Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Three ( Chapter 3 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Warning: violent non-con.
Ebon gets what he wants
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.26.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 6.1K | Visits: 681 | Status: Completed
Warning: violent non-con.
Ebon gets what he wants
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.26.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 6.1K | Visits: 681 | Status: Completed
Right Here
Chapter Three
Virgil slumped in his seat, glaring sullenly at the counter before him. They’d stopped at a restaurant that was infamous for its ‘mile high burgers’ and frosted shakes. After dinner, Robert had taken off to talk on the payphone, while Sharon was visiting the women’s bathroom. He had grown quite dispassionate about the road trip, and couldn’t wait to get home. Sighing, he leaned his chin into his palm, his eyes dancing here to there with some interest. The restaurant was quite empty, save for two guys and a girl sitting in a booth, an elderly couple that was arguing over the tip, and him.
He shifted in his seat as he signaled for another Pepsi, the tired waitress nodding as she walked off to retrieve it. He took his time in drinking it, then slipped off outside. It wasn’t snowing as bad as it was earlier–but it left behind drifts of dirtied ice, the snowplow making a loud protest as it steadily cruised down the street.
He warmed himself up with a quick rub of his arms, and glanced around. The door opened behind him, that girl walking out, her face set with indifference as she eyed him cautiously. Her cell phone was ringing, and she gave him a stern up and down that made him more than discomfitted. Finally, she determined him a non-threat, and answered her phone.
Virgil looked away, and reached into his back pocket, taking out his Shock Vox. He tossed it from hand to hand, walking down the sidewalk to put some distance between himself and the girl that was arguing on her cell. He activated it with a bored sigh, putting extra ‘oomph’ into his tone as he called for Richie.
After listening to static, he shook his head, figuring that Richie was away, or catching up on some shut eye as he slid the thing into his back pocket. He walked back into the restaurant, and took his seat at the counter once more. Sharon was flirting with one of the cooks, her squeaky laughter grating on his nerves as he sent an evil scowl in her direction.
Slumping forward in his seat, Virgil exhaled loudly, and decided to think of Daisy.
They had gotten serious–both had decided to take the Big Step just a few months ago, and it was an experience that he’d gotten quite giddy about. Of course, he’d let Richie know a couple of days later–a casual brag that had him preening as he went over light detail of what happened.
Richie had rolled his eyes, covering his ears. “I didn’t want to know that, Virg!” he’d exclaimed, shaking his head.
“No, seriously! I’m a man, now, Rich! A real, bona fide man that does men things! I shot, I scored, I am in for double overtime!” Virgil had declared with a cheesy grin, thumbs flicking upward. “It was a long decision, though. We had to wait for her birth control to activate. Can’t go havin’ a kid now...though, I might rethink it later on in the future.”
“Ha, ha... Did you guys follow protocol, per Frieda, on dental dams and clinic condoms?”
Virgil had rolled his eyes at that. Frieda Goren had made it her personal business to inform everybody of safe sex, and constantly made sure her friends were practicing these methods. She’d even had them making appointments at the aforementioned clinic to get tested. Virgil and Richie had gone for shits and giggles–Virgil just to check things out, and Richie because he’d gotten uneasy after hearing one of Frieda’s speeches.
It was one of their more embarrassing moments. People waiting within were eyeing them cautiously, and they didn’t make things easier–they sat, giggling in the chairs, over the various STD information and clinical anagrams of the human body. They were eighteen years old, but they were giggling over the female and male forms as if they were in fourth grade.
All in all, Virgil did not regret this decision he’d made with Daisy. They both felt they were ready for it, had planned it, and had carried it out with embarrassing ease. Two virgins, in love and experimenting for the first time, and neither had been disappointed at the results. In a way, it seemed to bring them closer–a little too close, sometimes. Now that hormones were awakened, they seemed to have forgotten what else the world consisted of. Daisy Watkins---plain, ordinary, intelligent and more than mature for her years, had suddenly turned into a sex crazed deviant.
Virgil had been giddy after the first time, but when Daisy was striving to see how many places, times and ways they could do it, he became a little scared. Wasn’t he supposed to be the deviant one? The one to initiate things?
Discussing this with Richie only made it worse. His best friend of over a decade had started to laugh...and couldn’t stop laughing as Virgil scowled over the bewilderment of his masculinity. Daisy was literally milking him for all that he was worth–he barely had the energy to perform his Static duties later on.
Of course, a little annoyed at things, Virgil had questioned Richie of his own initiation into manhood–and immediately retracted the question at the dopey grin on his friend’s face.
“I don’t WANNA KNOW!” he’d screamed, making Richie laugh again. The thought of his best friend and his enemy, going at it the way that he and Daisy did, made Virgil’s stomach twist into knots. Not that he hadn’t given thought to it. Of course he did. Because things like that made him wonder...as all things perverse did. Obviously, those two enjoyed each other, otherwise they wouldn’t risk so much to do so. In a way, he kinda understood what it was that kept them together–if it were similar to what he had with Daisy, then he just HAD to understand.
“...Even if Evans doesn’t do it, we just gotta go at it and try it,” someone said, and Virgil felt his ears twist up and away from his head, straining in that direction. Of course, it could have been a random conversation...but Evans struck a cord in him. For Ebon’s last name was Evans...and with his big shot status, anything was a go. “Just an in and out trip...can’t hurt.”
“Well, whatever. It’s not like I’m worried, or anything. This is just a small town thing, and...well... never mind. Let’s hit the road. We’ve got to be in Dakota by Tuesday, anyway. Let’s drop by Chicago and see what’s going on there.”
“Fine...whatever.”
Virgil watched as the two men rose from their booth, laying down tips and money to cover for their dinner charge. He watched them leave, his eyebrows furrowing with curiosity. Evans? Dakota? Of course...whoever they are, they had obvious interest in Ebon. But for good? Or bad? He wished he was able to investigate...anything to keep them atop of Ebon’s game. He scowled as Robert emerged from the small hallway, and called his children to him.
“Christ...I freakin’ hate road trips,” he muttered with a dark look, sliding off his stool to join his family.
OooooooooooO
Gear didn’t answer Ebon, slowly starting to feel helpless as he felt his breathing catch. It wasn’t the first time that he wished for powers that enabled better defenses.
A slow tingle of doubt and dread coasted through him, drenching his insides with fear. Real, absolute fear that yanked at every inner organ. It was nearly twenty degrees out, but his skin broke out into a light sweat that left him feeling sticky.
He couldn’t see Ebon–the meta wasn’t showing himself, but he could feel his eyes on him, and could detect the sound of his breathing. He felt that fear had sharpened his every sense, tuning in with rapid defense to the danger that literally surrounded him.
Ebon was capable of anything–he held nothing back when intimidating an enemy. And Gear knew he was vulnerable to anything the shadow-man felt like dishing out. The helplessness took root deep in his gut, and he was angry at himself for feeling this way.
Then, without warning, there were hands–everywhere. They shot out from the walls, wrapping their solid, strong fingers around his limbs, forcing him off his feet. He gave an undignified yelp as he hit the roof on his back, feeling his legs being twisted with an uncomfortable wrenching that made him shift his hips in order to appease the movement. When he realized that the familiar weight of his skates were missing, his toes curled briefly in reflex.
A new horror filled him, fueling his struggle to get loose from the various hands that held him. Fingers tightened into his flesh–bony presses that pinched muscle and wrenched skin with a viciousness that left him mildly hesitant to move once more.
He then gave a panicked curse as he kicked his legs out, socked feet kicking against numerous hands, feeling his kneepads being torn violently from his limbs. Even his socks were forcefully removed, leaving his feet cold and vulnerable to the harsh weather.
Ebon chuckled again, that same ugly sound that reverberated everywhere, giving no real indication of where he was within that cell of shadow. Gear’s fingers curled in desperate strength as he felt numerous hands remove the protective material of his gloves. It was as if several people were on him at once; various hands held his wrists and forearms, gripping the hem of the glove and others ripping the material off. His arms were locked into forced movement as his elbow pads were yanked painfully from his limbs, the straps protesting the removal with cracks of sound as velcro was separated.
Panic made Gear’s breath wheezy as he forced his body into wildly twisting motion, more hands shooting out from the walls to pin him down. He didn’t care what sort of sound his distressed voice made as he screamed in panic, every cell alive with fear and dread. The strangled sound he released made Ebon cackle with amusement.
Gear’s wildly flailing arms were caught, then restrained together at the wrists. He gave another sound as his arms were yanked painfully over his head, pinned onto the hard, cold surface of the roof. His feet were held down as well, fingers encircling his ankles, fingers clenching hard over his toes.
To be held down in this manner...pinned and helpless...it left him with a frozen, heavy feeling in his gut. Stark realization that Ebon was going to go through with his fantasy left his mind in blind terror. Horror at this purely primitive motivation to strip him of male pride and dignity caused instinctive panic within every cell. He began screaming for help, uncaring that his voice broke, uncaring who heard, uncaring of what he looked like in such a vulnerable position.
Ebon laughed, deep and entertained–the heart stopping horror at feeling fingers on his helmet caused Gear to shout; he ducked his head, twisted from side to side, trying to keep it from being torn off. There were too many hands–he couldn’t escape. Patches of hair were torn from his scalp as Ebon ripped his helmet off with a satisfied exhalation. All motion, all action stopped as Ebon stared at him in stunned reaction.
Gear himself was silent for those tense filled seconds, staring up at Ebon’s finally visible face with wide-eyed terror. When Ebon threw his head back to laugh, a hateful sound that was more ominous than the actions he was taking, Gear felt his eyes tear up with helplessness and vulnerability. Because Ebon now knew who he was. He knew his true identity. So many actions could be used against him with that single action; for the threat Ebon was to everyone else was now a true threat against Richard Foley.
“Fuckin’ A, man,” was all Ebon managed to eke out, tossing the helmet aside as he continued to stare down at him in disbelief. Because of his bad vision, blind without the visor or his glasses, Richie did not see the slight shake of Ebon’s nearly invisible head within the cell of shadows. But he saw the white eyes narrow, the man’s expression hidden within the confines of darkness that made up his features.
When Ebon’s voice came again, it was low, hard–full of promise.
“I’mina fuck you hard.”
“Get off me, GODDAMN IT!” Richie screamed, arms jerking against those hands that held him down, but to no avail. He gave another anguished scream as he realized how fruitless it was to struggle.
He was physically tiring out–no amount of adrenaline, desperation or terror could make him physically superhuman, no matter how dire the situation. His mind, capable of organized thought and structured definition crumbled into thoughtless panic the more he registered his helplessness.
“GET OFF!”
“I will...chill, chill. Fuck!” Ebon then shouted in delight, finally showing his full self, his human form breaking away from the shadows. His white eyes were round with aggression and delight–a chilling combination.
Richie was aware that his voice cracked, but he didn’t care as he screamed again, feeling Ebon’s hands on the collar of his shirt. He struggled, tossing his torso as Ebon grunted, pulling painfully at the material, trying to rip it away from his thrashing body. The other hands worked at removing the belt–when it was finally pulled from his waist, it was tossed aside carelessly, the resounding clank of metal against gravel obscenely loud despite Richie’s frightened shouts and protests.
When Ebon grew frustrated in that he couldn’t remove the blond’s clothing, he paused in yanking. “Shiv! Man, give me a knife!” he ordered.
Shiv...Richie forgot that Ebon’s little group was still there. They’d been so silent and unmoving, and he had been so focused on the terror that was assaulting him–desperation laced his movements as hope caused his breath to hitch.
“Shiv–! Help me!” he cried.
The meta winced at hearing his name, his face a troubled expression of myriad conflict. He, Kangorr and Theresa had been standing silently nearby, keeping an eye out for interruptions that could destroy Ebon’s ‘fun’. All three were severely uncomfortable with knowing what was going on behind that blackness Ebon had created–they were silent as they tried focusing elsewhere on things. While they could not see anything beyond that blackness, they were able to hear everything.
At Ebon’s order, Shiv fumbled with the request, the flow of kinetic energy slipping down his arms and forming sturdy weight within both hands as he pictured a simple butterfly knife. The energy faded as it solidified, the assuring weight causing his fingers to curl over the weapon with doubt.
Theresa looked at him with a minute expression of refusal, her chin jutting up–her expression telling him to refuse. Shiv’s hand shook as they listened to more of the struggle behind them–he glanced at her, his own uncertainty and doubt reflected in his features.
She shook her head ever so slightly–a jerk of her head.
“SHIV!” Richie cried again.
“Shut up!” Ebon ordered as Richie continued to plead for the goateed meta to help him.
Without looking, Shiv tossed the knife in the general direction of the cell, Theresa looking away from him with a glance of disappointment. Kangorr ignored them both, taking steps away as he lit a cigarette, nearly hidden with the natural shadows of the roof.
Shiv looked down at his feet, shuffling his scuffed sneakers at hearing Ebon’s grunt of satisfaction.
“Someone–! Please! Please, Shiv! Please help me! Ple–!”
“Shut up, bitch!” Ebon snarled, the sound of ripping clothing tearing through Richie’s desperate shouts. “Shut up!”
“Don’t do this! Don’t do this–! Let me go! Please let me go! Don’t do this! Don’t do this!”
“SHUT UP!” Ebon snapped, knife being tossed aside.
As Richie thrashed, effort renewed in his struggle to get free, more hands grew out of the shadows, pulling at his ripped clothing. There was a sense of stunned horror in being forced naked in front of someone as vile and violent as Ebon–the sense of invulnerability in clothing was stripped away as his clothing was removed.
When he was clad in his boxer-briefs, Ebon took his time to stare down at him, his eyes raking over Richie’s body. It felt as if they were physically stroking over his skin, caressing everything that was open and vulnerable, leaving a trail of disgust in its wake. Then, with grossly contradicting tenderness, Ebon removed his underwear with the help of the various hands, tossing those aside and continuing with his perusal.
For that one stunned instant, in being revealed to Ebon’s smirking eyes as he took in Richie’s revealed form, the blond was struck still. Horror and exposure made it hard for him to move–the cold had nothing to do with it.
The fingers around his pinned arms suddenly grew stronger, savage weight being forced upon his hands, grinding skin and bone into gravel. His legs were forced apart as Ebon stood over him, with that continuous, silent smirk. Desperation clouded his pride–Richie began sobbing raw, immaculate words, pleading for help and release as Ebon began laughing. The sound was dark...short...clipped. Somehow more threatening than physical force.
The fact that Ebon delighted in his pain and torture left Richie feeling utmost terror as he breathed harshly, trying to focus, trying to concentrate on getting his panic-blinded mind back into track.
When the living shadow began moving, his own arms shifting to his waist, that concentration to formulate coherent thought and strategies flitted away from him.
“SHIV–!” Richie screamed, mindless of any other name. His head tossed from side to side, trying to locate the purple haired meta, but seeing only darkness wherever he looked.
“I said, SHUT UP!” Ebon then shouted over him, his voice filled with violence and disgust.
Over his own shout, there were the obvious sounds of his belt being unlatched, of his zipper being undone. He laughed again, over the lowering of his own pants and underwear, his fluid movements taking him between the blond’s legs, his weight settling over the thrashing warmth underneath him.
The feel of Ebon’s body against his, naked from the waist down, made Richie mindless. He opened his mouth, screaming once more for the meta that he knew could hear him.
Ebon struck him then, the sound of fist against flesh causing all three members to cringe with the unexpected action. Ebon hit him again, grunting with the effort, the sound sickly clear and loud within the sudden silence. There were the obvious sounds of skin shifting over skin; of Ebon chuckling lowly in satisfaction, the sound muffled for an instant. There was the minute sound of suctioned air against flesh, the sound grossly disgusting.
“Mine,” Ebon crowed, the sound resounding again, Richie’s voice muffled as he protested. There was the obvious sound of foil being ripped, of latex being handled. Ebon was careful that way–not to spread disease, but to withhold evidence. “Fucking bitch...that says you’re mine...”
“...Shiv....please...”
“I said, SHUT–THE–FUCK–UP!” Ebon screamed terribly. Each word was punctuated with fist on flesh, violent noises that made the other three cringe over and over again. “Take it, you fucking whore.”
The silence was just as agonizing as the frantic screams from earlier; each distinct difference was as violent and sick as the actions being taken now. At the ugly sound of flesh slapping against flesh, of Ebon’s hiss of triumph, all three members felt different urges of reaction.
Theresa covered her mouth. Her throat was locked tight–her urge to stab out her eardrums to somehow forget what she had just heard caused her nails to dig into her flesh. She pushed herself away, trying to escape the present sounds, her knees threatening to give out from underneath her. She was trying not to react outright–to not draw attention to the vile man that took violent possession of someone that lost the fight. But how could one NOT react to it? As hardened as she was, she couldn’t help but get sick with what occurred.
Shiv took a few steps away as well, his stomach lurching to his throat–he was trying to focus on other things, but his mind was racing through everything that led to this point–guilt was a strong ally to helplessness. His usually carefree face was uncharacteristically drawn with unfathomable expression as he forced himself to focus on the playing cards he shakily withdrew from his pants pocket. Timmy’s words came to him then, echoing with a sense of finality as he recalled them. It was okay to have a conscience, he’d said. Well, in this business–a conscience got one killed.
Kangorr walked away, ignoring them all–he began on another cigarette, and took a walk to the other side of the roof. He took in Dakota’s various lights as he kept an ear out for anything that may ruin Ebon’s ‘fun’. His expression was indifferent, his lips curled thoughtfully around the next cigarette.
Loyalty, a different definition of fear of the living shadow, kept them near for the duration of the rape. They didn’t want to evoke his ire if they left him, and he were interrupted by some outside force. They had seen too much resulting consequences that he’d taken with others that had failed him.
The whole process, from the time Gear walked into their trap to the grunt of satisfaction Ebon released in his climax, took less than ten minutes.
Shiv forced himself to his feet as he heard Ebon remove his condom–the sounds of him pulling his pants back into place and pulling his belt gave Theresa enough time to compose herself. Ebon emerged from his temporary torture cell with a smirking satisfaction on his face.
Shiv had to suddenly cover his mouth, throat lacing with bile–there was something utterly wrong at Ebon’s pleased expression. Something that even he couldn’t rightly handle.
Ebon walked over as he finished buckling, tucking the extra length of his belt into his belt loops.
“That was worth the wait!” he announced with a childishly pleased laugh. He hit Shiv with the back of his hand as he reached the shorter man’s side. “You wanna go? Fuckin’ tight as hell...”
Shiv was stunned at the sick offer. His mouth dropped open–his stomach lurched. He shook his head frantically in reply. But he remembered what happened to Timmy.
“C’mon, pussy. Get in there. Do him. You ain’t get this chance again. ‘Sides, when you last get laid?”
“N-no. No. I–I don’t d-do that, Ebon!” Shiv protested, stepping back. He could smell him. He could smell that kid on Ebon’s skin. It made his stomach lurch once more, and he felt the acrid liquid swell against his tongue. He spat clumsily, shaking his head. He had trouble standing straight. His palms rested upon his knees as he bent over.
“Fucking pussy!” Ebon snorted. His voice was laced with disgust as he gave Shiv a once over, shaking his head. “Get in there! Do ‘im! He ain’t gonna say shit! You ain’t ever had ass before, have you?”
“No. N-no, Ebon! I don’t want to–!”
“Get in there and fuckin’ do him. Can’t get it up? ‘Sat why? Fuckin’ sissy? Get in there an’ do it.”
“I–I c-can’t–!”
“Do it now, Shiv! Use this. Don’t make it sloppy. Get in, get your rocks off–he’s loose enough, now, so you don’t haveta work it hard. Fuckin’ get yaself off.”
Shiv shook his head, but accepted the condom that Ebon forced into his hand.
“Do it. Prove you can do it,” Ebon pressured with one of those ugly smirks. “Prove your worth, Shiv. You ain’t failed me, before. Why you gonna do it, now?”
Shiv stared at him in silence, petrified. The pressure to perform left him horribly impotent–he couldn’t do it. Ebon had done these things before, but those times were with women.
It was easier listening to women get raped–it was expected. Women were weak and soft. Men...men getting raped by other men...that left him feeling vulnerable on its own. Men were supposed to be strong and incapable of such feminine distress. But hearing what he had–how could he forget? How could he push aside Gear’s pleas and shouts; his silence afterward?
His stomach lurched. Men weren’t supposed to be raped. It was different.
But he remembered what happened to Timmy when he didn’t do what Ebon wanted. Theresa came to his rescue as he turned to follow through with Ebon’s urging, feet heavy. She latched onto his shoulder with her strong fingers, pulling him off course. Never had he been so relieved for her interference.
“We been here long enough!” she cried, her voice husky with her horror. Her face was of wide-eyed panic as she looked at each one, shoving at them with desperate hands. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”
She pushed both of them toward the rooftop door, Kangorr walking back over with a nonchalant expression. He bent to pick up his first cigarette, and pocketed it.
He lifted an eyebrow at his boss, his expressionless face revealing nothing of what he felt of the situation
Ebon pushed against Theresa, then shoved her aside. Being smaller than he, she stumbled a few steps back, wild red hair slashing through the darkness.
“What’s your problem?” he demanded angrily.
She managed to right herself, and shoved him back. “Let’s get out of here! His partner’s prolly lookin’ for him! Let’s get out of here before he sees what you did!”
“I fucked him up!” Ebon said proudly, as if suddenly reminded of what he’d done.
He moved, heading back to his created cell. The shadows were dispersed with a simple hand wave, and Shiv’s mouth dropped open, his features paling as Theresa let out a short shriek of feminine distress, hands flying to her face as she forcefully turned away.
Gear was unconscious, his face tilted away from them. But the sight of his used body, naked and vulnerable, sent the two into fits of undisguised horror. Ebon had left him with his arms over his head, his bare legs opened wide–blood decorated his inner thighs and knees, where Ebon must have handled them after shoving himself into that defenseless body. Ebon had hit him hard–his face bore rapidly swelling wounds that marred the familiar features.
Unmasked, it was obvious who Gear was.
“It’s that kid!” Shiv whispered in stunned surprise, Theresa turning aside to finally vomit, holding onto his shoulder. The sounds of her violent reaction, combined with the vigorous movements she made as her body forcefully rejected what she saw, gave an eerie background to the sight that Shiv stared at. Distractedly, watching as Ebon walked over to the unconscious male, Shiv pulled her hair back from her face.
Ebon moved into a crouch, bending fully over the beaten form a few times–as he shifted, giving ugly chuckles all the while, Shiv could see that he was leaving grotesque hickies over Richie’s neck, chest, stomach and inner thighs. The large marks were going to be hideous when the swelling subsided–they were grotesque blood bites with faint teeth imprints. One of them was already oozing in protest.
Theresa slowly straightened, clutching Shiv with both hands as Ebon shifted Richie’s right leg into the air, cruelly exposing what damage had been done, what should have remained private. He was leaving marks along as much of his buttocks as he could, murmuring all the while about what he’d done. Staggering, Theresa moved forward, and yanked Ebon to his feet by his cornrows.
The living shadow stumbled with the movement, but regained his balance as Theresa pushed him to the door. He suddenly bent, retrieving a pair of dark green boxer-briefs from the gravel. He shoved that into his pocket with a laugh. Then, he gathered Shiv to him in a sickeningly companionable hug.
“You missed out, man!” he chuckled, patting the smaller man’s back. “You coulda had some!”
Shiv chuckled only because it was expected. But inside, he was violently ill.
The four left the rooftop in various mixtures of silence, the door shutting quietly behind Kangorr as he made a quick glance about.
OooooooooooO
Theresa kept slipping along the sidewalks, her breath visible as she panted in a mixture of choked sobs and exertion. She’d been running for at least an hour. From Ebon’s current hideout to a place across town, near the south end of Dakota. The sidewalks were slippery with ice and slush, and no one was very interested in hanging outside, tonight. Her Soda brand shoes held no traction as she sprinted across the street, heading toward a duplex within a rundown section of the south end. It was brightly lit, with the pounding of music coming from the thin walls. Various cars were parked all along the streets, taking over surrounding neighbors’ driveways as the party continued.
She jumped over the small, knee high fence, and slid across the wet lawn. She hit the ground hard, landing awkwardly on her hands. One of her wrists began to throb as she shoved herself to her feet with a strangled gasp. Her hair was damp with her sweat, unkept as she began running for the door, ignoring the curious stares of those that were standing on the porch.
She was recognized, through, the men pulling apart as they gaped at her in surprise.
She opened the door, slamming it in and revealing the chaos within the duplex. Various males and females took up almost every available inch of the house, with a wide screen tv displaying some anime porn, and the music pounding out the beat of the recent DMX album. Beer cans, cigarettes, and the recent waft of marijuana littered the house with a mess she didn’t even want to contemplate for the owner.
The couches were covered with various partiers, mainly of couples that didn’t care who was watching as they made out. She scanned the various faces that looked at her in combined expressions of surprise and recognizance, then stepped in. She immediately latched onto a boy that was passing by, a beer can in hand. He didn’t even look old enough to be in high school, yet.
“Where’s Hotstreak?” she demanded in a breathless growl.
Stumbling, he shrugged. She shoved him away, walking into the house, trying to catch her breath. Her wrist throbbed painfully as she flung her hair from her face.
“You ain’t got shit on us, bitch!” someone crowed from the other end of the room, a full beer can flying past her face. “You ain’t got no powers anymore, ho! What’chu think you’re doin’, all up on our turf?”
She didn’t have time for this. She pushed her way into the kitchen, startling those that didn’t know of her arrival. She raced back out into the living room, and shoved her way through the hall, toward the back. She began pounding on each door, her eyes wild as she wondered how much time had passed since the incident on the rooftop. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her voice was frantic as she called his name, kicking and pounding at every door while that same punk from the other room continued to shout at her.
One of the first doors she’d pounded upon opened violently, Hotstreak peering out with a pissed-off expression as he hastened to button his pants. There were cheers coming from the nearby kitchen as Theresa turned to him, shaking her head.
“Get your shit,” she ordered, shoving at his sweaty arms. “Get your shit! We have to go!”
“What the fuck–? What’s with–?”
“GET YOUR SHIT! We have to go!” she half-screamed, wailed. She ignored the pissed off blond that was angrily pulling on her shirt, peering over Hotstreak’s shoulder.
“What the hell’s going on?” the girl demanded, flinging her limp hair from her face. “Who the fuck are you?”
“What’s goin’ on?” Hotstreak asked Theresa again, frowning at the state she was in.
Theresa slapped him across the face, earning drawn-out “ooh’s” from those that were watching the scene with fascination. He sputtered in surprise; his face then screwed up with fury as he prepared to snarl at her. She then pushed him into the bedroom, ignoring the smells of sex and the protests of both man and woman as they were forced along with the action.
“We need to go! We need to go! I have to–you need to–! Ebon, he went crazy–!”
She couldn’t say everything–not here. But she needed to make it urgent. She couldn’t say his name in front of everyone, but she had to make Hotstreak understand that something terrible had happened. The images she’d seen, the sounds–she recalled Richie’s nakedness and searched for something. She tore a throw blanket from the edge of the bed, seeing that Hotstreak was staring at her in confusion, his girl dressing hastily. Theresa bent, picking up what looked like his shirt from the floor, and hurled it at him.
“COME ON!” she screamed, darting out from the room.
She shoved various boys aside in her haste to run back outside, the cold hitting her like a slap in the face. She gripped the throw blanket tight as she ran out across the lawn, climbing over the fence. A glance over her shoulder told her that Hotstreak was following, saying something to the guys on the porch. She didn’t bother to wait to see if he was coming–she gripped the blanket and just ran.
Chapter Three
Virgil slumped in his seat, glaring sullenly at the counter before him. They’d stopped at a restaurant that was infamous for its ‘mile high burgers’ and frosted shakes. After dinner, Robert had taken off to talk on the payphone, while Sharon was visiting the women’s bathroom. He had grown quite dispassionate about the road trip, and couldn’t wait to get home. Sighing, he leaned his chin into his palm, his eyes dancing here to there with some interest. The restaurant was quite empty, save for two guys and a girl sitting in a booth, an elderly couple that was arguing over the tip, and him.
He shifted in his seat as he signaled for another Pepsi, the tired waitress nodding as she walked off to retrieve it. He took his time in drinking it, then slipped off outside. It wasn’t snowing as bad as it was earlier–but it left behind drifts of dirtied ice, the snowplow making a loud protest as it steadily cruised down the street.
He warmed himself up with a quick rub of his arms, and glanced around. The door opened behind him, that girl walking out, her face set with indifference as she eyed him cautiously. Her cell phone was ringing, and she gave him a stern up and down that made him more than discomfitted. Finally, she determined him a non-threat, and answered her phone.
Virgil looked away, and reached into his back pocket, taking out his Shock Vox. He tossed it from hand to hand, walking down the sidewalk to put some distance between himself and the girl that was arguing on her cell. He activated it with a bored sigh, putting extra ‘oomph’ into his tone as he called for Richie.
After listening to static, he shook his head, figuring that Richie was away, or catching up on some shut eye as he slid the thing into his back pocket. He walked back into the restaurant, and took his seat at the counter once more. Sharon was flirting with one of the cooks, her squeaky laughter grating on his nerves as he sent an evil scowl in her direction.
Slumping forward in his seat, Virgil exhaled loudly, and decided to think of Daisy.
They had gotten serious–both had decided to take the Big Step just a few months ago, and it was an experience that he’d gotten quite giddy about. Of course, he’d let Richie know a couple of days later–a casual brag that had him preening as he went over light detail of what happened.
Richie had rolled his eyes, covering his ears. “I didn’t want to know that, Virg!” he’d exclaimed, shaking his head.
“No, seriously! I’m a man, now, Rich! A real, bona fide man that does men things! I shot, I scored, I am in for double overtime!” Virgil had declared with a cheesy grin, thumbs flicking upward. “It was a long decision, though. We had to wait for her birth control to activate. Can’t go havin’ a kid now...though, I might rethink it later on in the future.”
“Ha, ha... Did you guys follow protocol, per Frieda, on dental dams and clinic condoms?”
Virgil had rolled his eyes at that. Frieda Goren had made it her personal business to inform everybody of safe sex, and constantly made sure her friends were practicing these methods. She’d even had them making appointments at the aforementioned clinic to get tested. Virgil and Richie had gone for shits and giggles–Virgil just to check things out, and Richie because he’d gotten uneasy after hearing one of Frieda’s speeches.
It was one of their more embarrassing moments. People waiting within were eyeing them cautiously, and they didn’t make things easier–they sat, giggling in the chairs, over the various STD information and clinical anagrams of the human body. They were eighteen years old, but they were giggling over the female and male forms as if they were in fourth grade.
All in all, Virgil did not regret this decision he’d made with Daisy. They both felt they were ready for it, had planned it, and had carried it out with embarrassing ease. Two virgins, in love and experimenting for the first time, and neither had been disappointed at the results. In a way, it seemed to bring them closer–a little too close, sometimes. Now that hormones were awakened, they seemed to have forgotten what else the world consisted of. Daisy Watkins---plain, ordinary, intelligent and more than mature for her years, had suddenly turned into a sex crazed deviant.
Virgil had been giddy after the first time, but when Daisy was striving to see how many places, times and ways they could do it, he became a little scared. Wasn’t he supposed to be the deviant one? The one to initiate things?
Discussing this with Richie only made it worse. His best friend of over a decade had started to laugh...and couldn’t stop laughing as Virgil scowled over the bewilderment of his masculinity. Daisy was literally milking him for all that he was worth–he barely had the energy to perform his Static duties later on.
Of course, a little annoyed at things, Virgil had questioned Richie of his own initiation into manhood–and immediately retracted the question at the dopey grin on his friend’s face.
“I don’t WANNA KNOW!” he’d screamed, making Richie laugh again. The thought of his best friend and his enemy, going at it the way that he and Daisy did, made Virgil’s stomach twist into knots. Not that he hadn’t given thought to it. Of course he did. Because things like that made him wonder...as all things perverse did. Obviously, those two enjoyed each other, otherwise they wouldn’t risk so much to do so. In a way, he kinda understood what it was that kept them together–if it were similar to what he had with Daisy, then he just HAD to understand.
“...Even if Evans doesn’t do it, we just gotta go at it and try it,” someone said, and Virgil felt his ears twist up and away from his head, straining in that direction. Of course, it could have been a random conversation...but Evans struck a cord in him. For Ebon’s last name was Evans...and with his big shot status, anything was a go. “Just an in and out trip...can’t hurt.”
“Well, whatever. It’s not like I’m worried, or anything. This is just a small town thing, and...well... never mind. Let’s hit the road. We’ve got to be in Dakota by Tuesday, anyway. Let’s drop by Chicago and see what’s going on there.”
“Fine...whatever.”
Virgil watched as the two men rose from their booth, laying down tips and money to cover for their dinner charge. He watched them leave, his eyebrows furrowing with curiosity. Evans? Dakota? Of course...whoever they are, they had obvious interest in Ebon. But for good? Or bad? He wished he was able to investigate...anything to keep them atop of Ebon’s game. He scowled as Robert emerged from the small hallway, and called his children to him.
“Christ...I freakin’ hate road trips,” he muttered with a dark look, sliding off his stool to join his family.
OooooooooooO
Gear didn’t answer Ebon, slowly starting to feel helpless as he felt his breathing catch. It wasn’t the first time that he wished for powers that enabled better defenses.
A slow tingle of doubt and dread coasted through him, drenching his insides with fear. Real, absolute fear that yanked at every inner organ. It was nearly twenty degrees out, but his skin broke out into a light sweat that left him feeling sticky.
He couldn’t see Ebon–the meta wasn’t showing himself, but he could feel his eyes on him, and could detect the sound of his breathing. He felt that fear had sharpened his every sense, tuning in with rapid defense to the danger that literally surrounded him.
Ebon was capable of anything–he held nothing back when intimidating an enemy. And Gear knew he was vulnerable to anything the shadow-man felt like dishing out. The helplessness took root deep in his gut, and he was angry at himself for feeling this way.
Then, without warning, there were hands–everywhere. They shot out from the walls, wrapping their solid, strong fingers around his limbs, forcing him off his feet. He gave an undignified yelp as he hit the roof on his back, feeling his legs being twisted with an uncomfortable wrenching that made him shift his hips in order to appease the movement. When he realized that the familiar weight of his skates were missing, his toes curled briefly in reflex.
A new horror filled him, fueling his struggle to get loose from the various hands that held him. Fingers tightened into his flesh–bony presses that pinched muscle and wrenched skin with a viciousness that left him mildly hesitant to move once more.
He then gave a panicked curse as he kicked his legs out, socked feet kicking against numerous hands, feeling his kneepads being torn violently from his limbs. Even his socks were forcefully removed, leaving his feet cold and vulnerable to the harsh weather.
Ebon chuckled again, that same ugly sound that reverberated everywhere, giving no real indication of where he was within that cell of shadow. Gear’s fingers curled in desperate strength as he felt numerous hands remove the protective material of his gloves. It was as if several people were on him at once; various hands held his wrists and forearms, gripping the hem of the glove and others ripping the material off. His arms were locked into forced movement as his elbow pads were yanked painfully from his limbs, the straps protesting the removal with cracks of sound as velcro was separated.
Panic made Gear’s breath wheezy as he forced his body into wildly twisting motion, more hands shooting out from the walls to pin him down. He didn’t care what sort of sound his distressed voice made as he screamed in panic, every cell alive with fear and dread. The strangled sound he released made Ebon cackle with amusement.
Gear’s wildly flailing arms were caught, then restrained together at the wrists. He gave another sound as his arms were yanked painfully over his head, pinned onto the hard, cold surface of the roof. His feet were held down as well, fingers encircling his ankles, fingers clenching hard over his toes.
To be held down in this manner...pinned and helpless...it left him with a frozen, heavy feeling in his gut. Stark realization that Ebon was going to go through with his fantasy left his mind in blind terror. Horror at this purely primitive motivation to strip him of male pride and dignity caused instinctive panic within every cell. He began screaming for help, uncaring that his voice broke, uncaring who heard, uncaring of what he looked like in such a vulnerable position.
Ebon laughed, deep and entertained–the heart stopping horror at feeling fingers on his helmet caused Gear to shout; he ducked his head, twisted from side to side, trying to keep it from being torn off. There were too many hands–he couldn’t escape. Patches of hair were torn from his scalp as Ebon ripped his helmet off with a satisfied exhalation. All motion, all action stopped as Ebon stared at him in stunned reaction.
Gear himself was silent for those tense filled seconds, staring up at Ebon’s finally visible face with wide-eyed terror. When Ebon threw his head back to laugh, a hateful sound that was more ominous than the actions he was taking, Gear felt his eyes tear up with helplessness and vulnerability. Because Ebon now knew who he was. He knew his true identity. So many actions could be used against him with that single action; for the threat Ebon was to everyone else was now a true threat against Richard Foley.
“Fuckin’ A, man,” was all Ebon managed to eke out, tossing the helmet aside as he continued to stare down at him in disbelief. Because of his bad vision, blind without the visor or his glasses, Richie did not see the slight shake of Ebon’s nearly invisible head within the cell of shadows. But he saw the white eyes narrow, the man’s expression hidden within the confines of darkness that made up his features.
When Ebon’s voice came again, it was low, hard–full of promise.
“I’mina fuck you hard.”
“Get off me, GODDAMN IT!” Richie screamed, arms jerking against those hands that held him down, but to no avail. He gave another anguished scream as he realized how fruitless it was to struggle.
He was physically tiring out–no amount of adrenaline, desperation or terror could make him physically superhuman, no matter how dire the situation. His mind, capable of organized thought and structured definition crumbled into thoughtless panic the more he registered his helplessness.
“GET OFF!”
“I will...chill, chill. Fuck!” Ebon then shouted in delight, finally showing his full self, his human form breaking away from the shadows. His white eyes were round with aggression and delight–a chilling combination.
Richie was aware that his voice cracked, but he didn’t care as he screamed again, feeling Ebon’s hands on the collar of his shirt. He struggled, tossing his torso as Ebon grunted, pulling painfully at the material, trying to rip it away from his thrashing body. The other hands worked at removing the belt–when it was finally pulled from his waist, it was tossed aside carelessly, the resounding clank of metal against gravel obscenely loud despite Richie’s frightened shouts and protests.
When Ebon grew frustrated in that he couldn’t remove the blond’s clothing, he paused in yanking. “Shiv! Man, give me a knife!” he ordered.
Shiv...Richie forgot that Ebon’s little group was still there. They’d been so silent and unmoving, and he had been so focused on the terror that was assaulting him–desperation laced his movements as hope caused his breath to hitch.
“Shiv–! Help me!” he cried.
The meta winced at hearing his name, his face a troubled expression of myriad conflict. He, Kangorr and Theresa had been standing silently nearby, keeping an eye out for interruptions that could destroy Ebon’s ‘fun’. All three were severely uncomfortable with knowing what was going on behind that blackness Ebon had created–they were silent as they tried focusing elsewhere on things. While they could not see anything beyond that blackness, they were able to hear everything.
At Ebon’s order, Shiv fumbled with the request, the flow of kinetic energy slipping down his arms and forming sturdy weight within both hands as he pictured a simple butterfly knife. The energy faded as it solidified, the assuring weight causing his fingers to curl over the weapon with doubt.
Theresa looked at him with a minute expression of refusal, her chin jutting up–her expression telling him to refuse. Shiv’s hand shook as they listened to more of the struggle behind them–he glanced at her, his own uncertainty and doubt reflected in his features.
She shook her head ever so slightly–a jerk of her head.
“SHIV!” Richie cried again.
“Shut up!” Ebon ordered as Richie continued to plead for the goateed meta to help him.
Without looking, Shiv tossed the knife in the general direction of the cell, Theresa looking away from him with a glance of disappointment. Kangorr ignored them both, taking steps away as he lit a cigarette, nearly hidden with the natural shadows of the roof.
Shiv looked down at his feet, shuffling his scuffed sneakers at hearing Ebon’s grunt of satisfaction.
“Someone–! Please! Please, Shiv! Please help me! Ple–!”
“Shut up, bitch!” Ebon snarled, the sound of ripping clothing tearing through Richie’s desperate shouts. “Shut up!”
“Don’t do this! Don’t do this–! Let me go! Please let me go! Don’t do this! Don’t do this!”
“SHUT UP!” Ebon snapped, knife being tossed aside.
As Richie thrashed, effort renewed in his struggle to get free, more hands grew out of the shadows, pulling at his ripped clothing. There was a sense of stunned horror in being forced naked in front of someone as vile and violent as Ebon–the sense of invulnerability in clothing was stripped away as his clothing was removed.
When he was clad in his boxer-briefs, Ebon took his time to stare down at him, his eyes raking over Richie’s body. It felt as if they were physically stroking over his skin, caressing everything that was open and vulnerable, leaving a trail of disgust in its wake. Then, with grossly contradicting tenderness, Ebon removed his underwear with the help of the various hands, tossing those aside and continuing with his perusal.
For that one stunned instant, in being revealed to Ebon’s smirking eyes as he took in Richie’s revealed form, the blond was struck still. Horror and exposure made it hard for him to move–the cold had nothing to do with it.
The fingers around his pinned arms suddenly grew stronger, savage weight being forced upon his hands, grinding skin and bone into gravel. His legs were forced apart as Ebon stood over him, with that continuous, silent smirk. Desperation clouded his pride–Richie began sobbing raw, immaculate words, pleading for help and release as Ebon began laughing. The sound was dark...short...clipped. Somehow more threatening than physical force.
The fact that Ebon delighted in his pain and torture left Richie feeling utmost terror as he breathed harshly, trying to focus, trying to concentrate on getting his panic-blinded mind back into track.
When the living shadow began moving, his own arms shifting to his waist, that concentration to formulate coherent thought and strategies flitted away from him.
“SHIV–!” Richie screamed, mindless of any other name. His head tossed from side to side, trying to locate the purple haired meta, but seeing only darkness wherever he looked.
“I said, SHUT UP!” Ebon then shouted over him, his voice filled with violence and disgust.
Over his own shout, there were the obvious sounds of his belt being unlatched, of his zipper being undone. He laughed again, over the lowering of his own pants and underwear, his fluid movements taking him between the blond’s legs, his weight settling over the thrashing warmth underneath him.
The feel of Ebon’s body against his, naked from the waist down, made Richie mindless. He opened his mouth, screaming once more for the meta that he knew could hear him.
Ebon struck him then, the sound of fist against flesh causing all three members to cringe with the unexpected action. Ebon hit him again, grunting with the effort, the sound sickly clear and loud within the sudden silence. There were the obvious sounds of skin shifting over skin; of Ebon chuckling lowly in satisfaction, the sound muffled for an instant. There was the minute sound of suctioned air against flesh, the sound grossly disgusting.
“Mine,” Ebon crowed, the sound resounding again, Richie’s voice muffled as he protested. There was the obvious sound of foil being ripped, of latex being handled. Ebon was careful that way–not to spread disease, but to withhold evidence. “Fucking bitch...that says you’re mine...”
“...Shiv....please...”
“I said, SHUT–THE–FUCK–UP!” Ebon screamed terribly. Each word was punctuated with fist on flesh, violent noises that made the other three cringe over and over again. “Take it, you fucking whore.”
The silence was just as agonizing as the frantic screams from earlier; each distinct difference was as violent and sick as the actions being taken now. At the ugly sound of flesh slapping against flesh, of Ebon’s hiss of triumph, all three members felt different urges of reaction.
Theresa covered her mouth. Her throat was locked tight–her urge to stab out her eardrums to somehow forget what she had just heard caused her nails to dig into her flesh. She pushed herself away, trying to escape the present sounds, her knees threatening to give out from underneath her. She was trying not to react outright–to not draw attention to the vile man that took violent possession of someone that lost the fight. But how could one NOT react to it? As hardened as she was, she couldn’t help but get sick with what occurred.
Shiv took a few steps away as well, his stomach lurching to his throat–he was trying to focus on other things, but his mind was racing through everything that led to this point–guilt was a strong ally to helplessness. His usually carefree face was uncharacteristically drawn with unfathomable expression as he forced himself to focus on the playing cards he shakily withdrew from his pants pocket. Timmy’s words came to him then, echoing with a sense of finality as he recalled them. It was okay to have a conscience, he’d said. Well, in this business–a conscience got one killed.
Kangorr walked away, ignoring them all–he began on another cigarette, and took a walk to the other side of the roof. He took in Dakota’s various lights as he kept an ear out for anything that may ruin Ebon’s ‘fun’. His expression was indifferent, his lips curled thoughtfully around the next cigarette.
Loyalty, a different definition of fear of the living shadow, kept them near for the duration of the rape. They didn’t want to evoke his ire if they left him, and he were interrupted by some outside force. They had seen too much resulting consequences that he’d taken with others that had failed him.
The whole process, from the time Gear walked into their trap to the grunt of satisfaction Ebon released in his climax, took less than ten minutes.
Shiv forced himself to his feet as he heard Ebon remove his condom–the sounds of him pulling his pants back into place and pulling his belt gave Theresa enough time to compose herself. Ebon emerged from his temporary torture cell with a smirking satisfaction on his face.
Shiv had to suddenly cover his mouth, throat lacing with bile–there was something utterly wrong at Ebon’s pleased expression. Something that even he couldn’t rightly handle.
Ebon walked over as he finished buckling, tucking the extra length of his belt into his belt loops.
“That was worth the wait!” he announced with a childishly pleased laugh. He hit Shiv with the back of his hand as he reached the shorter man’s side. “You wanna go? Fuckin’ tight as hell...”
Shiv was stunned at the sick offer. His mouth dropped open–his stomach lurched. He shook his head frantically in reply. But he remembered what happened to Timmy.
“C’mon, pussy. Get in there. Do him. You ain’t get this chance again. ‘Sides, when you last get laid?”
“N-no. No. I–I don’t d-do that, Ebon!” Shiv protested, stepping back. He could smell him. He could smell that kid on Ebon’s skin. It made his stomach lurch once more, and he felt the acrid liquid swell against his tongue. He spat clumsily, shaking his head. He had trouble standing straight. His palms rested upon his knees as he bent over.
“Fucking pussy!” Ebon snorted. His voice was laced with disgust as he gave Shiv a once over, shaking his head. “Get in there! Do ‘im! He ain’t gonna say shit! You ain’t ever had ass before, have you?”
“No. N-no, Ebon! I don’t want to–!”
“Get in there and fuckin’ do him. Can’t get it up? ‘Sat why? Fuckin’ sissy? Get in there an’ do it.”
“I–I c-can’t–!”
“Do it now, Shiv! Use this. Don’t make it sloppy. Get in, get your rocks off–he’s loose enough, now, so you don’t haveta work it hard. Fuckin’ get yaself off.”
Shiv shook his head, but accepted the condom that Ebon forced into his hand.
“Do it. Prove you can do it,” Ebon pressured with one of those ugly smirks. “Prove your worth, Shiv. You ain’t failed me, before. Why you gonna do it, now?”
Shiv stared at him in silence, petrified. The pressure to perform left him horribly impotent–he couldn’t do it. Ebon had done these things before, but those times were with women.
It was easier listening to women get raped–it was expected. Women were weak and soft. Men...men getting raped by other men...that left him feeling vulnerable on its own. Men were supposed to be strong and incapable of such feminine distress. But hearing what he had–how could he forget? How could he push aside Gear’s pleas and shouts; his silence afterward?
His stomach lurched. Men weren’t supposed to be raped. It was different.
But he remembered what happened to Timmy when he didn’t do what Ebon wanted. Theresa came to his rescue as he turned to follow through with Ebon’s urging, feet heavy. She latched onto his shoulder with her strong fingers, pulling him off course. Never had he been so relieved for her interference.
“We been here long enough!” she cried, her voice husky with her horror. Her face was of wide-eyed panic as she looked at each one, shoving at them with desperate hands. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”
She pushed both of them toward the rooftop door, Kangorr walking back over with a nonchalant expression. He bent to pick up his first cigarette, and pocketed it.
He lifted an eyebrow at his boss, his expressionless face revealing nothing of what he felt of the situation
Ebon pushed against Theresa, then shoved her aside. Being smaller than he, she stumbled a few steps back, wild red hair slashing through the darkness.
“What’s your problem?” he demanded angrily.
She managed to right herself, and shoved him back. “Let’s get out of here! His partner’s prolly lookin’ for him! Let’s get out of here before he sees what you did!”
“I fucked him up!” Ebon said proudly, as if suddenly reminded of what he’d done.
He moved, heading back to his created cell. The shadows were dispersed with a simple hand wave, and Shiv’s mouth dropped open, his features paling as Theresa let out a short shriek of feminine distress, hands flying to her face as she forcefully turned away.
Gear was unconscious, his face tilted away from them. But the sight of his used body, naked and vulnerable, sent the two into fits of undisguised horror. Ebon had left him with his arms over his head, his bare legs opened wide–blood decorated his inner thighs and knees, where Ebon must have handled them after shoving himself into that defenseless body. Ebon had hit him hard–his face bore rapidly swelling wounds that marred the familiar features.
Unmasked, it was obvious who Gear was.
“It’s that kid!” Shiv whispered in stunned surprise, Theresa turning aside to finally vomit, holding onto his shoulder. The sounds of her violent reaction, combined with the vigorous movements she made as her body forcefully rejected what she saw, gave an eerie background to the sight that Shiv stared at. Distractedly, watching as Ebon walked over to the unconscious male, Shiv pulled her hair back from her face.
Ebon moved into a crouch, bending fully over the beaten form a few times–as he shifted, giving ugly chuckles all the while, Shiv could see that he was leaving grotesque hickies over Richie’s neck, chest, stomach and inner thighs. The large marks were going to be hideous when the swelling subsided–they were grotesque blood bites with faint teeth imprints. One of them was already oozing in protest.
Theresa slowly straightened, clutching Shiv with both hands as Ebon shifted Richie’s right leg into the air, cruelly exposing what damage had been done, what should have remained private. He was leaving marks along as much of his buttocks as he could, murmuring all the while about what he’d done. Staggering, Theresa moved forward, and yanked Ebon to his feet by his cornrows.
The living shadow stumbled with the movement, but regained his balance as Theresa pushed him to the door. He suddenly bent, retrieving a pair of dark green boxer-briefs from the gravel. He shoved that into his pocket with a laugh. Then, he gathered Shiv to him in a sickeningly companionable hug.
“You missed out, man!” he chuckled, patting the smaller man’s back. “You coulda had some!”
Shiv chuckled only because it was expected. But inside, he was violently ill.
The four left the rooftop in various mixtures of silence, the door shutting quietly behind Kangorr as he made a quick glance about.
OooooooooooO
Theresa kept slipping along the sidewalks, her breath visible as she panted in a mixture of choked sobs and exertion. She’d been running for at least an hour. From Ebon’s current hideout to a place across town, near the south end of Dakota. The sidewalks were slippery with ice and slush, and no one was very interested in hanging outside, tonight. Her Soda brand shoes held no traction as she sprinted across the street, heading toward a duplex within a rundown section of the south end. It was brightly lit, with the pounding of music coming from the thin walls. Various cars were parked all along the streets, taking over surrounding neighbors’ driveways as the party continued.
She jumped over the small, knee high fence, and slid across the wet lawn. She hit the ground hard, landing awkwardly on her hands. One of her wrists began to throb as she shoved herself to her feet with a strangled gasp. Her hair was damp with her sweat, unkept as she began running for the door, ignoring the curious stares of those that were standing on the porch.
She was recognized, through, the men pulling apart as they gaped at her in surprise.
She opened the door, slamming it in and revealing the chaos within the duplex. Various males and females took up almost every available inch of the house, with a wide screen tv displaying some anime porn, and the music pounding out the beat of the recent DMX album. Beer cans, cigarettes, and the recent waft of marijuana littered the house with a mess she didn’t even want to contemplate for the owner.
The couches were covered with various partiers, mainly of couples that didn’t care who was watching as they made out. She scanned the various faces that looked at her in combined expressions of surprise and recognizance, then stepped in. She immediately latched onto a boy that was passing by, a beer can in hand. He didn’t even look old enough to be in high school, yet.
“Where’s Hotstreak?” she demanded in a breathless growl.
Stumbling, he shrugged. She shoved him away, walking into the house, trying to catch her breath. Her wrist throbbed painfully as she flung her hair from her face.
“You ain’t got shit on us, bitch!” someone crowed from the other end of the room, a full beer can flying past her face. “You ain’t got no powers anymore, ho! What’chu think you’re doin’, all up on our turf?”
She didn’t have time for this. She pushed her way into the kitchen, startling those that didn’t know of her arrival. She raced back out into the living room, and shoved her way through the hall, toward the back. She began pounding on each door, her eyes wild as she wondered how much time had passed since the incident on the rooftop. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her voice was frantic as she called his name, kicking and pounding at every door while that same punk from the other room continued to shout at her.
One of the first doors she’d pounded upon opened violently, Hotstreak peering out with a pissed-off expression as he hastened to button his pants. There were cheers coming from the nearby kitchen as Theresa turned to him, shaking her head.
“Get your shit,” she ordered, shoving at his sweaty arms. “Get your shit! We have to go!”
“What the fuck–? What’s with–?”
“GET YOUR SHIT! We have to go!” she half-screamed, wailed. She ignored the pissed off blond that was angrily pulling on her shirt, peering over Hotstreak’s shoulder.
“What the hell’s going on?” the girl demanded, flinging her limp hair from her face. “Who the fuck are you?”
“What’s goin’ on?” Hotstreak asked Theresa again, frowning at the state she was in.
Theresa slapped him across the face, earning drawn-out “ooh’s” from those that were watching the scene with fascination. He sputtered in surprise; his face then screwed up with fury as he prepared to snarl at her. She then pushed him into the bedroom, ignoring the smells of sex and the protests of both man and woman as they were forced along with the action.
“We need to go! We need to go! I have to–you need to–! Ebon, he went crazy–!”
She couldn’t say everything–not here. But she needed to make it urgent. She couldn’t say his name in front of everyone, but she had to make Hotstreak understand that something terrible had happened. The images she’d seen, the sounds–she recalled Richie’s nakedness and searched for something. She tore a throw blanket from the edge of the bed, seeing that Hotstreak was staring at her in confusion, his girl dressing hastily. Theresa bent, picking up what looked like his shirt from the floor, and hurled it at him.
“COME ON!” she screamed, darting out from the room.
She shoved various boys aside in her haste to run back outside, the cold hitting her like a slap in the face. She gripped the throw blanket tight as she ran out across the lawn, climbing over the fence. A glance over her shoulder told her that Hotstreak was following, saying something to the guys on the porch. She didn’t bother to wait to see if he was coming–she gripped the blanket and just ran.