couldn’t wait to face him again and show him how delighted he was with the job.
The couple was nice–they hailed from Amsterdam, and had thick accents that drove him up the wall, for he could barely understand what they were saying. They knew of his exploits–but were confident with his sentence that he would not destroy them, or their shop. Their confidence rankled him, in that he couldn’t intimidate them, but he was letting it slide. If they were going to respect him and not treat him like everyone else (kissing ass, or sucking up, or lording superiority tendencies over him), he was going to treat them lightly.
The elevator music that played grated at his nerves–the mixture of light jazz and instruments hummed peacefully throughout the small shop, giving light to the cheery comfort within. The shop was known for its freshly baked goods and lunch time specials, so there were small booths crammed along one wall, a unisex restroom down the hall, and three walls covered with open displays. The kitchen just beyond the far wall was open, granting a customer viewing access to the couple’s creations, and it always smelled like...grandma’s kitchen. Not that he knew his grandma, or what his grandma’s kitchen smelled like...but that term crept along through his mind whenever he sat down to think about it.
He was sweeping the floor, trying very hard not to get exasperated by the Kenny G that wafted throughout the shop, when the door opened, the bell tinkling cheerily.
The couple had retreated to the back to start on some donuts for tomorrow’s morning rush, so he looked over his shoulder to see what he had to do to help the paying customer.
He immediately glowered and tried hard to keep from flushing in embarrassment.
Aquamaria, her watery form shimmering with the afternoon sunlight and overhead ceiling lights, quivered with the force of her held in laughter as she looked at him. Distorted and mutated by the Big Bang, Maria’s very form was the essence of water. Nothing dripped or splashed as she moved about, her features darkly defined by deeper shades of water. Her features had been pretty as a human, and they were still pretty now–her eyebrows had been tweezed into conquered half moons with a wide swatch near her straight, thin nose; her lips were tight and firm, yet easily curled into a smirk; her eyes, deep and large, were surrounded by thick, short lashes that defined the dark blue color of her irises. There weren’t any true identifying features of her body, but Maria was a curvy Latina; with wide hips, comfortably firm thighs, pleasantly pillowing chest and shoulders; she was the type that would have worn low cut hip huggers and tight shirts, putting white girls to shame with her curves. La Guitara had been one of her nicknames; before the change, Francis had teased her about the comparison she had with Jennifer Lopez’s infamous shape.
Those days were gone–but she was still as bossy and demanding as ever.
“What’s this, Francis? You makin’ bread nowadays?” she demanded, her heavy Spanish accent filled with laughter as she surveyed the cozy shop. “I cannot imagine you as a wife, son!”
“Fuck you,” Hotstreak muttered, with no real malice. He continued sweeping as she tittered behind one watery hand. “What the hell do you want? You ain’t gonna buy shit, leave.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, fucker. I ain’t the one being all whipped by the law...” She took her time to survey the apron and the broom. She burst into laughter as the old woman emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel cloth.
“Can I help you?” she asked, blinking at the Bang Baby’s mutated form.
Maria looked over at her, scowling. Her watery form shimmered briefly with irritation as she turned her back to the woman.
Sighing, the old woman shook her head. “You can take your break, now, Francis. Remember...fifteen minutes. I’ll need you to clean out the stove.”
Out in the side alley, Maria laughed once more as Hotstreak lit a cigarette, scowling at her.
“When did you get out, anyway?” she asked, facing him, waving away the smoke blown in her direction. “I heard from Chiggy that you were out. But you ain’t once called me or let me know you were out. I thought you and Ebon was going to be in there for awhile, what with all that shit you two pulled.”
“I got out. I’m on probation. Gotta work, gotta school, gotta take fuckin’ Anger Management classes.”
“Same old shit, huh? No matter how many times you take that Anger class, you ain’t improved for shit!” Maria said on a laugh. “You ain’t wired to be nice, Francis.”
“Fuck off, Maria. I’m pissed enough as it is.”
“Can’t I show how much I care for you, Hotstreak?” she then cooed, reaching out to grasp his chin. At her touch, there was a slight sizzle of heat on water, and she withdrew her hand, laughing again. “Cut it out! It’s good that you’re out, though. Ebon gonna be in there for a while though, huh? Last I heard, he was headed straight for prison. But Talon was talking to me the other day–she and the boys are going to break him out.”
“She still whipped on him?”
“She respects him,” Maria corrected with a slight smirk. “Thinks we should all stick together.”
“All you deformed shits...I ain’t runnin’ around with your crew. Ebon makes me sick.”
“He’s a sick fuck sometimes,” Maria agreed, nodding, “but he gets respect.”
“He don’t get no respect!” Hotstreak spit, removing his cigarette from his mouth. “I don’t fuckin’ respect him! No good nigger, anyway!”
“Oh, stop! You ain’t tough, sucker!” Maria scolded. “You all jacked up and shit with your little job...you going back to Union?”
“Yeah...gotta get my GED. Gotta wear this, too...” He bent slightly, pulling up his pants leg to reveal the anklet. It was bulky and awkward, locked around his lower limb. Clinging tightly to his leg, just above his sock, the thing was noticeable if one knew what to look for.
“That can be removed,” Maria said, lifting her brow. “I know a guy that can do it right quick. What you say?”
“Nah...I kinda want to stick it through.”
She gasped, hands on her cheek. Then she reached out to clap a palm over his forehead, laughing when he knocked her hand away from him. “You changing again, honey? I ain’t heard that sort of shit from you... ever! Ever! What’s been goin’ on with you, Hottie?”
“Don’t fuckin’ call me that. Nothin’s been ‘going on’, either.”
“What’s this I heard about you bein’ loved up on some guy?”
Hotstreak immediately choked in a thick amount of smoke, cigarette flying as he proceeded to hack violently. Maria held her hands on her hips, giving him a stern expression. “Don’t you be thinking that I ain’t heard about that, mister! Come clean to momma, now. I heard from reliable sources that you turned fag with some kid from that high school you run around in.”
“Where the fuck did you hear that?” Hotstreak immediately demanded, hacking a few more times, then hocking a loogey.
“I got ears. May be all changed and shit, but they still work.”
“Fuckin’ Talon, huh? She’s talking shit again, isn’t she? Fuckin’ turkey...next time I see her, I’m–”
“You’ll do what, working boy? You all good, now. You can’t do that sort of shit! ‘Sides, Talon just relaying what she heard. You know we all tight.”
“Yeah, I heard that being a lesbian is in, nowadays...”
Maria reached over and slapped him upside the head. “Motherfucker, you don’t be goin’ around and spreading rumors and shit! Don’t you be talking shit like that! Theresa’s my girl, fucker. Got nothin’ but sisterly love for her, and you talking shit pisses me off!”
“Don’t you fuckin’ hit me anymore–!”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Francis! You know I can take you! I’m not scared of you! Don’t be going all crazy on me, cuz I ain’t going to take that from you! You listen up close, you little shit!”
At this, Hotstreak had to smirk. Maria stood around five foot five, and she was calling him ‘little’.
“I’m just telling you what I heard, and I wanna hear the right things from the right source...I ain’t accusing you of being fag. Lord knows how many hos you’ve hit since you learned what to do with that Vienna Sausage of yours...”
“Whatever...”
“...so I thought about it, and want to compromise with you. You give me the right scoop, and I be setting the story straight. Respect? That’s how much love I have for you, son.”
“Fine. It wasn’t shit at all. Just some kid that got all mixed up with shit. Ebon took things the wrong way. That one day when we were having it out outside of Crankers? Kid got all confused. People would have blamed me if he got killed, so I went and removed him.”
Maria snorted, crossing her arms over a once defined bosom. “You ‘removed’ him?”
“I removed him. Then Ebon got all thinkin’ that just cuz I did, he was all thinkin’ that the kid was my bitch, or somethin’.”
Maria laughed out loud, throwing her head back as she delighted in his scowl.
“What’d you do? I mean, with the kid?” she asked, grinning.
“Set him straight. Told him he better not tell. Had to make sure that he didn’t snitch, so I visited him a few times.”
“You knew him?”
“One of my favorite work-out toys at school. Had to.”
She laughed again. “Just how ‘favorite’, Francis?”
“Fuck you, bitch! Don’t you be starting any shit!”
Maria held her sides as she continued to laugh, then reaching out to tug on his goatee. He swatted her hand away with a snarl, making her giggle. “Okay, okay...I’m done. That’s all it was?”
“That’s all,” Hotstreak confirmed with a firm nod. “Ain’t nothin’...”
“See? Knew you weren’t fag. I’ll let them know you ain’t.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Just some girls. Hey, I’ll let ya get back to work. But any time you get tired of this bullshit, I can help you out. We’ve got to stick together, Hotstreak. Be seeing you!”
She waved at him as she walked off, giggling to herself. Hotstreak shook his head in annoyance, scowling up at the sky, wondering what it was about her that had him talking upon her prompting. At this train of thought, Richie Foley immediately came to mind. He took out another cigarette, lighting it as he shook his head once more.
“Fag...”
OooooooooooO
He was reluctant to return to school–after all, it was a waste of his time. All he did, really, was sleep. And it didn’t help that he was normally irritated by everyone around him, and the crap the teachers were trying to teach. Not like knowing how the Berlin Wall fell was going to help a guy trying to make it on the streets. School was a waste of time. There was no real point to it.
But since it was a court order, and part of his probation, he had to attend.
He was scowling darkly as he approached the yellow, two story building. Dakota Union High was nondescript, city, and crammed within a lot that was nothing more than dirt and pavement. An eyesore, really; surrounded by chain link fences, minimal lawn spaces, and a parking lot that held enough for teachers’ and seniors’ vehicles. Common place with recruitment for various gangs and Bang Baby activity, Dakota Union High was a source of amusement from time to time. Once upon a time, he’d traipse through the halls, scamming chicks and roughing up losers that begged for it, but he couldn’t do so this time... at least, in the wide open.
The security guards and personnel had been warned of his return, and he knew snitches were everywhere, waiting for him to slip. He scowled as he saw the two guards posted outside the front entrance doors, obviously waiting for him. His anklet felt heavier all of a sudden; a pesty anchor that stubbornly reminded him of his return. It was hidden behind the baggy hem of his cargo pants, which was layered with a Detroit Pistons jersey several sizes too big. No one ever told him he had crappy fashion sense–he fit in with everyone else.
One the guards ‘hmf-ed’ at him as he approached, achingly aware of the Composition notebook and single pen he held in one hand. He felt nerdy and embarrassingly obvious as he ascended the staircase. The two guards let him by, and he trembled with the need to turn back and ask them WTF with their superior expressions and attitudes. Forcibly restraining himself, he walked inside and passed through the security checkpoint with other students. Which was horribly funny, because once he’d gained his powers, he hadn’t held a weapon since. Damn, he was a weapon in itself!
The first bell rang, and a muscle in his cheek twitched as the students in all halls began flowing through their respective classrooms. He had to fight to remember what his schedule was as he drifted off to the second floor. Today was looking quite boring and nasty...
It was a day for firsts; he sat in class and struggled to pay attention, taking notes here and there. Gathering text books that he’d never bothered with before. Every one of his teachers gave him wary and cautious looks as he took over a seat in the very back, and every one of them treated him with all the cordial attitudes that were similar to that of guards in prison–giving him attention, but only for restricted moments of time, and for a few things only. With a great deal of hostility and wariness as well.
His hand was cramping by fourth period, and he was severely disgusted with himself. It was sort of good that none of his Crew had come to school today, to see him actually paying attention and writing down notes...not that they were good notes, but they were notes he’d managed to copy from things being written on the board.
His scrawl was embarrassing to look at, as well–just the fact that he was writing things down was just...not him.
Lunch time found him in the library, scanning the bookshelves for a particular reference book to use for a topic in history. He had a paper due tomorrow, and he really had no idea how to go about accomplishing it. While he’d done schoolwork in the past, when he gave some semblances of giving a damn, he’d turned in things that were often marked with D’s and F’s...it wasn’t that he didn’t try; he did, but it was only for the sake of passing things. He’d been held back, and things had been discouraging...he didn’t bother to try anymore.
He sighed in frustration, pulling at his goatee in thought as he stared at the Encyclopedia collection in front of him. He really didn’t want to write the paper...or spend all this trouble in getting information on the activities occurring in Gaza, but...hell. He didn’t even know where to start. And he wasn’t even up to date on current events. He could care less what was happening in other countries.
Licking his dry lips, he rolled his eyes in exasperation and left the aisle. Picking up his things, he left the library with a minute feeling of failure.
OooooooooooO
Virgil knocked on the stall door where Richie was changing with an impatient yell. It was their P.E. period, which they shared with each other and with some seniors. As always, Richie had chosen to change in a stall rather than out in the open with everyone else. Virgil just liked to harass him.
“C’mon, man! Get that ass in gear and change!”
“Can’t a guy take a dump without having people hassle him?” Richie roared as he pulled his shirt over his head.
“You ain’t takin’ shit! Why you gotta change in the stall, anyway? I thought only girls did that!”
“And for that very reason, I’m in here changing, so you disgusting male perverts won’t see or be tempted by my womanly goodies...”
Virgil rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he pulled away from the stall. “Richie...that was just...wrong.”
“No, what’s wrong is that I want privacy, and you’re trying to peek.”
“I am not!” Virgil kicked the door, laughing. “C’mon! We don’t wanna be late! It looks like we’re playing volleyball, and you KNOW I ain’t playin’ without you!”
The stall door opened, Richie throwing his street clothes at Virgil with a snarl.
Virgil laughed as he caught the worn pair of jeans and sweater shirt, and tossed them in the direction of their lockers. “Have I ever told you how lovely you look in those gym shorts?”
“Have I ever told you how lovely you would look with your head in the toilet?”
“Wantin’ me wet and wild all for you, Richie m’dear?”
“Virgil, stop being GAY!”
Virgil laughed as he walked out from the bathroom section of the locker rooms, and found himself distracted by one of their classmates. Richie was thankful for the respite, and looked down at himself, flushing slightly. Did he really look... ‘lovely’? He grimaced at the sight of his pale legs, toned from his activities as Gear, and for the fact that gym shorts were NOT flattering. His shirt actually fit him–as everyone else’s did, as Mr. Constinelli refused to grant students with baggy clothing. But he hated what he looked like–just another scrawny white guy with glasses.
He looked up and over at Virgil, taking in his best friend’s plump derriere, muscular legs and arms, and for the fact that his shirt hung tightly from his shoulders. Ever since Virgil had discovered his Bang Baby talents, the boy had begun regular work-outs that earned him cut muscles, muscles that Richie was jealous over. Sure, he worked out–pushups, situps, weights...but no amount of training could give him the same form as Virgil’s. His arms were toned, his biceps cut and defined, but in no way similar to Virgil’s. He had enough definition to look passable for a superhero in uniform.
He damned his scrawny size, muttering to himself as he retrieved his clothes and folded them carefully before putting them away. It wasn’t as if he had a thin, slender frame–he had a fast metabolism that allowed him to eat any and all that he wanted, and he certainly burned extra with his ‘after school activities’...and no one could mistake him as girly. He just wished that he didn’t look so scrawny.
He looked over in time to see Hotstreak walking into the locker room. He froze in place, mind going momentarily blank as he took in the metahuman’s presence. He knew that the older male was back in school...and he knew they would run into each other at some point and time...but did it have to be now? They had the same P.E. class, and he knew this would happen–! The guy was dressed in his usual baggy clothing, but he only difference in his appearance was the Composition notebook he held.
Otherwise...he was still the same.
Well, what did Richie expect? A complete change in appearance? What was going to happen, now that they knew each other in ways no one else did? Would things still be the same? Were they still going to take on their previous roles–was Hotstreak still going to be the asshole that Richie knew him as, or someone completely different? These questions and more ran through his mind, causing a lapse of intelligent thought as he panicked.
He swallowed as Hotstreak walked toward the back of the locker room–where his locker was, no doubt. But was he really following through his court-ordered sentence? Was he going to change into his clothes and actually participate, rather than sitting on the bleachers and snoring off some late night activity?
Richie felt himself flush as he tried to picture the metahuman in their gym clothes–the white shirt with the school’s mascot and name and the black mesh shorts...he could see Hotstreak’s broad shoulders being defined with the tee, his powerful frame with its mixture of muscle and flab being showcased in clothing that was his actual size, and not something overly baggy or large.
“Hey, you done wrapping up your breasts?” Virgil asked him, seemingly appearing out of no where and startling Richie from his memories.
“STOP DOING THAT!” Richie roared, slamming his locker door shut, the loud bang reverberating throughout the room.
“Doin’ WHAT?” Virgil asked, leaping away from him in surprise. “What the hell is with you, man?”
“Uh...you just surprised me, that’s all. Sorry, V-man.”
Virgil wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close as they walked out from the room. “You nervous about him returning?” he whispered, his breath caressing Richie’s ear. The boy tried very hard not to react to the action–Virgil was his best friend and partner, and if he found out that Richie thought of him while jacking off–well...it just wouldn’t go good.
“Kinda...I mean...how long’s this good boy act going to last?” Richie mumbled, ducking his head as they entered the gym.
“I know what’chu mean, man. Ah, well. That’s how it goes,” Virgil commented, shrugging. “Let’s kick ass, Rich! Show these guys who rules the spiking zone...well...for you...the underhanded serve.”
“Hey! At least it goes over! And I get more points doing it that way than the other way.”
“One day, when you’re a man, I’m sure you’ll be able to serve it the way men do.”
“Fuck you, V!”
Virgil laughed as he grabbed Richie in a headlock, and administered a noogie, all the while struggling to keep his shorts on as the blond tried to pants him.
OooooooooooO
The game was surprisingly quiet and neutral–after their last encounter, Mr. Constinelli avoided Hotstreak, and Hotstreak avoided the male gym teacher. And since everyone was so tense with the older male’s appearance and participation, it was more of required movement that had everyone trying to hit the ball. Of course, everyone was trying to avoid entering Hotstreak’s space, and no one bothered trying to get to the ball if it sailed in his direction. Since he really wasn’t into the sport of volleyball, Hotstreak didn’t bother pushing himself to participate; if the ball was falling toward him, he’d bump it casually with a fist, but that was about it. And his serves usually either hit the net or someone was too scared to hit back.
Virgil was annoyed with the metahuman–he could at least try and make the game more interesting! He was on the opposite side, and was the only one really challenging the older male’s serves. His classmates were too terrified to even try, and most of them was the reason why his team was losing.
He looked over at Richie, whom he’d been separated from when the teams were called. Richie was on Hotstreak’s side, and he could see his boy was nervous as hell. He’d caught the blond glancing in Hotstreak’s direction more than once, giving off all his I’m-Nervous-And-Seriously-Uncertain vibes with all the tugging on his sleeves and jiggling of his knee.
Virgil wondered why–if the guy was tutoring the guy as he said, why would he be that way? Unless Richie thought things had changed between them within those last two months. Of course, Virgil couldn’t imagine why. Yes, the thing between him and Hotstreak and Ebon was suspiciously funny, but what was it that had his best friend on edge? He’d begun acting this way since he learned of Hotstreak’s return. And all this defending of Hotstreak’s honor had Virgil naturally suspicious.
Narrowing his eyes, he had to wonder what Richie wasn’t telling him.
The game ended with the opposite team in favor. Seeing that the period was almost over, Virgil hurried underneath the net, making a beeline toward Richie to press for more information.
But just as he caught his best friend’s eye, Richie’s last name was called with that familiar roughened voice that was just as ominous as the man’s name itself. Virgil stopped short, and glared suspiciously over at Hotstreak, who was walking over to Richie. Instinctively, Virgil readied himself for a confrontation, something similar to what had happened their last class together.
Hotstreak raised an eyebrow as he looked at Virgil’s protective stance, and he forced himself not to comment or make a move on the imposing attitude. He took a deep breath, and focused on Richie, forcibly ignoring everything else.
“Hey, I need to talk to you,” he muttered, aware that all eyes were on him, everyone holding their breath.
Before Richie could respond, Virgil snapped, “Hey, we don’t want none of anything you’re lookin’ to dish out, Hotbreath! Let’s just keep it cool!”
“I AM,” Hotstreak growled, fighting hard to keep his temper from exploding, glaring at Virgil dangerously. “This ain’t any of your bisness!”
“Yeah, right, whatever you’ve got to say to him, you can say to me! You’re just going to–!”
“Is there a problem, here?” Mr. Constinelli asked, cautiously making his way over.
Richie immediately interjected, stepping away from Virgil. Glancing at Hotstreak, then at the teacher, he shook his head. “No, no, no. Nothing. We–we’re just...catching up on things. Nothing’s wrong.”
“Rich–!”
“Virgil, stop!” Richie growled, feeling embarrassed by his friend’s vehement behavior. He looked up at the older male, and felt himself flush under that intensely dark gaze. “What is it, er, Hotstreak?”
“I need to axe you sumthin’...in private,” Hotstreak then emphasized, glaring at Mr. Constinelli and Virgil.
Virgil started to protest this when Richie shook his head, and pointed away from him, silently signaling that Virgil leave. Virgil looked shocked, Mr. Constinelli walking away, but a few moments later, the African-American narrowed his eyes as he glared at his friend and walked off–a few steps away. Just in case.
“Virgil!”
“Fine! Fine!”
Seeing Virgil stomp off across the gym, Richie flushed at his best friend’s overprotectiveness, gathered a deep breath, and looked back at Hotstreak, who was glaring at Virgil.
“What is it you wanted?” he asked.
“Oh.” Hotstreak paused, a brief dance of embarrassment starting across his features. Then he straightened his shoulders and looked dangerously imposing as he growled out, “I need some...he–hel–fuck. I need you to look at somethin’.”
Richie raised his eyebrows, feeling as if his very insides were iced over with his disbelief. Hotstreak was asking him for help? Is that what he was trying to say? A strange tinge of excitement shot through him, startling him and forcing goosebumps to rise all over his skin. “What is it?”
“After school....in the lobby.” Hotstreak’s words were tinted with hesitation and doubt, and his eyes flitted at and on everything but Richie. For this reason, knowing that he was somewhat out of sorts left Richie feeling confident in that he wasn’t the only awkward one in this situation. He relaxed slightly.
“All right. I’ll–meet you there. After school.”
Hotstreak nodded, the action jerky and stiff–he turned, seemed uncertain about what to do next, then walked off toward the locker rooms.
Richie let out a half gasp as he was tackled to the floor by one flying Virgil.
“You okay, Rich? You okay? He didn’t beat you up when I happened to blink?” Virgil asked, staring at him, looking for injuries.
Richie kicked him off, giving an outraged huff. “Virgil, knock it off! It wasn’t anything like that! He just wanted to talk to me!”
“About what? An’ when the hell did you two get so fuckin’ friendly?” Virgil snapped, both of them rising to their feet, brushing themselves off.
“I–Virgil! Did it ever occur to you that you sound like a jealous bitch, sometimes?”
Virgil stiffened, then his face took on a comically outraged expression. Richie would have laughed, but he was too annoyed and too filled with curiosity over Hotstreak’s request that all he could do was stare at him angrily.
“A jealous bitch,” Virgil repeated carefully, staring at Richie pointedly. “You think I sound like a jealous bitch...”
“I’m sorry, Virg–”
“You know what? Fuck you. Whatever mood swing you’re on, I don’t want none of. See ya after school, or whatever...”
“Virgil!” Richie exclaimed as his best friend presented his back to him and walked off, the bell ringing loudly. He sighed in frustration, hand racing up to slap his forehead in confusion. He hadn’t meant to snap– it was just–all this excitement and pressure had made him more than...jittery. Confused. Anxious.
With a low groan, he started his way toward the locker room, wondering how he could make this up to his best friend without really divulging in destroying detail.
Chapter Two:
His nametag stated that his name was ‘Francis’. A blue thread that ended every curl with sissified curlicues and rankled his mood whenever he tossed the apron on. His ‘job’ was nothing more than a simple janitor/cashier at a local bakery...a bakery. His eyes narrowed and his fingers curled into fists as he stared at the freshly made loaves of bread and desserts displayed in the glass containers throughout the shop. The couple that ran it also employed their teenaged son, who attended a private academy and was more than stuck-up. Luckily, he didn’t stick around very much.
The prosecutor had assured him that this job was ‘cake’–Hotstreak couldn’t wait to face him again and show him how delighted he was with the job.
The couple was nice–they hailed from Amsterdam, and had thick accents that drove him up the wall, for he could barely understand what they were saying. They knew of his exploits–but were confident with his sentence that he would not destroy them, or their shop. Their confidence rankled him, in that he couldn’t intimidate them, but he was letting it slide. If they were going to respect him and not treat him like everyone else (kissing ass, or sucking up, or lording superiority tendencies over him), he was going to treat them lightly.
The elevator music that played grated at his nerves–the mixture of light jazz and instruments hummed peacefully throughout the small shop, giving light to the cheery comfort within. The shop was known for its freshly baked goods and lunch time specials, so there were small booths crammed along one wall, a unisex restroom down the hall, and three walls covered with open displays. The kitchen just beyond the far wall was open, granting a customer viewing access to the couple’s creations, and it always smelled like...grandma’s kitchen. Not that he knew his grandma, or what his grandma’s kitchen smelled like...but that term crept along through his mind whenever he sat down to think about it.
He was sweeping the floor, trying very hard not to get exasperated by the Kenny G that wafted throughout the shop, when the door opened, the bell tinkling cheerily.
The couple had retreated to the back to start on some donuts for tomorrow’s morning rush, so he looked over his shoulder to see what he had to do to help the paying customer.
He immediately glowered and tried hard to keep from flushing in embarrassment.
Aquamaria, her watery form shimmering with the afternoon sunlight and overhead ceiling lights, quivered with the force of her held in laughter as she looked at him. Distorted and mutated by the Big Bang, Maria’s very form was the essence of water. Nothing dripped or splashed as she moved about, her features darkly defined by deeper shades of water. Her features had been pretty as a human, and they were still pretty now–her eyebrows had been tweezed into conquered half moons with a wide swatch near her straight, thin nose; her lips were tight and firm, yet easily curled into a smirk; her eyes, deep and large, were surrounded by thick, short lashes that defined the dark blue color of her irises. There weren’t any true identifying features of her body, but Maria was a curvy Latina; with wide hips, comfortably firm thighs, pleasantly pillowing chest and shoulders; she was the type that would have worn low cut hip huggers and tight shirts, putting white girls to shame with her curves. La Guitara had been one of her nicknames; before the change, Francis had teased her about the comparison she had with Jennifer Lopez’s infamous shape.
Those days were gone–but she was still as bossy and demanding as ever.
“What’s this, Francis? You makin’ bread nowadays?” she demanded, her heavy Spanish accent filled with laughter as she surveyed the cozy shop. “I cannot imagine you as a wife, son!”
“Fuck you,” Hotstreak muttered, with no real malice. He continued sweeping as she tittered behind one watery hand. “What the hell do you want? You ain’t gonna buy shit, leave.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, fucker. I ain’t the one being all whipped by the law...” She took her time to survey the apron and the broom. She burst into laughter as the old woman emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel cloth.
“Can I help you?” she asked, blinking at the Bang Baby’s mutated form.
Maria looked over at her, scowling. Her watery form shimmered briefly with irritation as she turned her back to the woman.
Sighing, the old woman shook her head. “You can take your break, now, Francis. Remember...fifteen minutes. I’ll need you to clean out the stove.”
Out in the side alley, Maria laughed once more as Hotstreak lit a cigarette, scowling at her.
“When did you get out, anyway?” she asked, facing him, waving away the smoke blown in her direction. “I heard from Chiggy that you were out. But you ain’t once called me or let me know you were out. I thought you and Ebon was going to be in there for awhile, what with all that shit you two pulled.”
“I got out. I’m on probation. Gotta work, gotta school, gotta take fuckin’ Anger Management classes.”
“Same old shit, huh? No matter how many times you take that Anger class, you ain’t improved for shit!” Maria said on a laugh. “You ain’t wired to be nice, Francis.”
“Fuck off, Maria. I’m pissed enough as it is.”
“Can’t I show how much I care for you, Hotstreak?” she then cooed, reaching out to grasp his chin. At her touch, there was a slight sizzle of heat on water, and she withdrew her hand, laughing again. “Cut it out! It’s good that you’re out, though. Ebon gonna be in there for a while though, huh? Last I heard, he was headed straight for prison. But Talon was talking to me the other day–she and the boys are going to break him out.”
“She still whipped on him?”
“She respects him,” Maria corrected with a slight smirk. “Thinks we should all stick together.”
“All you deformed shits...I ain’t runnin’ around with your crew. Ebon makes me sick.”
“He’s a sick fuck sometimes,” Maria agreed, nodding, “but he gets respect.”
“He don’t get no respect!” Hotstreak spit, removing his cigarette from his mouth. “I don’t fuckin’ respect him! No good nigger, anyway!”
“Oh, stop! You ain’t tough, sucker!” Maria scolded. “You all jacked up and shit with your little job...you going back to Union?”
“Yeah...gotta get my GED. Gotta wear this, too...” He bent slightly, pulling up his pants leg to reveal the anklet. It was bulky and awkward, locked around his lower limb. Clinging tightly to his leg, just above his sock, the thing was noticeable if one knew what to look for.
“That can be removed,” Maria said, lifting her brow. “I know a guy that can do it right quick. What you say?”
“Nah...I kinda want to stick it through.”
She gasped, hands on her cheek. Then she reached out to clap a palm over his forehead, laughing when he knocked her hand away from him. “You changing again, honey? I ain’t heard that sort of shit from you... ever! Ever! What’s been goin’ on with you, Hottie?”
“Don’t fuckin’ call me that. Nothin’s been ‘going on’, either.”
“What’s this I heard about you bein’ loved up on some guy?”
Hotstreak immediately choked in a thick amount of smoke, cigarette flying as he proceeded to hack violently. Maria held her hands on her hips, giving him a stern expression. “Don’t you be thinking that I ain’t heard about that, mister! Come clean to momma, now. I heard from reliable sources that you turned fag with some kid from that high school you run around in.”
“Where the fuck did you hear that?” Hotstreak immediately demanded, hacking a few more times, then hocking a loogey.
“I got ears. May be all changed and shit, but they still work.”
“Fuckin’ Talon, huh? She’s talking shit again, isn’t she? Fuckin’ turkey...next time I see her, I’m–”
“You’ll do what, working boy? You all good, now. You can’t do that sort of shit! ‘Sides, Talon just relaying what she heard. You know we all tight.”
“Yeah, I heard that being a lesbian is in, nowadays...”
Maria reached over and slapped him upside the head. “Motherfucker, you don’t be goin’ around and spreading rumors and shit! Don’t you be talking shit like that! Theresa’s my girl, fucker. Got nothin’ but sisterly love for her, and you talking shit pisses me off!”
“Don’t you fuckin’ hit me anymore–!”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Francis! You know I can take you! I’m not scared of you! Don’t be going all crazy on me, cuz I ain’t going to take that from you! You listen up close, you little shit!”
At this, Hotstreak had to smirk. Maria stood around five foot five, and she was calling him ‘little’.
“I’m just telling you what I heard, and I wanna hear the right things from the right source...I ain’t accusing you of being fag. Lord knows how many hos you’ve hit since you learned what to do with that Vienna Sausage of yours...”
“Whatever...”
“...so I thought about it, and want to compromise with you. You give me the right scoop, and I be setting the story straight. Respect? That’s how much love I have for you, son.”
“Fine. It wasn’t shit at all. Just some kid that got all mixed up with shit. Ebon took things the wrong way. That one day when we were having it out outside of Crankers? Kid got all confused. People would have blamed me if he got killed, so I went and removed him.”
Maria snorted, crossing her arms over a once defined bosom. “You ‘removed’ him?”
“I removed him. Then Ebon got all thinkin’ that just cuz I did, he was all thinkin’ that the kid was my bitch, or somethin’.”
Maria laughed out loud, throwing her head back as she delighted in his scowl.
“What’d you do? I mean, with the kid?” she asked, grinning.
“Set him straight. Told him he better not tell. Had to make sure that he didn’t snitch, so I visited him a few times.”
“You knew him?”
“One of my favorite work-out toys at school. Had to.”
She laughed again. “Just how ‘favorite’, Francis?”
“Fuck you, bitch! Don’t you be starting any shit!”
Maria held her sides as she continued to laugh, then reaching out to tug on his goatee. He swatted her hand away with a snarl, making her giggle. “Okay, okay...I’m done. That’s all it was?”
“That’s all,” Hotstreak confirmed with a firm nod. “Ain’t nothin’...”
“See? Knew you weren’t fag. I’ll let them know you ain’t.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Just some girls. Hey, I’ll let ya get back to work. But any time you get tired of this bullshit, I can help you out. We’ve got to stick together, Hotstreak. Be seeing you!”
She waved at him as she walked off, giggling to herself. Hotstreak shook his head in annoyance, scowling up at the sky, wondering what it was about her that had him talking upon her prompting. At this train of thought, Richie Foley immediately came to mind. He took out another cigarette, lighting it as he shook his head once more.
“Fag...”
OooooooooooO
He was reluctant to return to school–after all, it was a waste of his time. All he did, really, was sleep. And it didn’t help that he was normally irritated by everyone around him, and the crap the teachers were trying to teach. Not like knowing how the Berlin Wall fell was going to help a guy trying to make it on the streets. School was a waste of time. There was no real point to it.
But since it was a court order, and part of his probation, he had to attend.
He was scowling darkly as he approached the yellow, two story building. Dakota Union High was nondescript, city, and crammed within a lot that was nothing more than dirt and pavement. An eyesore, really; surrounded by chain link fences, minimal lawn spaces, and a parking lot that held enough for teachers’ and seniors’ vehicles. Common place with recruitment for various gangs and Bang Baby activity, Dakota Union High was a source of amusement from time to time. Once upon a time, he’d traipse through the halls, scamming chicks and roughing up losers that begged for it, but he couldn’t do so this time... at least, in the wide open.
The security guards and personnel had been warned of his return, and he knew snitches were everywhere, waiting for him to slip. He scowled as he saw the two guards posted outside the front entrance doors, obviously waiting for him. His anklet felt heavier all of a sudden; a pesty anchor that stubbornly reminded him of his return. It was hidden behind the baggy hem of his cargo pants, which was layered with a Detroit Pistons jersey several sizes too big. No one ever told him he had crappy fashion sense–he fit in with everyone else.
One the guards ‘hmf-ed’ at him as he approached, achingly aware of the Composition notebook and single pen he held in one hand. He felt nerdy and embarrassingly obvious as he ascended the staircase. The two guards let him by, and he trembled with the need to turn back and ask them WTF with their superior expressions and attitudes. Forcibly restraining himself, he walked inside and passed through the security checkpoint with other students. Which was horribly funny, because once he’d gained his powers, he hadn’t held a weapon since. Damn, he was a weapon in itself!
The first bell rang, and a muscle in his cheek twitched as the students in all halls began flowing through their respective classrooms. He had to fight to remember what his schedule was as he drifted off to the second floor. Today was looking quite boring and nasty...
It was a day for firsts; he sat in class and struggled to pay attention, taking notes here and there. Gathering text books that he’d never bothered with before. Every one of his teachers gave him wary and cautious looks as he took over a seat in the very back, and every one of them treated him with all the cordial attitudes that were similar to that of guards in prison–giving him attention, but only for restricted moments of time, and for a few things only. With a great deal of hostility and wariness as well.
His hand was cramping by fourth period, and he was severely disgusted with himself. It was sort of good that none of his Crew had come to school today, to see him actually paying attention and writing down notes...not that they were good notes, but they were notes he’d managed to copy from things being written on the board.
His scrawl was embarrassing to look at, as well–just the fact that he was writing things down was just...not him.
Lunch time found him in the library, scanning the bookshelves for a particular reference book to use for a topic in history. He had a paper due tomorrow, and he really had no idea how to go about accomplishing it. While he’d done schoolwork in the past, when he gave some semblances of giving a damn, he’d turned in things that were often marked with D’s and F’s...it wasn’t that he didn’t try; he did, but it was only for the sake of passing things. He’d been held back, and things had been discouraging...he didn’t bother to try anymore.
He sighed in frustration, pulling at his goatee in thought as he stared at the Encyclopedia collection in front of him. He really didn’t want to write the paper...or spend all this trouble in getting information on the activities occurring in Gaza, but...hell. He didn’t even know where to start. And he wasn’t even up to date on current events. He could care less what was happening in other countries.
Licking his dry lips, he rolled his eyes in exasperation and left the aisle. Picking up his things, he left the library with a minute feeling of failure.
OooooooooooO
Virgil knocked on the stall door where Richie was changing with an impatient yell. It was their P.E. period, which they shared with each other and with some seniors. As always, Richie had chosen to change in a stall rather than out in the open with everyone else. Virgil just liked to harass him.
“C’mon, man! Get that ass in gear and change!”
“Can’t a guy take a dump without having people hassle him?” Richie roared as he pulled his shirt over his head.
“You ain’t takin’ shit! Why you gotta change in the stall, anyway? I thought only girls did that!”
“And for that very reason, I’m in here changing, so you disgusting male perverts won’t see or be tempted by my womanly goodies...”
Virgil rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he pulled away from the stall. “Richie...that was just...wrong.”
“No, what’s wrong is that I want privacy, and you’re trying to peek.”
“I am not!” Virgil kicked the door, laughing. “C’mon! We don’t wanna be late! It looks like we’re playing volleyball, and you KNOW I ain’t playin’ without you!”
The stall door opened, Richie throwing his street clothes at Virgil with a snarl.
Virgil laughed as he caught the worn pair of jeans and sweater shirt, and tossed them in the direction of their lockers. “Have I ever told you how lovely you look in those gym shorts?”
“Have I ever told you how lovely you would look with your head in the toilet?”
“Wantin’ me wet and wild all for you, Richie m’dear?”
“Virgil, stop being GAY!”
Virgil laughed as he walked out from the bathroom section of the locker rooms, and found himself distracted by one of their classmates. Richie was thankful for the respite, and looked down at himself, flushing slightly. Did he really look... ‘lovely’? He grimaced at the sight of his pale legs, toned from his activities as Gear, and for the fact that gym shorts were NOT flattering. His shirt actually fit him–as everyone else’s did, as Mr. Constinelli refused to grant students with baggy clothing. But he hated what he looked like–just another scrawny white guy with glasses.
He looked up and over at Virgil, taking in his best friend’s plump derriere, muscular legs and arms, and for the fact that his shirt hung tightly from his shoulders. Ever since Virgil had discovered his Bang Baby talents, the boy had begun regular work-outs that earned him cut muscles, muscles that Richie was jealous over. Sure, he worked out–pushups, situps, weights...but no amount of training could give him the same form as Virgil’s. His arms were toned, his biceps cut and defined, but in no way similar to Virgil’s. He had enough definition to look passable for a superhero in uniform.
He damned his scrawny size, muttering to himself as he retrieved his clothes and folded them carefully before putting them away. It wasn’t as if he had a thin, slender frame–he had a fast metabolism that allowed him to eat any and all that he wanted, and he certainly burned extra with his ‘after school activities’...and no one could mistake him as girly. He just wished that he didn’t look so scrawny.
He looked over in time to see Hotstreak walking into the locker room. He froze in place, mind going momentarily blank as he took in the metahuman’s presence. He knew that the older male was back in school...and he knew they would run into each other at some point and time...but did it have to be now? They had the same P.E. class, and he knew this would happen–! The guy was dressed in his usual baggy clothing, but he only difference in his appearance was the Composition notebook he held.
Otherwise...he was still the same.
Well, what did Richie expect? A complete change in appearance? What was going to happen, now that they knew each other in ways no one else did? Would things still be the same? Were they still going to take on their previous roles–was Hotstreak still going to be the asshole that Richie knew him as, or someone completely different? These questions and more ran through his mind, causing a lapse of intelligent thought as he panicked.
He swallowed as Hotstreak walked toward the back of the locker room–where his locker was, no doubt. But was he really following through his court-ordered sentence? Was he going to change into his clothes and actually participate, rather than sitting on the bleachers and snoring off some late night activity?
Richie felt himself flush as he tried to picture the metahuman in their gym clothes–the white shirt with the school’s mascot and name and the black mesh shorts...he could see Hotstreak’s broad shoulders being defined with the tee, his powerful frame with its mixture of muscle and flab being showcased in clothing that was his actual size, and not something overly baggy or large.
“Hey, you done wrapping up your breasts?” Virgil asked him, seemingly appearing out of no where and startling Richie from his memories.
“STOP DOING THAT!” Richie roared, slamming his locker door shut, the loud bang reverberating throughout the room.
“Doin’ WHAT?” Virgil asked, leaping away from him in surprise. “What the hell is with you, man?”
“Uh...you just surprised me, that’s all. Sorry, V-man.”
Virgil wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close as they walked out from the room. “You nervous about him returning?” he whispered, his breath caressing Richie’s ear. The boy tried very hard not to react to the action–Virgil was his best friend and partner, and if he found out that Richie thought of him while jacking off–well...it just wouldn’t go good.
“Kinda...I mean...how long’s this good boy act going to last?” Richie mumbled, ducking his head as they entered the gym.
“I know what’chu mean, man. Ah, well. That’s how it goes,” Virgil commented, shrugging. “Let’s kick ass, Rich! Show these guys who rules the spiking zone...well...for you...the underhanded serve.”
“Hey! At least it goes over! And I get more points doing it that way than the other way.”
“One day, when you’re a man, I’m sure you’ll be able to serve it the way men do.”
“Fuck you, V!”
Virgil laughed as he grabbed Richie in a headlock, and administered a noogie, all the while struggling to keep his shorts on as the blond tried to pants him.
OooooooooooO
The game was surprisingly quiet and neutral–after their last encounter, Mr. Constinelli avoided Hotstreak, and Hotstreak avoided the male gym teacher. And since everyone was so tense with the older male’s appearance and participation, it was more of required movement that had everyone trying to hit the ball. Of course, everyone was trying to avoid entering Hotstreak’s space, and no one bothered trying to get to the ball if it sailed in his direction. Since he really wasn’t into the sport of volleyball, Hotstreak didn’t bother pushing himself to participate; if the ball was falling toward him, he’d bump it casually with a fist, but that was about it. And his serves usually either hit the net or someone was too scared to hit back.
Virgil was annoyed with the metahuman–he could at least try and make the game more interesting! He was on the opposite side, and was the only one really challenging the older male’s serves. His classmates were too terrified to even try, and most of them was the reason why his team was losing.
He looked over at Richie, whom he’d been separated from when the teams were called. Richie was on Hotstreak’s side, and he could see his boy was nervous as hell. He’d caught the blond glancing in Hotstreak’s direction more than once, giving off all his I’m-Nervous-And-Seriously-Uncertain vibes with all the tugging on his sleeves and jiggling of his knee.
Virgil wondered why–if the guy was tutoring the guy as he said, why would he be that way? Unless Richie thought things had changed between them within those last two months. Of course, Virgil couldn’t imagine why. Yes, the thing between him and Hotstreak and Ebon was suspiciously funny, but what was it that had his best friend on edge? He’d begun acting this way since he learned of Hotstreak’s return. And all this defending of Hotstreak’s honor had Virgil naturally suspicious.
Narrowing his eyes, he had to wonder what Richie wasn’t telling him.
The game ended with the opposite team in favor. Seeing that the period was almost over, Virgil hurried underneath the net, making a beeline toward Richie to press for more information.
But just as he caught his best friend’s eye, Richie’s last name was called with that familiar roughened voice that was just as ominous as the man’s name itself. Virgil stopped short, and glared suspiciously over at Hotstreak, who was walking over to Richie. Instinctively, Virgil readied himself for a confrontation, something similar to what had happened their last class together.
Hotstreak raised an eyebrow as he looked at Virgil’s protective stance, and he forced himself not to comment or make a move on the imposing attitude. He took a deep breath, and focused on Richie, forcibly ignoring everything else.
“Hey, I need to talk to you,” he muttered, aware that all eyes were on him, everyone holding their breath.
Before Richie could respond, Virgil snapped, “Hey, we don’t want none of anything you’re lookin’ to dish out, Hotbreath! Let’s just keep it cool!”
“I AM,” Hotstreak growled, fighting hard to keep his temper from exploding, glaring at Virgil dangerously. “This ain’t any of your bisness!”
“Yeah, right, whatever you’ve got to say to him, you can say to me! You’re just going to–!”
“Is there a problem, here?” Mr. Constinelli asked, cautiously making his way over.
Richie immediately interjected, stepping away from Virgil. Glancing at Hotstreak, then at the teacher, he shook his head. “No, no, no. Nothing. We–we’re just...catching up on things. Nothing’s wrong.”
“Rich–!”
“Virgil, stop!” Richie growled, feeling embarrassed by his friend’s vehement behavior. He looked up at the older male, and felt himself flush under that intensely dark gaze. “What is it, er, Hotstreak?”
“I need to axe you sumthin’...in private,” Hotstreak then emphasized, glaring at Mr. Constinelli and Virgil.
Virgil started to protest this when Richie shook his head, and pointed away from him, silently signaling that Virgil leave. Virgil looked shocked, Mr. Constinelli walking away, but a few moments later, the African-American narrowed his eyes as he glared at his friend and walked off–a few steps away. Just in case.
“Virgil!”
“Fine! Fine!”
Seeing Virgil stomp off across the gym, Richie flushed at his best friend’s overprotectiveness, gathered a deep breath, and looked back at Hotstreak, who was glaring at Virgil.
“What is it you wanted?” he asked.
“Oh.” Hotstreak paused, a brief dance of embarrassment starting across his features. Then he straightened his shoulders and looked dangerously imposing as he growled out, “I need some...he–hel–fuck. I need you to look at somethin’.”
Richie raised his eyebrows, feeling as if his very insides were iced over with his disbelief. Hotstreak was asking him for help? Is that what he was trying to say? A strange tinge of excitement shot through him, startling him and forcing goosebumps to rise all over his skin. “What is it?”
“After school....in the lobby.” Hotstreak’s words were tinted with hesitation and doubt, and his eyes flitted at and on everything but Richie. For this reason, knowing that he was somewhat out of sorts left Richie feeling confident in that he wasn’t the only awkward one in this situation. He relaxed slightly.
“All right. I’ll–meet you there. After school.”
Hotstreak nodded, the action jerky and stiff–he turned, seemed uncertain about what to do next, then walked off toward the locker rooms.
Richie let out a half gasp as he was tackled to the floor by one flying Virgil.
“You okay, Rich? You okay? He didn’t beat you up when I happened to blink?” Virgil asked, staring at him, looking for injuries.
Richie kicked him off, giving an outraged huff. “Virgil, knock it off! It wasn’t anything like that! He just wanted to talk to me!”
“About what? An’ when the hell did you two get so fuckin’ friendly?” Virgil snapped, both of them rising to their feet, brushing themselves off.
“I–Virgil! Did it ever occur to you that you sound like a jealous bitch, sometimes?”
Virgil stiffened, then his face took on a comically outraged expression. Richie would have laughed, but he was too annoyed and too filled with curiosity over Hotstreak’s request that all he could do was stare at him angrily.
“A jealous bitch,” Virgil repeated carefully, staring at Richie pointedly. “You think I sound like a jealous bitch...”
“I’m sorry, Virg–”
“You know what? Fuck you. Whatever mood swing you’re on, I don’t want none of. See ya after school, or whatever...”
“Virgil!” Richie exclaimed as his best friend presented his back to him and walked off, the bell ringing loudly. He sighed in frustration, hand racing up to slap his forehead in confusion. He hadn’t meant to snap– it was just–all this excitement and pressure had made him more than...jittery. Confused. Anxious.
With a low groan, he started his way toward the locker room, wondering how he could make this up to his best friend without really divulging in destroying detail.