Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Twelve ( Chapter 12 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Hotstreak learns of Theresa's fate; Virgil comes home.
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.30.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 4.3K | Visits: 521 | Status: Completed
Hotstreak learns of Theresa's fate; Virgil comes home.
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.30.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 4.3K | Visits: 521 | Status: Completed
Right Here
Chapter Twelve
“This number is for the guy in San Antonio, but the thing is, man, there’s some guys up here from fuckin’ L.A.,” Sam said, shoving the wad of paper into Hotstreak’s hand. The two were sitting by themselves within the den of the house that commonly handled all his business. The owner, Sam Esposito, was someone he’d gotten to know as a teen; the man was a couple of years older than him, but had proven trustworthy and reliable to the meta.
The meta looked at the long distance number, glancing over at his friend curiously. Sam was the one of the few that was friendly with both gangs–but he’d proved more than once that he was expressively considerate of Hotstreak’s own gang. For several months, he’d been providing information on Ebon’s activities to him, in exchange for the free treat.
Hotstreak was confident that Sam hadn’t been giving Ebon the information the living shadow could use against him, or Ebon would have struck along time ago. It was also obvious, from what Sam was hearing, that the interceptions of Ebon’s drugs and money runs were being judged as random by rival gangs. If Ebon had known that it was Hotstreak behind these interceptions, the redhead had no doubt that Ebon would have confronted him already.
“Ebon’s been showin’ these guys around. Big top, big time guys. They all city, an’ shit. Some say they’re tied in with the fuckin’ Mafia, an’ shit...They’re gonna meet tonight, actually, with some of Ebon’s other affiliates throughout Dakota. Along with some of the police department. Man, that guy’s tight if he has all those fuckin’ pigs on his shit. It’s kinda sick. They serve and protect with a fuckin’ price...man, no skin off my back, through. They ain’t bothered me, yet.”
“I don’t care about that,” Hotstreak muttered, furrowing his brow. He’d known that Ebon’s reaches into the city council and surrounding affiliates had ran considerably deep. Though it annoyed him that Ebon had this reach, it was something he worked around.
Small impacts, he thought. Small impacts... “How’d the run, go?”
“We delivered good. ‘Cept, we had some kinda trouble down in the valley...they were wantin’ fuckin’ names, man. I don’t think we should go that route, anymore. Cuz...I think that guy sells out the names.”
“Did ya–?”
“Oh, no, we brought the stuff back. Made it out like we weren’t doin’ shit. But...whatever, eh? We’ll find someone else to sell it.”
“So we got the meth, back? What about the rocks?”
“We still got that.”
“...Light one up.”
“All right!”
Hotstreak produced a small crackpipe from his pocket, and handed it to Sam as the brunette pulled a large, white ‘rock’ from a Ziplock bag. Sam prepared the drug for ingestion, as a cellphone began to ring. Hotstreak took out the cell from one of the many pockets on his cargo pants, then produced a plume of flame with his other hand as he answered the call.
They both watched as the heat melted the powder.
As he listened, Hotstreak’s face froze with disbelief, and the plume he’d ignited slowly died out. When Sam saw that Hotstreak was preoccupied with the call, he took out his lighter and continued working on the drug. Vapors within the glass pipe were graciously sucked in as Hotstreak turned away from him, running a hand through his hair.
“When did this happen?” he was asking as Sam enjoyed the dangerous vapors that gave him a comfortable buzz. “By who? With her family? Shit....Ebon’s crew did it?”
Sam blinked, wondering what was being said as he looked over at Hotstreak, waiting for him to take a hit. But the meta was leaving his seat and walking away, so he figured he could take another. He went on to do just that when he heard a crunch of sound, startling him. When he saw that Hotstreak had punched a hole in the wall, looking insanely furious, Sam jumped to his feet and was out of there. He’d learned long ago that once the meta was fueled with anger, there was nothing he could do to save his house from the ensuing devastation.
The rage was uncontrollable; Hotstreak couldn’t see beyond the red that filtered in over his eyes, the way his entire body tightened with extreme and helpless fury. Hotstreak began to hit everything that stood in his way, his knuckles scraping against plaster, his arm jolting harshly with each impact. He was mindless of his incoherent snarls, a primitive instinct to destroy all that was in front of him unleashed by what he’d just learned.
Theresa Menounos shouldn’t have died; she shouldn’t have been killed the way she had. While they both knew their ends were highly likely with the lives they led, he felt it was wrong of her to die by her own boss’s hand. For Ebon to kill her sent his mind over with unfiltered rage.
All the things she had done for him, laughed with him about, joked and connected over; it was all gone. And for what? Because she’d been tight with him. He had cared for her, and she had cared for him; they were more brother and sister than anything else. For her to die because of their friendship seemed utterly senseless and horribly unfair.
Immense guilt, resentment, horror and shock filled through him, making his previous strength seem incapable of holding him together. His arms weakened, but he punched through the wall with an enraged scream, following through with another. He had no doubt someone had either overheard her conversation with him, or had seen what she’d done for him and Richie.
Something stopped him from furthering his rage out on the wall, and he slumped against it, breathing harshly. If someone had seen what she had done...leaving Richie’s things out for him...then they knew where Richie was. Knew that he was hanging around him, once more.
He felt the drive to go to the blond as a strong surge from within, but the moment he tried pushing away from the wall, his knees gave out and he hit the floor with a muffled curse. Instead of getting up, he laid there, panting harshly. His knuckles and the backs of his hands were bleeding from the impacts and follow through of his punches, and they were starting to throb with pain.
His arms were shaking intensely from the whirlwind that heated him from within, and he continued to lay there on the floor, finally slowing the harsh breathing that had resulted from his rampage.
Theresa shouldn’t have died...she had felt guilty and shamed by what had happened, but she had been helpless. She had to do it...she had to or else Ebon would have–but it didn’t matter, because Ebon had her killed, anyway. He wondered why the living shadow didn’t do it himself; why he contracted others to carry out the task.
His fists curled tightly, his hands shaking as he struggled to hold in his rising emotions. He didn’t care what he looked like, what he’d done to Sam’s walls as he inhaled sharply, his lips contorting into a grimace. Finally, he started swearing at the floor, screaming all the obscenities and helpless pain that he felt bubble to the surface.
He began hitting the floor repeatedly with the bottom of his fist over and over. He once again felt that surge of violence to wreck or hurt something, to take away the pain, and swept to his feet. Once again, the walls were subjected to his fury, and when those proved too strong, he moved over to the couches; he overturned all of them, throwing the coffee table over, scattered framed pictures on the wall, tossed the decorative lamps; all the while screaming maniacally.
His body started to exhaust itself, but his raging emotions had other plans as he turned to the drugs that were taken in the other night. He attacked those with a vengeance, scraping the bags together, ripping apart the meticulously packed weed bundles and spreading meth all over the carpet. It wasn’t enough, so he ripped down the curtains, shattered the boom box and flung the bundled wads of money around.
He was breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his brow by the time his body gave out once more. He slumped to the floor, giving a drawn out sob as he hid his face behind his hands.
“She shouldn’t have died,” he kept saying over and over, his shoulders jerking with the force of his harsh sobs. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, amidst the horrible ruins of his rage until he felt gentle hands on his shoulders.
Maria was there, whispering soothing words as she bravely risked bodily injury to provide the comfort he needed. Her mink brown hair swept over his arms as she continued to whisper in Spanish of condolences, of calming and reassuring words. Her hands traveled around him, embracing him fiercely as he turned his head into her neck, reaching out to grip her hair to pull her close. As he breathed in her soft perfume and traces of hairspray, he felt himself calm considerably.
That rage slowly faded; still burning deep within, but fading away for the moment.
She crouched against his back, wiping away the sweat that gathered on his face, running her manicured nails through his hair. It was like soothing an injured beast, she realized. A hurt one that could still strike out.
She tried not to look at the destruction of Sam’s den; it was utterly and hopelessly ravaged, and more than hazardous. But he’d destroyed because of his rage, and she was thankful that he’d chosen to destroy things in this light rather than use his abilities to destroy others.
She hugged him tightly, making shushing sounds between her teeth and tongue, rocking gently. She’d heard the news, of course; and she felt a great emptiness deep within for the loss of her friend. With the way things were going, lately, it was obvious that it had to come to some sort of close. As she shed her own tears, gathering her own comfort from his touch, she had an ominous feeling that things weren’t even close to ending just yet.
OooooooooooO
That night, Virgil groaned in tired relief as he sank down onto his bed. While the road trip had been entertaining and certainly appreciated, he recognized that the moment they’d entered Dakota, he felt down and heavy all over again. He lifted his head from his pillow, shifting about on his bed as he listened to Robert and Sharon continue to unpack in their respective rooms.
He’d left his suitcase where he’d tossed it, and he glanced over at it now, frowning at it. He didn’t feel like unpacking just yet. He just wanted to relax–he’d call Daisy to let her know he was back, maybe get something to eat from downstairs, contemplate on sneaking out to meet his girlfriend for a quickie, call his best friend to let him know he was back, and THEN think about unpacking.
Of course, as all things did, his plans didn’t go the way he wanted.
“V, you there? Static?”
He groaned as he heard Richie’s voice coming from the Shock Vox, and rolled onto the floor with a loud thump. He opened his suitcase and found the walkie-talkie within the mass of unfolded clothing within. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as he depressed the transmitter to respond.
“Yeah, I’m here, bro. What’s up? Miss me?”
“I need to talk to you. Meet me at the Gas Station.”
“Man, I just got in!” Virgil exclaimed, drawing a hand down his face in exasperation. “Is this an emergency?”
“It’s really, really important, Static. Just–just get there.”
“Fine. I’d better see Rosario Dawson standing there naked like the day she was born, damn it, or so help me...” Virgil rose from the floor, wincing as he muttered, “And so...it starts...”
Nearly twenty minutes later, he slammed the back door of the Gas Station shut, exclaiming over the cold that had enveloped him like a fist. Bundled up tightly, he was kicking snow from his boots when he looked over at his best friend, who was busy working on Backpack at his desk. His eyes swept from side to side, noting the lack of emergency. He was walking over when he stumbled on Richie’s skates, catching himself before he hit the floor. It looked as if they’d been thrown there, his helmet barely visible underneath another table that was littered with Richie’s tools. The rest of his protective gear–gloves, elbow and knee pads–were tossed with the same random air throughout the Gas Station.
He figured Richie had a bad night.
“Yesh. Okay, what’s the emergency?” he asked, straightening as he pulled off his beanie, then his hood. He looked over at Richie, taking in the black Nike hooded sweater and the dark baggy jeans. Knowing his friend for as long as he did, he didn’t recognize the sweater.
Richie sighed, lowering his soldering tool.
It’s now or never, he thought, pushing away from the desk, showing Virgil his face.
“Damn...Deebo got to you, too?” Virgil asked, naming off the bully in Friday. He winced as he took in the blackened eye, the swollen lower lip. They were injuries he’d seen before on his best friend–but that didn’t make them any less affecting. He always felt a wench in his gut upon seeing any sort of injury done to him.
“I wish,” Richie muttered, looking at his jeans. “Virg...I...you need to sit down.”
Virgil blinked, not wanting to accept that ominous feeling that seized his insides. Hearing Richie’s tone, the way he kept himself slumped, made him realize that something big had happened. Immediate concern for his friend had him reaching out, but he quickly shifted his attention to the couch, and sat down on one of the arms.
Richie licked his lips nervously, then looked over at Virgil. “I...man...um...how was your trip?”
“Oh, no, don’t start that,” Virgil exclaimed, shaking his head. “Not uh. You tell me what’s goin’ on, then I tell you about my trip.”
“It’s...it’s bad. Virg...um...”
Virgil was starting to feel worse and worse the more he stared at Richie, waiting for him to come out with his news. And the more he waited, the more his shoulders began to slump, for his back to ache with tension. He glanced around Richie’s work space, seeing a Wal-Mart bag near his work, the contents being that of his costume. He could see the stark green and white coloring from where he was sitting, and wondered what it was doing in there.
“Ebon knows who I am,” Richie finally said, with much difficulty. Virgil noticed how shaky his voice had become, how uncertain. “I...I ran into him this past Saturday night, and–it...it was a trap. U-uh...y-you remember that stupid thing he–that was kept being brought up?”
Virgil instantly felt sick. He felt his throat close up. But he forced himself to swallow. “That...that stupid...dream?”
“He...” Richie looked up at the ceiling, then at everything else but him. He fiddled with his fingers, nervously pulling them, cracking his knuckles. The sounds were obscenely loud within the silence of the abandoned gas station. Somewhere outside, someone worked their car horn with frantic reaction. “He...got what he wanted, I guess. Um...b-but...”
“Richie,” Virgil breathed in horrified shock.
“But above it all, he knows who I am. And it’s...he knows where I live, and–and I don’t feel safe anywhere! He–he’s a fucking monster, Virg–”
“Did he...?”
“Everything, V. Everything.”
“Oh...Richie...I...man, I...did you go to the hospital?”
“...Yeah. Yes, I–I mean....but you need to be careful, V. Because...I don’t know what he’s doing. He was in my room last night, damn it! He knows where I live, and he left things, and he’s just–! I don’t know what to do, anymore! I feel like...I feel like he’s there everywhere I turn, and–I just wanted to say, too, is that I don’t...I don’t want to be Gear, anymore.”
“What?”
“Virgil& #8211;! I can’t do it!” Richie rose from his seat in agitation, still not looking at Virgil directly. Virgil rose from his seat, staring in wide-mouthed silence at his friend, trying to accept what was being said. “I can’t–I mean, I finally got my costume back, an–”
“What do you mean by that? Richie–! Please...I need you to start from the beginning. Not from there–you don’t need ta talk about that, but...how’d you get to the hospital? Did you make a report? Were you hurt that bad? What’s this about your costume–?”
“Virg, I don’t know who had my costume. I don’t know how–V, Fr–Hotstreak was there for me.”
Virgil reacted with a startled exclamation, pulling back from him, as if shocked. “Huh?”
Richie shrugged, turning his back to him as he went back to fiddling with Backpack. “He was there for me. He was...I don’t know how he got there, or how he knew, but he was the one that took me to the hospital. And he was the one that...that I stayed with. So...I did have someone there for me during that...but...I...I just needed to let you know what happened. That...that because of all of that....Ebon may figure things out. Our families are in danger, V. And...I needed to tell you that.”
Oh, shit, was all Virgil thought, staring at his best friend in stupefied silence.
It had been a running joke; light, harmless. That Ebon had a ‘crush’ on Gear.
But it wasn’t. Not anymore. Staring at his best friend, he realized that nothing could be a joke, anymore. He’d left Richie smiling, upbeat and a little insulted, and returned to find him broken, bruised and horribly defeated. He wasn’t quite sure how he should feel, or what he should say–just that anger rose from deep within. Hot, burning anger that was mixed with helplessness and frustration.
He ran over the things Richie had just told him; the blond’s reluctance to return to his duties as Gear, the knowledge that Ebon knew who they were, Hotstreak’s involvement. It just made his current turmoil much more hotter, and he reached up, swiping his hands through his dreads in frustration. He tried to center himself, to breathe deeply and evenly, recalling Sharon’s meditation exercises that she’d taught him a little while back to keep himself focused. But he kept thinking about how defenseless Gear was without his tools. And he knew Richie wouldn’t go down without a fight or struggle; he wasn’t physically weak, either.
But Ebon was strong and powerful with those abilities of his; the thought of the meta overtaking his best friend, subjecting him to the sort of action that would destroy anybody’s sense of self-worth and being made him furious. Helplessly furious...because while he knew he could go out and search for Ebon right now as Static, he had to wonder if Ebon would retaliate by getting to his family as Richie had said.
And on that course of action...
He looked over at Richie, who had returned to soldering something within Backpack’s depths.
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came to his tongue. He shut it, teeth clicking together, and he tried to think of something to say to somehow make Richie feel a little better. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anything. He didn’t know whether or not he could touch Richie; whether he could say something along the lines of, ‘What can I do to help?” without somehow insulting him; or if he could continue questioning him to find out what else Ebon knew and the actions afterward.
He knew that a person’s psyche after such an attack was fragile, afterward. And he wondered, with Richie’s brain being the way that it was, if it were causing him havoc in terms of stability.
He went over what Richie said about Hotstreak. He recalled that night on the rooftop over a year ago, when the first attempt Ebon had made to get to Richie had Static investigating. Hotstreak had been with them then, but had tricked Ebon, preventing him from getting to Richie. Static had been confused over the entire thing until Richie explained to him his involvement with Hotstreak, and Virgil had witnessed it before his own eyes; but the thing that bothered him was that Richie didn’t have any memory after the recent attack.
What if Hotstreak was involved from the start?
He glanced over at Richie, then decided not to ask. It wasn’t his place, right now; he had to consider Richie’s feelings. When the blond had spoke of what Hotstreak had done for him, there was a great deal of pride, warmth, comfort and affection in his tone. So it was obvious that he looked up to the meta in terms of appreciation.
He didn’t get those two. He didn’t think he ever would. His hated enemy and his best friend? Nah... he just couldn’t get it. Not even when he saw them together, or when Richie spoke of him.
He didn’t know what to say, but he fiddled with his jacket zipper with a sort of defeated air as he looked at the floor.
With Ebon’s current situation with Dakota, causing serious scares and threats to human life, he knew that Ebon could track down anything he wanted. And with him knowing who Gear really was, knowing where he lived and–that made him furious. He and Richie risked their lives almost nightly for the citizens of Dakota. To come home from it all, being unable to relax completely because of a certain controlling meta, made him resentful.
He shook his head, thinking, I told you to be careful, Rich!
But he couldn’t say that sort of thing aloud...and he couldn’t place that sort of blame on him. Richie had been doing what he had been doing since he’d gotten his powers, and that was to help others. It was unfair of Virgil to do this.
But it just added to his own stress, amping the level of frustration and helplessness that he felt as he realized how big of a danger his own family could be in. He didn’t want to imagine losing another family member to violence; he didn’t want to imagine what could be done to them if Ebon finally learned of his identity.
He knew the meta hated him.
The seriousness of the situation made his entire being heavy. He had to sit down.
He did so, right on the floor, leaning back on his arms and exhaling toward the ceiling. Richie glanced at him from over his shoulder, pausing in his work.
Virgil looked over at him, his hands tense from being clenched. He stared at his best friend and tried to think of something witty and light to say.
But nothing came to mind.
Chapter Twelve
“This number is for the guy in San Antonio, but the thing is, man, there’s some guys up here from fuckin’ L.A.,” Sam said, shoving the wad of paper into Hotstreak’s hand. The two were sitting by themselves within the den of the house that commonly handled all his business. The owner, Sam Esposito, was someone he’d gotten to know as a teen; the man was a couple of years older than him, but had proven trustworthy and reliable to the meta.
The meta looked at the long distance number, glancing over at his friend curiously. Sam was the one of the few that was friendly with both gangs–but he’d proved more than once that he was expressively considerate of Hotstreak’s own gang. For several months, he’d been providing information on Ebon’s activities to him, in exchange for the free treat.
Hotstreak was confident that Sam hadn’t been giving Ebon the information the living shadow could use against him, or Ebon would have struck along time ago. It was also obvious, from what Sam was hearing, that the interceptions of Ebon’s drugs and money runs were being judged as random by rival gangs. If Ebon had known that it was Hotstreak behind these interceptions, the redhead had no doubt that Ebon would have confronted him already.
“Ebon’s been showin’ these guys around. Big top, big time guys. They all city, an’ shit. Some say they’re tied in with the fuckin’ Mafia, an’ shit...They’re gonna meet tonight, actually, with some of Ebon’s other affiliates throughout Dakota. Along with some of the police department. Man, that guy’s tight if he has all those fuckin’ pigs on his shit. It’s kinda sick. They serve and protect with a fuckin’ price...man, no skin off my back, through. They ain’t bothered me, yet.”
“I don’t care about that,” Hotstreak muttered, furrowing his brow. He’d known that Ebon’s reaches into the city council and surrounding affiliates had ran considerably deep. Though it annoyed him that Ebon had this reach, it was something he worked around.
Small impacts, he thought. Small impacts... “How’d the run, go?”
“We delivered good. ‘Cept, we had some kinda trouble down in the valley...they were wantin’ fuckin’ names, man. I don’t think we should go that route, anymore. Cuz...I think that guy sells out the names.”
“Did ya–?”
“Oh, no, we brought the stuff back. Made it out like we weren’t doin’ shit. But...whatever, eh? We’ll find someone else to sell it.”
“So we got the meth, back? What about the rocks?”
“We still got that.”
“...Light one up.”
“All right!”
Hotstreak produced a small crackpipe from his pocket, and handed it to Sam as the brunette pulled a large, white ‘rock’ from a Ziplock bag. Sam prepared the drug for ingestion, as a cellphone began to ring. Hotstreak took out the cell from one of the many pockets on his cargo pants, then produced a plume of flame with his other hand as he answered the call.
They both watched as the heat melted the powder.
As he listened, Hotstreak’s face froze with disbelief, and the plume he’d ignited slowly died out. When Sam saw that Hotstreak was preoccupied with the call, he took out his lighter and continued working on the drug. Vapors within the glass pipe were graciously sucked in as Hotstreak turned away from him, running a hand through his hair.
“When did this happen?” he was asking as Sam enjoyed the dangerous vapors that gave him a comfortable buzz. “By who? With her family? Shit....Ebon’s crew did it?”
Sam blinked, wondering what was being said as he looked over at Hotstreak, waiting for him to take a hit. But the meta was leaving his seat and walking away, so he figured he could take another. He went on to do just that when he heard a crunch of sound, startling him. When he saw that Hotstreak had punched a hole in the wall, looking insanely furious, Sam jumped to his feet and was out of there. He’d learned long ago that once the meta was fueled with anger, there was nothing he could do to save his house from the ensuing devastation.
The rage was uncontrollable; Hotstreak couldn’t see beyond the red that filtered in over his eyes, the way his entire body tightened with extreme and helpless fury. Hotstreak began to hit everything that stood in his way, his knuckles scraping against plaster, his arm jolting harshly with each impact. He was mindless of his incoherent snarls, a primitive instinct to destroy all that was in front of him unleashed by what he’d just learned.
Theresa Menounos shouldn’t have died; she shouldn’t have been killed the way she had. While they both knew their ends were highly likely with the lives they led, he felt it was wrong of her to die by her own boss’s hand. For Ebon to kill her sent his mind over with unfiltered rage.
All the things she had done for him, laughed with him about, joked and connected over; it was all gone. And for what? Because she’d been tight with him. He had cared for her, and she had cared for him; they were more brother and sister than anything else. For her to die because of their friendship seemed utterly senseless and horribly unfair.
Immense guilt, resentment, horror and shock filled through him, making his previous strength seem incapable of holding him together. His arms weakened, but he punched through the wall with an enraged scream, following through with another. He had no doubt someone had either overheard her conversation with him, or had seen what she’d done for him and Richie.
Something stopped him from furthering his rage out on the wall, and he slumped against it, breathing harshly. If someone had seen what she had done...leaving Richie’s things out for him...then they knew where Richie was. Knew that he was hanging around him, once more.
He felt the drive to go to the blond as a strong surge from within, but the moment he tried pushing away from the wall, his knees gave out and he hit the floor with a muffled curse. Instead of getting up, he laid there, panting harshly. His knuckles and the backs of his hands were bleeding from the impacts and follow through of his punches, and they were starting to throb with pain.
His arms were shaking intensely from the whirlwind that heated him from within, and he continued to lay there on the floor, finally slowing the harsh breathing that had resulted from his rampage.
Theresa shouldn’t have died...she had felt guilty and shamed by what had happened, but she had been helpless. She had to do it...she had to or else Ebon would have–but it didn’t matter, because Ebon had her killed, anyway. He wondered why the living shadow didn’t do it himself; why he contracted others to carry out the task.
His fists curled tightly, his hands shaking as he struggled to hold in his rising emotions. He didn’t care what he looked like, what he’d done to Sam’s walls as he inhaled sharply, his lips contorting into a grimace. Finally, he started swearing at the floor, screaming all the obscenities and helpless pain that he felt bubble to the surface.
He began hitting the floor repeatedly with the bottom of his fist over and over. He once again felt that surge of violence to wreck or hurt something, to take away the pain, and swept to his feet. Once again, the walls were subjected to his fury, and when those proved too strong, he moved over to the couches; he overturned all of them, throwing the coffee table over, scattered framed pictures on the wall, tossed the decorative lamps; all the while screaming maniacally.
His body started to exhaust itself, but his raging emotions had other plans as he turned to the drugs that were taken in the other night. He attacked those with a vengeance, scraping the bags together, ripping apart the meticulously packed weed bundles and spreading meth all over the carpet. It wasn’t enough, so he ripped down the curtains, shattered the boom box and flung the bundled wads of money around.
He was breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his brow by the time his body gave out once more. He slumped to the floor, giving a drawn out sob as he hid his face behind his hands.
“She shouldn’t have died,” he kept saying over and over, his shoulders jerking with the force of his harsh sobs. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, amidst the horrible ruins of his rage until he felt gentle hands on his shoulders.
Maria was there, whispering soothing words as she bravely risked bodily injury to provide the comfort he needed. Her mink brown hair swept over his arms as she continued to whisper in Spanish of condolences, of calming and reassuring words. Her hands traveled around him, embracing him fiercely as he turned his head into her neck, reaching out to grip her hair to pull her close. As he breathed in her soft perfume and traces of hairspray, he felt himself calm considerably.
That rage slowly faded; still burning deep within, but fading away for the moment.
She crouched against his back, wiping away the sweat that gathered on his face, running her manicured nails through his hair. It was like soothing an injured beast, she realized. A hurt one that could still strike out.
She tried not to look at the destruction of Sam’s den; it was utterly and hopelessly ravaged, and more than hazardous. But he’d destroyed because of his rage, and she was thankful that he’d chosen to destroy things in this light rather than use his abilities to destroy others.
She hugged him tightly, making shushing sounds between her teeth and tongue, rocking gently. She’d heard the news, of course; and she felt a great emptiness deep within for the loss of her friend. With the way things were going, lately, it was obvious that it had to come to some sort of close. As she shed her own tears, gathering her own comfort from his touch, she had an ominous feeling that things weren’t even close to ending just yet.
OooooooooooO
That night, Virgil groaned in tired relief as he sank down onto his bed. While the road trip had been entertaining and certainly appreciated, he recognized that the moment they’d entered Dakota, he felt down and heavy all over again. He lifted his head from his pillow, shifting about on his bed as he listened to Robert and Sharon continue to unpack in their respective rooms.
He’d left his suitcase where he’d tossed it, and he glanced over at it now, frowning at it. He didn’t feel like unpacking just yet. He just wanted to relax–he’d call Daisy to let her know he was back, maybe get something to eat from downstairs, contemplate on sneaking out to meet his girlfriend for a quickie, call his best friend to let him know he was back, and THEN think about unpacking.
Of course, as all things did, his plans didn’t go the way he wanted.
“V, you there? Static?”
He groaned as he heard Richie’s voice coming from the Shock Vox, and rolled onto the floor with a loud thump. He opened his suitcase and found the walkie-talkie within the mass of unfolded clothing within. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as he depressed the transmitter to respond.
“Yeah, I’m here, bro. What’s up? Miss me?”
“I need to talk to you. Meet me at the Gas Station.”
“Man, I just got in!” Virgil exclaimed, drawing a hand down his face in exasperation. “Is this an emergency?”
“It’s really, really important, Static. Just–just get there.”
“Fine. I’d better see Rosario Dawson standing there naked like the day she was born, damn it, or so help me...” Virgil rose from the floor, wincing as he muttered, “And so...it starts...”
Nearly twenty minutes later, he slammed the back door of the Gas Station shut, exclaiming over the cold that had enveloped him like a fist. Bundled up tightly, he was kicking snow from his boots when he looked over at his best friend, who was busy working on Backpack at his desk. His eyes swept from side to side, noting the lack of emergency. He was walking over when he stumbled on Richie’s skates, catching himself before he hit the floor. It looked as if they’d been thrown there, his helmet barely visible underneath another table that was littered with Richie’s tools. The rest of his protective gear–gloves, elbow and knee pads–were tossed with the same random air throughout the Gas Station.
He figured Richie had a bad night.
“Yesh. Okay, what’s the emergency?” he asked, straightening as he pulled off his beanie, then his hood. He looked over at Richie, taking in the black Nike hooded sweater and the dark baggy jeans. Knowing his friend for as long as he did, he didn’t recognize the sweater.
Richie sighed, lowering his soldering tool.
It’s now or never, he thought, pushing away from the desk, showing Virgil his face.
“Damn...Deebo got to you, too?” Virgil asked, naming off the bully in Friday. He winced as he took in the blackened eye, the swollen lower lip. They were injuries he’d seen before on his best friend–but that didn’t make them any less affecting. He always felt a wench in his gut upon seeing any sort of injury done to him.
“I wish,” Richie muttered, looking at his jeans. “Virg...I...you need to sit down.”
Virgil blinked, not wanting to accept that ominous feeling that seized his insides. Hearing Richie’s tone, the way he kept himself slumped, made him realize that something big had happened. Immediate concern for his friend had him reaching out, but he quickly shifted his attention to the couch, and sat down on one of the arms.
Richie licked his lips nervously, then looked over at Virgil. “I...man...um...how was your trip?”
“Oh, no, don’t start that,” Virgil exclaimed, shaking his head. “Not uh. You tell me what’s goin’ on, then I tell you about my trip.”
“It’s...it’s bad. Virg...um...”
Virgil was starting to feel worse and worse the more he stared at Richie, waiting for him to come out with his news. And the more he waited, the more his shoulders began to slump, for his back to ache with tension. He glanced around Richie’s work space, seeing a Wal-Mart bag near his work, the contents being that of his costume. He could see the stark green and white coloring from where he was sitting, and wondered what it was doing in there.
“Ebon knows who I am,” Richie finally said, with much difficulty. Virgil noticed how shaky his voice had become, how uncertain. “I...I ran into him this past Saturday night, and–it...it was a trap. U-uh...y-you remember that stupid thing he–that was kept being brought up?”
Virgil instantly felt sick. He felt his throat close up. But he forced himself to swallow. “That...that stupid...dream?”
“He...” Richie looked up at the ceiling, then at everything else but him. He fiddled with his fingers, nervously pulling them, cracking his knuckles. The sounds were obscenely loud within the silence of the abandoned gas station. Somewhere outside, someone worked their car horn with frantic reaction. “He...got what he wanted, I guess. Um...b-but...”
“Richie,” Virgil breathed in horrified shock.
“But above it all, he knows who I am. And it’s...he knows where I live, and–and I don’t feel safe anywhere! He–he’s a fucking monster, Virg–”
“Did he...?”
“Everything, V. Everything.”
“Oh...Richie...I...man, I...did you go to the hospital?”
“...Yeah. Yes, I–I mean....but you need to be careful, V. Because...I don’t know what he’s doing. He was in my room last night, damn it! He knows where I live, and he left things, and he’s just–! I don’t know what to do, anymore! I feel like...I feel like he’s there everywhere I turn, and–I just wanted to say, too, is that I don’t...I don’t want to be Gear, anymore.”
“What?”
“Virgil& #8211;! I can’t do it!” Richie rose from his seat in agitation, still not looking at Virgil directly. Virgil rose from his seat, staring in wide-mouthed silence at his friend, trying to accept what was being said. “I can’t–I mean, I finally got my costume back, an–”
“What do you mean by that? Richie–! Please...I need you to start from the beginning. Not from there–you don’t need ta talk about that, but...how’d you get to the hospital? Did you make a report? Were you hurt that bad? What’s this about your costume–?”
“Virg, I don’t know who had my costume. I don’t know how–V, Fr–Hotstreak was there for me.”
Virgil reacted with a startled exclamation, pulling back from him, as if shocked. “Huh?”
Richie shrugged, turning his back to him as he went back to fiddling with Backpack. “He was there for me. He was...I don’t know how he got there, or how he knew, but he was the one that took me to the hospital. And he was the one that...that I stayed with. So...I did have someone there for me during that...but...I...I just needed to let you know what happened. That...that because of all of that....Ebon may figure things out. Our families are in danger, V. And...I needed to tell you that.”
Oh, shit, was all Virgil thought, staring at his best friend in stupefied silence.
It had been a running joke; light, harmless. That Ebon had a ‘crush’ on Gear.
But it wasn’t. Not anymore. Staring at his best friend, he realized that nothing could be a joke, anymore. He’d left Richie smiling, upbeat and a little insulted, and returned to find him broken, bruised and horribly defeated. He wasn’t quite sure how he should feel, or what he should say–just that anger rose from deep within. Hot, burning anger that was mixed with helplessness and frustration.
He ran over the things Richie had just told him; the blond’s reluctance to return to his duties as Gear, the knowledge that Ebon knew who they were, Hotstreak’s involvement. It just made his current turmoil much more hotter, and he reached up, swiping his hands through his dreads in frustration. He tried to center himself, to breathe deeply and evenly, recalling Sharon’s meditation exercises that she’d taught him a little while back to keep himself focused. But he kept thinking about how defenseless Gear was without his tools. And he knew Richie wouldn’t go down without a fight or struggle; he wasn’t physically weak, either.
But Ebon was strong and powerful with those abilities of his; the thought of the meta overtaking his best friend, subjecting him to the sort of action that would destroy anybody’s sense of self-worth and being made him furious. Helplessly furious...because while he knew he could go out and search for Ebon right now as Static, he had to wonder if Ebon would retaliate by getting to his family as Richie had said.
And on that course of action...
He looked over at Richie, who had returned to soldering something within Backpack’s depths.
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came to his tongue. He shut it, teeth clicking together, and he tried to think of something to say to somehow make Richie feel a little better. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anything. He didn’t know whether or not he could touch Richie; whether he could say something along the lines of, ‘What can I do to help?” without somehow insulting him; or if he could continue questioning him to find out what else Ebon knew and the actions afterward.
He knew that a person’s psyche after such an attack was fragile, afterward. And he wondered, with Richie’s brain being the way that it was, if it were causing him havoc in terms of stability.
He went over what Richie said about Hotstreak. He recalled that night on the rooftop over a year ago, when the first attempt Ebon had made to get to Richie had Static investigating. Hotstreak had been with them then, but had tricked Ebon, preventing him from getting to Richie. Static had been confused over the entire thing until Richie explained to him his involvement with Hotstreak, and Virgil had witnessed it before his own eyes; but the thing that bothered him was that Richie didn’t have any memory after the recent attack.
What if Hotstreak was involved from the start?
He glanced over at Richie, then decided not to ask. It wasn’t his place, right now; he had to consider Richie’s feelings. When the blond had spoke of what Hotstreak had done for him, there was a great deal of pride, warmth, comfort and affection in his tone. So it was obvious that he looked up to the meta in terms of appreciation.
He didn’t get those two. He didn’t think he ever would. His hated enemy and his best friend? Nah... he just couldn’t get it. Not even when he saw them together, or when Richie spoke of him.
He didn’t know what to say, but he fiddled with his jacket zipper with a sort of defeated air as he looked at the floor.
With Ebon’s current situation with Dakota, causing serious scares and threats to human life, he knew that Ebon could track down anything he wanted. And with him knowing who Gear really was, knowing where he lived and–that made him furious. He and Richie risked their lives almost nightly for the citizens of Dakota. To come home from it all, being unable to relax completely because of a certain controlling meta, made him resentful.
He shook his head, thinking, I told you to be careful, Rich!
But he couldn’t say that sort of thing aloud...and he couldn’t place that sort of blame on him. Richie had been doing what he had been doing since he’d gotten his powers, and that was to help others. It was unfair of Virgil to do this.
But it just added to his own stress, amping the level of frustration and helplessness that he felt as he realized how big of a danger his own family could be in. He didn’t want to imagine losing another family member to violence; he didn’t want to imagine what could be done to them if Ebon finally learned of his identity.
He knew the meta hated him.
The seriousness of the situation made his entire being heavy. He had to sit down.
He did so, right on the floor, leaning back on his arms and exhaling toward the ceiling. Richie glanced at him from over his shoulder, pausing in his work.
Virgil looked over at him, his hands tense from being clenched. He stared at his best friend and tried to think of something witty and light to say.
But nothing came to mind.