Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Fourteen ( Chapter 14 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Hotstreak talks with Shiv; Virgil realizes Richie's fears.
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.02.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 6.2K | Visits: 512 | Status: Completed
Hotstreak talks with Shiv; Virgil realizes Richie's fears.
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.02.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 6.2K | Visits: 512 | Status: Completed
Right Here
Chapter Fourteen
The funeral for Theresa Menounos was held in a small cemetery that was poorly maintained, and improperly funded by corrupt sponsors. Hotstreak was disgusted at the place, but it was reserved for the more poorer class of Dakota. He had no say over where his friends were buried–that was all under the direction of the family and the finances they were able to acquire from various state-funded programs that assisted the poor in such things.
The day was cold–even as the sun shone brightly overhead, everyone was freezing as the priest delivered the final benediction. His solemn words carried over the city noises as he graced the closed casket with prayers and tosses of the cold, hard dirt. There were few of Theresa’s family there–most had refused to attend due to the fear of interacting with those she ran with; fear of possible retribution and revenge causes.
They needn’t have worried–Hotstreak could count only five actual gang members from Ebon’s gang and various others that wanted to pay their respects, and a truce seemed to have been called for this actual event. In any case, the opposition avoided each other, and he made sure to stay at the very edge of the procession to avoid drawing any attention to himself. Maria and her family had braved the cold and the fear and were sitting with what family had chosen to attend. Virgil Hawkins was even there, alone, which surprised Hotstreak. He didn’t think the hero would even bother with attending the funeral of one of his familiar menaces.
To avoid any confrontation or scene, Hotstreak made sure to avoid him especially. He had recognized that feeling of disappointment upon not seeing Richie with him.
It was one of those somber moments where he felt numb to everything; he was staring at the closed casket, at the sad bundle of white roses that adorned the cheap wood, and he couldn’t believe that Theresa was in there. He hadn’t been able to make the viewing–so he hadn’t seen if she looked like another strange shell of something that was once alive, or if there was a semblance to her looks that were still recognizable in death.
Frankly, he didn’t want to know. Dead bodies made him uneasy–especially if they were his friends’. Someone was wailing, now–he narrowed his eyes as he gave the family a contemptuous glare. They hadn’t any right to grieve–they did nothing to help her. They pushed Theresa away the moment they felt threatened, afraid for their own lives. They didn’t want to pull her back into their close circle, and they ignored or flat-out denied Theresa’s pain of being refused.
It made him angry inside; he’d promised himself not to make a scene at the funeral itself. But he wasn’t holding the same vow for what happened away from the cemetery. He figured he’d drop by later, just to vent some steam. There was a dinner planned after the funeral for those in attendance. He’d stop by then.
He shifted, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he once again stared at the closed casket.
One day, he thought with a troubled frown, I’ll be in one of those.
It made him uneasy to think that way–but it was true. He’d long ago accepted that he’d die either by some lucky gangbanger’s action, by police interference, or from some vengeful bang baby. He’d considered other possibilities, as well; perhaps a drug overdose, or car accident, or even freak accident. Whichever, he was prepared to die; it happened. But he didn’t want to think of those he knew (and cared about) that died. It hurt so much to know Theresa was gone; what happened if Maria was killed? Or one of his friends? Or...or Richie?
That hurt most of all. It made him sick inside and made his chest clench. He couldn’t imagine Richie ever dying–but the possibility was high, considering he did his duties as a superhero. He could die easily–and Hotstreak didn’t want to imagine by how or why. He didn’t want to even venture in that route. He didn’t even want to think what sort of effect it would have on him if Richie was killed. The thought of never interacting with the blond again–be it hero/villain encounter or those magical moments where they were together–was something that he never wanted to think about.
So he banished that train of thought as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket; the urge for nicotine prompted by a sudden surge of saliva. He didn’t miss the way his hands shook–definitely not from the cold–as he lifted the cig to his mouth and brought it to life. As he exhaled the calming cloud of smoke, he looked away as one of Theresa’s family members stood up to sing a farewell song, everyone rising to their feet.
Hotstreak scanned the small, poorly maintained cemetery with its cracked angels and broken tombstones, and paused on a thin, hunched figure that was leaning against one of the few trees that somehow managed to survive within the hard dirt. He recognized Shiv instantly–he couldn’t hide his purple mohawk and multiple earrings with that simple beanie.
Fury ignited within him, his fingers itching to curl around the manic bang baby’s neck–to demand why Theresa had been killed; to know why he didn’t stop Ebon from raping Richie; to just kill someone closely related to Ebon so that he could somehow rid himself of the pain he felt at losing the Colombian woman.
But he waited.
And as he waited, he finished the cigarette and picked through his jacket pockets. His shaking fingers found the crumbled up index card that Richie had left in his car. He’d found it a day after he’d dropped him off at the park, while he’d been searching through his car for a cigarette. It had been crumbled and smushed under the seat–deliberately so.
Thom Harrison, Counselor, it read in Montoya’s neat handwriting. The address, phone number and fax number was printed in neat numbers off to the side, and he stared down at it in contemplative thought. As he looked up, seeing that the casket was being lowered into the cold earth by Theresa’s uncles and brother, he glanced over at Shiv once more–and saw that the Asian was crossing the cemetery to leave.
Hotstreak replaced the index card in his pocket as various family members began leaving their seats to extend their condolences personally to Theresa’s family. He shifted away from those he was standing with, and hurried off in the same direction Shiv had taken, ignoring Maria’s hiss of suspicion.
The Asian was fast, striding hastily down the sidewalk, looking as if he were trying to avoid the traffic that flowed slowly off to his left. He took a detour down a side alley, between a low-key garage and a parking lot–when Hotstreak caught up to him, the meta didn’t give any warning of his presence until he had Shiv’s jacket in one hand and he was throwing the Asian against the wall of the garage.
Shiv gave a surprised cry, automatically shifting his arms into blades, bringing them up to Hotstreak’s throat and chest. The pyro already had his fists ignited, the backs of his hands pressing against the blades to keep them from puncturing him.
Shiv stared up at him in wide-eyed fear, gulping noisily, his blades faltering for a second before renewing force. They were both at a stand-off, and both knew that the other could easily kill. All Shiv needed to do was twitch, and the tip of his blade would slice through the redhead’s throat; all Hotstreak had to do was administer enough heat to melt off enough skin and muscle before Shiv could even react. But one had to admit that if anything were to happen, Shiv would have the upper hand–though Hotstreak would be vindictive enough to blast him even as he choked to death, making his death just as slow.
“Why’d he kill her?” Hotstreak demanded, shifting his head back to alleviate the pressure the blade had on his neck. Shiv followed the moment, his own head moving from side to side in negative reaction to the question.
“I–I don’t know!” he exclaimed, wincing at the heat the fire produced so close to his skin. His blades felt warmer than they usually did, and it was a severely uncomfortable feeling. “I didn’t do it! Some guys did! He got mad at her! Because she didn’t–I don’t know! I don’t know why!”
“Who did it?”
“I don’t know! I wasn’t with them! I didn’t want to–! He did it cuz they were fighting. No–no, he did it cuz he found out that she was talking with you! He had her tailed that one night–she dumped somethin’, and it was for that guy, and that guy was with you, cuz Theresa was talking to you earlier, and Ebon pierced it altogether from there! He was mad at her for talkin’ to you! He thought that she was giving you information!”
Heavy guilt swept through Hotstreak as he listened to Shiv’s hasty confession, and he had to close his eyes in remorse; he’d caused Theresa’s death. And there wasn’t a thing he could do to rectify it. She was gone.
Shiv felt the slight falter in the heat near his blades–he was sweating, even though the vacuous-faced weatherman had declared it to be twenty degrees, today. He swallowed hard again, his Adam’s Apple reacting with a jerk as he slightly lessened the pressure of his blade to Hotstreak’s own alleviation of his flame.
Hotstreak opened his eyes, and focused on Shiv, noting that the mania that was usually on display on his thin face was gone; replaced by an uncomfortable hardness that depicted fear and exhaustion. He didn’t feel sorry for the meta–as far as he was concerned, Shiv was nothing to him but a pain in the ass. He couldn’t take the bang baby seriously, especially when Shiv proved countless times before that he wasn’t a real thinking threat. He followed orders thoughtlessly and did only what was told of him.
Just another one of Ebon’s rats.
He pulled back slightly from the bang baby, and felt more of the alleviation of the blades. “Ebon... contracted others to kill her?”
“Yeah...but I don’t know who.”
Shiv’s willingness to divulge information made Hotstreak suspicious. The purple haired Asian could go right back to Ebon–no. Ebon was in jail, now. But for how long?
He stepped back from the meta, killing the flames as he gave a disgusted look at the Asian. He found out what had plagued him. Even though he wanted to kill the meta for all his interference in the past and for the recent course of events, something told him not to.
He’d learned to follow his instincts and not his rash impulses. If something was telling him not to do so, he wasn’t going to do so.
Maybe it was just the heaviness of his guilt from knowing that Theresa had died as a result of talking with him that produced this effect. Whichever, he found out what he needed to know.
“She wasn’t givin’ me information,” he said sullenly, looking away from him. “She didn’t want to betray him that way. We were friends–that’s all.”
Shiv swallowed tightly. But he reformed his blades into human limbs. “I–I know. She didn’t tell me things, but she hinted at them. I’m going to miss her–Ebon’s killing everyone off. An’ with these new people comin’ in, I don’t–”
“‘New people’?” Hotstreak repeated, looking at him sharply.
Shiv slapped his hands over his mouth, cursing aloud at his stupidity.
Hotstreak turned to him once more, and Shiv reformed his blades defensively, looking for a way out of the situation. He knew he could duck, jump, or lunge to attack in order to escape; but he could do neither as Hotstreak once again activated the heat in his hands, a ring of fire forging out of the air around him, the flames licking upward toward the sky.
At least he was warm, Shiv had to admit as the heat got to him.
“What ‘new people’?”
“I–I ain’t talkin’. I don’t know ‘bout that. I don’t know nothin’. What I do know is that Ebon is in jail, an’–and Theresa’s gone. I don’t know nothin’ else!” Shiv said stubbornly, shaking his head.
Hotstreak narrowed his eyes as he stared at the bang baby in contemplation. Then he straightened, realizing that he was only attracting attention by threatening the Asian with his flames. He could hear the voices of the interested on the sidewalk nearby, and the faint sounds of approaching sirens. Wanting neither, he forced the flames away.
“I’ll let you go,” he finally said, scowling at the Asian. “But I’m going to use that, an’ when word gets out that I know what the fuck, then I’m lettin’ everyone know who told me what. An’ yer name’s at the top of the list. Wit’ th’ way Ebon’s workin’ now, he’ll get rid of ya in no time at all.”
“That ain’t fair!” Shiv cried, lunging away from him. “I work for him! I ain’t done nothin’ wrong! I don’t wanna die! You can’t do that!”
Sensing Shiv’s very real fear of Ebon gave Hotstreak tremendous satisfaction. He stared at the fear that crossed the thin features, the way Shiv’s eyes widened with the threat.
“Oh...yes I can,” he said evenly, his lips curling into a smirk. “But for some easy info, I can keep quiet about who I heard shit from.”
Shiv’s eyes danced nervously from him, then around him, his blades trembling with the obvious agitation he was currently feeling at the threat and the demand. He stared at the interested gawkers on the sidewalk–a couple of hookers, a store-owner, and some kids that were in love with what they were seeing. He swallowed noisily once more, and wished Theresa were there to tell him what to do. He couldn’t think on his own. His decisions weren’t made by him–he needed others to give him direction!
He looked back at Hotstreak, and registered that if he didn’t give the info–then Hotstreak would let Ebon know that Shiv had squealed on some information. And Ebon wouldn’t stand for that–he’d get rid of Shiv in the messiest way possible. It wouldn’t matter that this came from Ebon’s rival; what mattered was that Hotstreak possessed information only they knew about.
He trembled with agitation, his lower jaw working furiously with his thoughts. Finally, his arms resumed normality once again.
“I don’t wanna die,” he croaked, shaking his head as he stared up at Hotstreak with fear. “I don’t want to. I don’t know what to do. Theresa always told me what to do–she ain’t here. If she was here–”
“Then this whole thing wouldn’t have started,” Hotstreak snapped, marveling at the effect he had on the Asian. To see Shiv scared and frightened was satisfactory. “Now, give. What do you know?”
“I...well...there’s these guys...”
Minutes later, Shiv was running down the alley, the threat of being given away as a snitch to keep his mouth shut on his encounter with Hotstreak prompting his hasty getaway.
Finding the information he’d taken from the Asian quite acceptable, Hotstreak hurried off to escape the nuisance the police were capable of.
OooooooooooO
With Winter Break over, the two boys returned to school with a sort of heaviness that shaped them differently. It was distinguishable to their friends and to their teachers as sullen expressions were noted; as inability to concentrate on assignments were expressed. Virgil and Richie were exhausted by their own troubles, and neither really knew how to deal with it.
Virgil had refused Robert’s continued insistence to talk with a trusted counselor over his burn-out issues with superheroism; and Richie continued to ignore that his nightmares persisted and his fear of the dark kept him from behaving normally. Both were tense, jumpy and quick to snap in defense. Especially at each other.
While both needed each other, each of them wanting the other’s previous comforts and familiarity, it was obvious that the strain of their individual troubles were keeping them from relating to each other.
Virgil continued to avoid his duties as Static–and while he wondered if the city had even noticed his absence, he was starting to feel that perhaps it wasn’t a bad thing. He didn’t feel that enormous pressure to go out every night for patrol. But he did feel the pressure of the rising crime-rate and his own continued sense of duty.
They were sitting in the library for fifth period, both of them dully staring off into space, not bothering with the assignment as their classmates worked around them.
Frieda, brave enough to venture into the depths of their combined despair over unknown things, picked up a newspaper that was a few days old and hurried over.
“Enough with the faces!” she demanded as she took a seat between them, slapping the newspaper down.
Virgil’s eyes looked away from the ceiling to focus on the small, two paragraph article that Frieda was trying to show them. He blinked, then straightened in his seat.
“This is bullshit!” he exclaimed angrily, startling Richie out of his own thoughts. He picked up the newspaper to finish reading the article.
“It is,” Frieda agreed with a frown, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t see how people could be so unappreciative. Static and Gear did so much for the city, and everyone’s treating them like fucking crap. I’m sorry guys, but people really suck sometimes.”
“What does it say, V?” Richie asked, adjusting his glasses.
“This shit says that the reason Static ain’t around is cuz he’s ‘afraid of Ebon’,” Virgil repeated furiously, tossing the thing toward his friend. “Static ain’t afraid of nobody! Especially that fuckin’ jerk!”
Frieda’s eyes widened as she studied her friend’s face, taking in the vehemence of his tone, the way he took it so...personally.
“Wow,” she finally commented. “That really bugs you, doesn’t it?”
“Of course it does!” he snapped at her. “Static did all this shit for people, and the people’s all ungrateful. Sayin’ it ain’t good enough. Sayin’ that what he did in the past ain’t good enough. They’re basically sayin’ that Dakota don’t need Static.”
“That’s only a few people that feel that way, Virgil,” Freida said. “There are a ton of people out there that appreciate him and Gear. If it weren’t for those two, a lot of stuff would–”
“It just fuckin’ sucks that people are so fuckin’ ungrateful,” Virgil muttered, slumping forward in his seat. “They don’t appreciate anythin’, nowadays. They all be wantin’ hand-outs and easy way outs, and never wanna work for their shit, anymore. An’ when they do, when they do get help, they all unappreciative.”
“Virgil’s just a little grumpy, Frieda, because he’s been seeing a lot of that stuff nowadays,” Richie apologized for his friend’s harsh words, the girl looking at him with a dubious frown.
“It’s true!”
“Well, I still say that it’s only a minority speaking,” Frieda said, crossing her legs. “A lot of people truly appreciate what they’ve done. If it weren’t for them, how many people do you think would have lost their lives as a result of bang baby activity? If crackhouses weren’t broken into? If it were all up to the police, our city would already be a source of flatulent and devious behavior...”
“It isn’t now?” Richie asked skeptically, lifting a dark eyebrow as he pushed the article away from him with the tip of his finger.
“Well...no...I’m just saying...” Frieda waved the subject off. “Now that Ebon’s in jail, what do you think’s going to happen? How long do you think he’ll stay there?”
“That’s getting all weird,” Virgil grumbled, folding his arms before them and resting his head upon them. “He went in to get questioned about Talon’s–Theresa’s murder, and he knew he’d be held for charges up the ass for everything...and he still went. It confuses me.”
“He’s got charges on him for every previous offence he’s made in the past,” Richie murmured softly, fiddling with the hem of his sweater. Frieda noticed that he had suddenly favored that unfamiliar black sweater that was sizes too big for him–it wasn’t new, and it wasn’t his style. But he wore that thing the way he did with his other hoodies. She felt it wasn’t his color–it made him look too pale. “If he continues to do his time, he’s going to be in prison forever...”
“He’s got lawyers, don’t they? I mean, everyone gets a public defender, or prosecutor, or something in any event. Even murderers have their defense...”
“Yeah...he does...”
“I hope they keep him in there!” she huffed, pushing her hair out of her face. “We don’t need that kind out in the streets, anymore. Bad enough we got all these gangs and whatnot taking over. Oh my God, did I tell you two what happened the other day? Out of no where, this guy approaches me, and offers me a job as a fucking whore! Do I look like a whore? Do I look like whore material?”
“We don’t wanna answer that,” Virgil muttered from his arms.
Frieda gave an outraged gasp, straightening from the table. She reached over and slapped him across the back of the head.
“V, that was pretty mean,” Richie admonished.
“Goddamn it! Don’t you fucking hit me again, you fucking bitch!” Virgil reacted with a snarl, jerking up from his arms, effectively silencing those around him.
Frieda’s and Richie’s eyes widened with disbelief at the unfamiliar behavior Virgil reacted with, their classmates staring at the African-American in similar manner.
Immediately contrite by his reaction, Virgil muttered an apology. He picked up his backpack and was out of there before anything could be said.
Frieda looked at Richie, who shrugged. She felt sheepish, all of a sudden, being snapped at in that manner. Sheepish and hurt. She’d only reacted in a way that she’d always had whenever Virgil had said something of that content to her. They all knew it was a joke. But the anger and venom poured into that simple snarl of his had been frighteningly easy.
After school, Virgil was trying to prompt himself to resume his duties–but every time he thought of donning his costume, he felt that same unfamiliar indisposition draw his shoulders down. The more he thought about going out on patrol without Richie made him even more reluctant. Half of his workload was taken off his shoulders with his friend’s help–and with the current activity of Dakota’s baddies taking their toll, it was something he didn’t want to face alone.
As they walked, he tried to convince Richie to join him–maybe not as Gear, but as backup. As he had before he’d gotten his bang baby abilities. But Richie was reluctant to do even that, automatically thinking of how he’d have to stay out of sight, hiding within the very shadows that he feared.
“I can try, V, but I’m not going to promise anything,” Richie said, a little sullenly as he shifted his backpack onto both shoulders, uneasy at the thought of getting anywhere near his costume. As far as he knew, it was still wadded up in the Wal-mart bag at the gas station. “In fact, I really am going to be honest with you–I don’t even want to do that.”
“What?”
“I don’t...I don’t even want to try. I just...I just don’t want to do it.”
Virgil stared at him in silent thought, then looked away.
“I could really use you out there, man,” he muttered. “I mean, yeah, I did all right by myself, but when you came along, I could see that I work better with you. Plus, it helps that you had taken off some of the load that I get from dealin’ with multiple perps.”
“I’m sorry, Virgil. I just can’t...”
“If this is cuz of Ebon–! He’s in jail!” Virgil exclaimed. “He ain’t comin’ out! There really isn’t anybody that’s capable of breakin’ him out the way the Breed used to, cuz he’s practically the only one with powers in Dakota! An’ those that got their powers, an’ ain’t us, aren’t exactly hoppin’ to it–!”
“I just don’t want to do it, Virgil!” Richie spit angrily, giving his best friend a glare. “I’m sorry. I really am. I would love to help, but I can’t bring myself to fix my costume up an’ get back out there!”
“Richie, please...”
“I can’t! I can’t, and I don’t want to! Please, V, you have to understand! What happened that night, I–I’m not the same! I can’t go to sleep without a fucking nightlight, an’ the thought of being–and–I just can’t.”
Virgil grit his teeth in frustration, looking away. They walked in uncomfortable silence for a couple of blocks, both of them trying hard not to acknowledge the rift that was forcing its way between them over the conversation. Virgil felt that Richie was being petty; but then, he understood his newfound fears. After all, he hadn’t been the same about guns ever since one was used to kill his mother; and the objects of death still terrified him to this day. He felt extremely low, then, thinking of things that way. He looked over to Richie, and saw that the blond was ignoring him.
“Richie...I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pressured you an’ shit,” he said quietly. “It’s no business of mine to be dictatin’ what you should be doin’. I should have been more sensitive to your fears.”
“It’s all right, Virgil,” Richie said on a sigh that bespoke the regularity of his forgiveness toward his best friend.
“No, really, Richie. I mean it. I just haven’t been thinking clearly, lately, an’ I’m takin’ it out on all the wrong people,” Virgil muttered, hands in his pockets as they stopped at an intersection. He wanted to apologize to Frieda, but every time he tried, he grew embarrassed by what he did and felt he couldn’t face her. It suddenly reminded him of another very recent event, and he decided to share, to somehow keep the lines open between himself and Richie.
“Last night, Sharon asked me to do this really simple thing–all I had ta do was take out the garbage. I told her I didn’t want to–it was fuckin’ cold. I said I’d do it today. But she got all bitchin’ an’ shit, an’ I finally just told her to shut the fuck up an’ do it herself. I don’t say that kinda thing to her, Richie. It was...I didn’t like it. I apologized, but she had her feelin’s hurt...Dad was pissed at me, too, but...all this stress, man. It’s tearing me down. There are times when I look at my costume an’ I don’t wanna put it on. I don’t want to do it. I have SATs comin’ up, I still haven’t made any replies to Dakota U or Georgetown–”
“You applied to Georgetown?” Richie asked incredulously. “I thought Dakota U was the only university you were interested in!”
“...Daisy’s goin’ to Georgetown. Or, at least, she applied. That and Brown.” Virgil shrugged. “I did it just so that I could be with her.”
“...You never told me you did that.”
“Well, it was my own decision. An’ I didn’t want you talkin’ me out of it.”
Richie blinked as he looked up at Virgil in surprise. “V, I would have never–”
“Yes, you would have! You’d bring up my superhero duties, an’ you’d get all preachy about me followin’ Daisy around. I know you, Rich. Well, sometimes I know you, but I know that would have come from you.”
Richie slowly shook his head, looking away as the light changed. They walked in silence across the street, bypassing the drift of dirty snow that had been stowed at the curb by a recent plowing.
“You mad at me?” Virgil suddenly asked, looking at him closely.
“No...why would I be mad at you?”
“Just...you got all quiet.”
“So did you...”
Virgil shifted his backpack, pulling up his fashionably baggy pants and adjusting his belt. “Where’d you apply?”
“...Dakota U. But...I think...I think I’m going to take a year off before going into school,” Richie said carefully, avoiding Virgil’s stare. “I’ve been here in Dakota my entire life. I kinda want to get out, see other things before being tied down that way.”
“When did you decide this?”
“...I dunno. Just came to mind from time to time.”
“That ain’t like you.”
“What?”
“For you to make that sort of thing. What would you do? You ain’t got a car; or a job. Where would you go?”
“I...I don’t know. Greyhound doesn’t cost that much...I just want to get out of here.”
“What made you make that decision? It’s weird, Rich. I can’t see you doin’ that,” Virgil repeated, giving his friend an incredulous stare. “You’ve always been the stay-at-home kinda guy. Never venturing out. I guess it’s cool, though. It might do a lot of good for you to see the world...though I kinda wonder what made you want to do that.”
Richie shrugged. “I dunno. Just something that came to mind one day.”
“I...Rich, I think that–”
His friend came to a stop as his eyes focused on something beyond him. Virgil paused, glancing over to see a Ford Blazer slowly cruising up the opposite end of the street, the windows too darkly tinted for him to see inside. The Blazer slowed significantly once it was alined with the both of them, then the driver’s side window lowered.
“Hey. Git over here. Let me holla at’cha,” the driver demanded, shoving his sunglasses up atop of his shaved head. “I gotta message I need ta deliver...Ivan sends his love, yo. He still be thinkin’ about you while he all jailed up. Said he’d call ya when he gets out. Mebbe ya guys can hook up, again.”
Virgil saw the way Richie’s face drained of color at the words. Then Richie immediately began walking, almost running as the driver hung out from the window, laughing and calling after him. Virgil was clueless as to what was happening as he stared after his friend, then at the driver that focused on him. A black teen, he lifted his chin in greeting.
“Hey...what’s your name? You Static?” he demanded, putting the vehicle in park and ignoring the frustrated honk of the vehicle behind him.
Virgil didn’t feel like answering–and it wouldn’t be wise, anyway. He waved at them in disgust then walked off, moving into a run to chase after his best friend. He looked back over his shoulder to see the Blazer take off with a protesting screech of the transmission, taunting laughter ringing out over the streets.
He finally caught up to Richie with his longer strides, and said his friend’s name with concern. When Richie ignored him, either too caught up in his own thoughts or having not heard him, Virgil reached out to stop him.
“What was that about?”
“I told you!” Richie’s voice was a pitch away from rising hysteria. “He’s everywhere! He has people following me! He has them calling me, or stalking me! I don’t know what I did to him to deserve this, Virgil! Why does he keep doing this to me? Why can’t he just have left it as he had on the fucking rooftop? Why does he–I want him to leave me alone!”
“Rich, why haven’t you told me–?”
“I have, Virgil! But you have your own problems to deal with! You have your own life, your own troubles! I can’t just keep dragging you into my mess! I don’t want to be here–this is why I want to leave! He’s going to keep harassing me until he finally does something else...I hate him, V, I hate him...but I’m so afraid of him that if I ever see him again, I know I’m going to freak out. And I feel so stupid and worthless–like I’ve been emasculated–! Which is why I get so angry all the time–! I just want to leave...I don’t want to be here, anymore...”
Virgil couldn’t tear his eyes away from his friend, taking in the splotchy redness that had overtaken the previous loss of color in his skin. He took in the reddened eyes, the frustrated and scared expression that made Richie a stranger to him. He noticed, that as the blond reached up to remove his glasses to wipe his eyes, that his hand was shaking badly.
He didn’t know what to say–he only felt that surge of protective anger sweep over him, and he mentally made a note to hunt down the Blazer later tonight. To get some answers and to stop this continuing harassment.
Chapter Fourteen
The funeral for Theresa Menounos was held in a small cemetery that was poorly maintained, and improperly funded by corrupt sponsors. Hotstreak was disgusted at the place, but it was reserved for the more poorer class of Dakota. He had no say over where his friends were buried–that was all under the direction of the family and the finances they were able to acquire from various state-funded programs that assisted the poor in such things.
The day was cold–even as the sun shone brightly overhead, everyone was freezing as the priest delivered the final benediction. His solemn words carried over the city noises as he graced the closed casket with prayers and tosses of the cold, hard dirt. There were few of Theresa’s family there–most had refused to attend due to the fear of interacting with those she ran with; fear of possible retribution and revenge causes.
They needn’t have worried–Hotstreak could count only five actual gang members from Ebon’s gang and various others that wanted to pay their respects, and a truce seemed to have been called for this actual event. In any case, the opposition avoided each other, and he made sure to stay at the very edge of the procession to avoid drawing any attention to himself. Maria and her family had braved the cold and the fear and were sitting with what family had chosen to attend. Virgil Hawkins was even there, alone, which surprised Hotstreak. He didn’t think the hero would even bother with attending the funeral of one of his familiar menaces.
To avoid any confrontation or scene, Hotstreak made sure to avoid him especially. He had recognized that feeling of disappointment upon not seeing Richie with him.
It was one of those somber moments where he felt numb to everything; he was staring at the closed casket, at the sad bundle of white roses that adorned the cheap wood, and he couldn’t believe that Theresa was in there. He hadn’t been able to make the viewing–so he hadn’t seen if she looked like another strange shell of something that was once alive, or if there was a semblance to her looks that were still recognizable in death.
Frankly, he didn’t want to know. Dead bodies made him uneasy–especially if they were his friends’. Someone was wailing, now–he narrowed his eyes as he gave the family a contemptuous glare. They hadn’t any right to grieve–they did nothing to help her. They pushed Theresa away the moment they felt threatened, afraid for their own lives. They didn’t want to pull her back into their close circle, and they ignored or flat-out denied Theresa’s pain of being refused.
It made him angry inside; he’d promised himself not to make a scene at the funeral itself. But he wasn’t holding the same vow for what happened away from the cemetery. He figured he’d drop by later, just to vent some steam. There was a dinner planned after the funeral for those in attendance. He’d stop by then.
He shifted, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he once again stared at the closed casket.
One day, he thought with a troubled frown, I’ll be in one of those.
It made him uneasy to think that way–but it was true. He’d long ago accepted that he’d die either by some lucky gangbanger’s action, by police interference, or from some vengeful bang baby. He’d considered other possibilities, as well; perhaps a drug overdose, or car accident, or even freak accident. Whichever, he was prepared to die; it happened. But he didn’t want to think of those he knew (and cared about) that died. It hurt so much to know Theresa was gone; what happened if Maria was killed? Or one of his friends? Or...or Richie?
That hurt most of all. It made him sick inside and made his chest clench. He couldn’t imagine Richie ever dying–but the possibility was high, considering he did his duties as a superhero. He could die easily–and Hotstreak didn’t want to imagine by how or why. He didn’t want to even venture in that route. He didn’t even want to think what sort of effect it would have on him if Richie was killed. The thought of never interacting with the blond again–be it hero/villain encounter or those magical moments where they were together–was something that he never wanted to think about.
So he banished that train of thought as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket; the urge for nicotine prompted by a sudden surge of saliva. He didn’t miss the way his hands shook–definitely not from the cold–as he lifted the cig to his mouth and brought it to life. As he exhaled the calming cloud of smoke, he looked away as one of Theresa’s family members stood up to sing a farewell song, everyone rising to their feet.
Hotstreak scanned the small, poorly maintained cemetery with its cracked angels and broken tombstones, and paused on a thin, hunched figure that was leaning against one of the few trees that somehow managed to survive within the hard dirt. He recognized Shiv instantly–he couldn’t hide his purple mohawk and multiple earrings with that simple beanie.
Fury ignited within him, his fingers itching to curl around the manic bang baby’s neck–to demand why Theresa had been killed; to know why he didn’t stop Ebon from raping Richie; to just kill someone closely related to Ebon so that he could somehow rid himself of the pain he felt at losing the Colombian woman.
But he waited.
And as he waited, he finished the cigarette and picked through his jacket pockets. His shaking fingers found the crumbled up index card that Richie had left in his car. He’d found it a day after he’d dropped him off at the park, while he’d been searching through his car for a cigarette. It had been crumbled and smushed under the seat–deliberately so.
Thom Harrison, Counselor, it read in Montoya’s neat handwriting. The address, phone number and fax number was printed in neat numbers off to the side, and he stared down at it in contemplative thought. As he looked up, seeing that the casket was being lowered into the cold earth by Theresa’s uncles and brother, he glanced over at Shiv once more–and saw that the Asian was crossing the cemetery to leave.
Hotstreak replaced the index card in his pocket as various family members began leaving their seats to extend their condolences personally to Theresa’s family. He shifted away from those he was standing with, and hurried off in the same direction Shiv had taken, ignoring Maria’s hiss of suspicion.
The Asian was fast, striding hastily down the sidewalk, looking as if he were trying to avoid the traffic that flowed slowly off to his left. He took a detour down a side alley, between a low-key garage and a parking lot–when Hotstreak caught up to him, the meta didn’t give any warning of his presence until he had Shiv’s jacket in one hand and he was throwing the Asian against the wall of the garage.
Shiv gave a surprised cry, automatically shifting his arms into blades, bringing them up to Hotstreak’s throat and chest. The pyro already had his fists ignited, the backs of his hands pressing against the blades to keep them from puncturing him.
Shiv stared up at him in wide-eyed fear, gulping noisily, his blades faltering for a second before renewing force. They were both at a stand-off, and both knew that the other could easily kill. All Shiv needed to do was twitch, and the tip of his blade would slice through the redhead’s throat; all Hotstreak had to do was administer enough heat to melt off enough skin and muscle before Shiv could even react. But one had to admit that if anything were to happen, Shiv would have the upper hand–though Hotstreak would be vindictive enough to blast him even as he choked to death, making his death just as slow.
“Why’d he kill her?” Hotstreak demanded, shifting his head back to alleviate the pressure the blade had on his neck. Shiv followed the moment, his own head moving from side to side in negative reaction to the question.
“I–I don’t know!” he exclaimed, wincing at the heat the fire produced so close to his skin. His blades felt warmer than they usually did, and it was a severely uncomfortable feeling. “I didn’t do it! Some guys did! He got mad at her! Because she didn’t–I don’t know! I don’t know why!”
“Who did it?”
“I don’t know! I wasn’t with them! I didn’t want to–! He did it cuz they were fighting. No–no, he did it cuz he found out that she was talking with you! He had her tailed that one night–she dumped somethin’, and it was for that guy, and that guy was with you, cuz Theresa was talking to you earlier, and Ebon pierced it altogether from there! He was mad at her for talkin’ to you! He thought that she was giving you information!”
Heavy guilt swept through Hotstreak as he listened to Shiv’s hasty confession, and he had to close his eyes in remorse; he’d caused Theresa’s death. And there wasn’t a thing he could do to rectify it. She was gone.
Shiv felt the slight falter in the heat near his blades–he was sweating, even though the vacuous-faced weatherman had declared it to be twenty degrees, today. He swallowed hard again, his Adam’s Apple reacting with a jerk as he slightly lessened the pressure of his blade to Hotstreak’s own alleviation of his flame.
Hotstreak opened his eyes, and focused on Shiv, noting that the mania that was usually on display on his thin face was gone; replaced by an uncomfortable hardness that depicted fear and exhaustion. He didn’t feel sorry for the meta–as far as he was concerned, Shiv was nothing to him but a pain in the ass. He couldn’t take the bang baby seriously, especially when Shiv proved countless times before that he wasn’t a real thinking threat. He followed orders thoughtlessly and did only what was told of him.
Just another one of Ebon’s rats.
He pulled back slightly from the bang baby, and felt more of the alleviation of the blades. “Ebon... contracted others to kill her?”
“Yeah...but I don’t know who.”
Shiv’s willingness to divulge information made Hotstreak suspicious. The purple haired Asian could go right back to Ebon–no. Ebon was in jail, now. But for how long?
He stepped back from the meta, killing the flames as he gave a disgusted look at the Asian. He found out what had plagued him. Even though he wanted to kill the meta for all his interference in the past and for the recent course of events, something told him not to.
He’d learned to follow his instincts and not his rash impulses. If something was telling him not to do so, he wasn’t going to do so.
Maybe it was just the heaviness of his guilt from knowing that Theresa had died as a result of talking with him that produced this effect. Whichever, he found out what he needed to know.
“She wasn’t givin’ me information,” he said sullenly, looking away from him. “She didn’t want to betray him that way. We were friends–that’s all.”
Shiv swallowed tightly. But he reformed his blades into human limbs. “I–I know. She didn’t tell me things, but she hinted at them. I’m going to miss her–Ebon’s killing everyone off. An’ with these new people comin’ in, I don’t–”
“‘New people’?” Hotstreak repeated, looking at him sharply.
Shiv slapped his hands over his mouth, cursing aloud at his stupidity.
Hotstreak turned to him once more, and Shiv reformed his blades defensively, looking for a way out of the situation. He knew he could duck, jump, or lunge to attack in order to escape; but he could do neither as Hotstreak once again activated the heat in his hands, a ring of fire forging out of the air around him, the flames licking upward toward the sky.
At least he was warm, Shiv had to admit as the heat got to him.
“What ‘new people’?”
“I–I ain’t talkin’. I don’t know ‘bout that. I don’t know nothin’. What I do know is that Ebon is in jail, an’–and Theresa’s gone. I don’t know nothin’ else!” Shiv said stubbornly, shaking his head.
Hotstreak narrowed his eyes as he stared at the bang baby in contemplation. Then he straightened, realizing that he was only attracting attention by threatening the Asian with his flames. He could hear the voices of the interested on the sidewalk nearby, and the faint sounds of approaching sirens. Wanting neither, he forced the flames away.
“I’ll let you go,” he finally said, scowling at the Asian. “But I’m going to use that, an’ when word gets out that I know what the fuck, then I’m lettin’ everyone know who told me what. An’ yer name’s at the top of the list. Wit’ th’ way Ebon’s workin’ now, he’ll get rid of ya in no time at all.”
“That ain’t fair!” Shiv cried, lunging away from him. “I work for him! I ain’t done nothin’ wrong! I don’t wanna die! You can’t do that!”
Sensing Shiv’s very real fear of Ebon gave Hotstreak tremendous satisfaction. He stared at the fear that crossed the thin features, the way Shiv’s eyes widened with the threat.
“Oh...yes I can,” he said evenly, his lips curling into a smirk. “But for some easy info, I can keep quiet about who I heard shit from.”
Shiv’s eyes danced nervously from him, then around him, his blades trembling with the obvious agitation he was currently feeling at the threat and the demand. He stared at the interested gawkers on the sidewalk–a couple of hookers, a store-owner, and some kids that were in love with what they were seeing. He swallowed noisily once more, and wished Theresa were there to tell him what to do. He couldn’t think on his own. His decisions weren’t made by him–he needed others to give him direction!
He looked back at Hotstreak, and registered that if he didn’t give the info–then Hotstreak would let Ebon know that Shiv had squealed on some information. And Ebon wouldn’t stand for that–he’d get rid of Shiv in the messiest way possible. It wouldn’t matter that this came from Ebon’s rival; what mattered was that Hotstreak possessed information only they knew about.
He trembled with agitation, his lower jaw working furiously with his thoughts. Finally, his arms resumed normality once again.
“I don’t wanna die,” he croaked, shaking his head as he stared up at Hotstreak with fear. “I don’t want to. I don’t know what to do. Theresa always told me what to do–she ain’t here. If she was here–”
“Then this whole thing wouldn’t have started,” Hotstreak snapped, marveling at the effect he had on the Asian. To see Shiv scared and frightened was satisfactory. “Now, give. What do you know?”
“I...well...there’s these guys...”
Minutes later, Shiv was running down the alley, the threat of being given away as a snitch to keep his mouth shut on his encounter with Hotstreak prompting his hasty getaway.
Finding the information he’d taken from the Asian quite acceptable, Hotstreak hurried off to escape the nuisance the police were capable of.
OooooooooooO
With Winter Break over, the two boys returned to school with a sort of heaviness that shaped them differently. It was distinguishable to their friends and to their teachers as sullen expressions were noted; as inability to concentrate on assignments were expressed. Virgil and Richie were exhausted by their own troubles, and neither really knew how to deal with it.
Virgil had refused Robert’s continued insistence to talk with a trusted counselor over his burn-out issues with superheroism; and Richie continued to ignore that his nightmares persisted and his fear of the dark kept him from behaving normally. Both were tense, jumpy and quick to snap in defense. Especially at each other.
While both needed each other, each of them wanting the other’s previous comforts and familiarity, it was obvious that the strain of their individual troubles were keeping them from relating to each other.
Virgil continued to avoid his duties as Static–and while he wondered if the city had even noticed his absence, he was starting to feel that perhaps it wasn’t a bad thing. He didn’t feel that enormous pressure to go out every night for patrol. But he did feel the pressure of the rising crime-rate and his own continued sense of duty.
They were sitting in the library for fifth period, both of them dully staring off into space, not bothering with the assignment as their classmates worked around them.
Frieda, brave enough to venture into the depths of their combined despair over unknown things, picked up a newspaper that was a few days old and hurried over.
“Enough with the faces!” she demanded as she took a seat between them, slapping the newspaper down.
Virgil’s eyes looked away from the ceiling to focus on the small, two paragraph article that Frieda was trying to show them. He blinked, then straightened in his seat.
“This is bullshit!” he exclaimed angrily, startling Richie out of his own thoughts. He picked up the newspaper to finish reading the article.
“It is,” Frieda agreed with a frown, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t see how people could be so unappreciative. Static and Gear did so much for the city, and everyone’s treating them like fucking crap. I’m sorry guys, but people really suck sometimes.”
“What does it say, V?” Richie asked, adjusting his glasses.
“This shit says that the reason Static ain’t around is cuz he’s ‘afraid of Ebon’,” Virgil repeated furiously, tossing the thing toward his friend. “Static ain’t afraid of nobody! Especially that fuckin’ jerk!”
Frieda’s eyes widened as she studied her friend’s face, taking in the vehemence of his tone, the way he took it so...personally.
“Wow,” she finally commented. “That really bugs you, doesn’t it?”
“Of course it does!” he snapped at her. “Static did all this shit for people, and the people’s all ungrateful. Sayin’ it ain’t good enough. Sayin’ that what he did in the past ain’t good enough. They’re basically sayin’ that Dakota don’t need Static.”
“That’s only a few people that feel that way, Virgil,” Freida said. “There are a ton of people out there that appreciate him and Gear. If it weren’t for those two, a lot of stuff would–”
“It just fuckin’ sucks that people are so fuckin’ ungrateful,” Virgil muttered, slumping forward in his seat. “They don’t appreciate anythin’, nowadays. They all be wantin’ hand-outs and easy way outs, and never wanna work for their shit, anymore. An’ when they do, when they do get help, they all unappreciative.”
“Virgil’s just a little grumpy, Frieda, because he’s been seeing a lot of that stuff nowadays,” Richie apologized for his friend’s harsh words, the girl looking at him with a dubious frown.
“It’s true!”
“Well, I still say that it’s only a minority speaking,” Frieda said, crossing her legs. “A lot of people truly appreciate what they’ve done. If it weren’t for them, how many people do you think would have lost their lives as a result of bang baby activity? If crackhouses weren’t broken into? If it were all up to the police, our city would already be a source of flatulent and devious behavior...”
“It isn’t now?” Richie asked skeptically, lifting a dark eyebrow as he pushed the article away from him with the tip of his finger.
“Well...no...I’m just saying...” Frieda waved the subject off. “Now that Ebon’s in jail, what do you think’s going to happen? How long do you think he’ll stay there?”
“That’s getting all weird,” Virgil grumbled, folding his arms before them and resting his head upon them. “He went in to get questioned about Talon’s–Theresa’s murder, and he knew he’d be held for charges up the ass for everything...and he still went. It confuses me.”
“He’s got charges on him for every previous offence he’s made in the past,” Richie murmured softly, fiddling with the hem of his sweater. Frieda noticed that he had suddenly favored that unfamiliar black sweater that was sizes too big for him–it wasn’t new, and it wasn’t his style. But he wore that thing the way he did with his other hoodies. She felt it wasn’t his color–it made him look too pale. “If he continues to do his time, he’s going to be in prison forever...”
“He’s got lawyers, don’t they? I mean, everyone gets a public defender, or prosecutor, or something in any event. Even murderers have their defense...”
“Yeah...he does...”
“I hope they keep him in there!” she huffed, pushing her hair out of her face. “We don’t need that kind out in the streets, anymore. Bad enough we got all these gangs and whatnot taking over. Oh my God, did I tell you two what happened the other day? Out of no where, this guy approaches me, and offers me a job as a fucking whore! Do I look like a whore? Do I look like whore material?”
“We don’t wanna answer that,” Virgil muttered from his arms.
Frieda gave an outraged gasp, straightening from the table. She reached over and slapped him across the back of the head.
“V, that was pretty mean,” Richie admonished.
“Goddamn it! Don’t you fucking hit me again, you fucking bitch!” Virgil reacted with a snarl, jerking up from his arms, effectively silencing those around him.
Frieda’s and Richie’s eyes widened with disbelief at the unfamiliar behavior Virgil reacted with, their classmates staring at the African-American in similar manner.
Immediately contrite by his reaction, Virgil muttered an apology. He picked up his backpack and was out of there before anything could be said.
Frieda looked at Richie, who shrugged. She felt sheepish, all of a sudden, being snapped at in that manner. Sheepish and hurt. She’d only reacted in a way that she’d always had whenever Virgil had said something of that content to her. They all knew it was a joke. But the anger and venom poured into that simple snarl of his had been frighteningly easy.
After school, Virgil was trying to prompt himself to resume his duties–but every time he thought of donning his costume, he felt that same unfamiliar indisposition draw his shoulders down. The more he thought about going out on patrol without Richie made him even more reluctant. Half of his workload was taken off his shoulders with his friend’s help–and with the current activity of Dakota’s baddies taking their toll, it was something he didn’t want to face alone.
As they walked, he tried to convince Richie to join him–maybe not as Gear, but as backup. As he had before he’d gotten his bang baby abilities. But Richie was reluctant to do even that, automatically thinking of how he’d have to stay out of sight, hiding within the very shadows that he feared.
“I can try, V, but I’m not going to promise anything,” Richie said, a little sullenly as he shifted his backpack onto both shoulders, uneasy at the thought of getting anywhere near his costume. As far as he knew, it was still wadded up in the Wal-mart bag at the gas station. “In fact, I really am going to be honest with you–I don’t even want to do that.”
“What?”
“I don’t...I don’t even want to try. I just...I just don’t want to do it.”
Virgil stared at him in silent thought, then looked away.
“I could really use you out there, man,” he muttered. “I mean, yeah, I did all right by myself, but when you came along, I could see that I work better with you. Plus, it helps that you had taken off some of the load that I get from dealin’ with multiple perps.”
“I’m sorry, Virgil. I just can’t...”
“If this is cuz of Ebon–! He’s in jail!” Virgil exclaimed. “He ain’t comin’ out! There really isn’t anybody that’s capable of breakin’ him out the way the Breed used to, cuz he’s practically the only one with powers in Dakota! An’ those that got their powers, an’ ain’t us, aren’t exactly hoppin’ to it–!”
“I just don’t want to do it, Virgil!” Richie spit angrily, giving his best friend a glare. “I’m sorry. I really am. I would love to help, but I can’t bring myself to fix my costume up an’ get back out there!”
“Richie, please...”
“I can’t! I can’t, and I don’t want to! Please, V, you have to understand! What happened that night, I–I’m not the same! I can’t go to sleep without a fucking nightlight, an’ the thought of being–and–I just can’t.”
Virgil grit his teeth in frustration, looking away. They walked in uncomfortable silence for a couple of blocks, both of them trying hard not to acknowledge the rift that was forcing its way between them over the conversation. Virgil felt that Richie was being petty; but then, he understood his newfound fears. After all, he hadn’t been the same about guns ever since one was used to kill his mother; and the objects of death still terrified him to this day. He felt extremely low, then, thinking of things that way. He looked over to Richie, and saw that the blond was ignoring him.
“Richie...I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pressured you an’ shit,” he said quietly. “It’s no business of mine to be dictatin’ what you should be doin’. I should have been more sensitive to your fears.”
“It’s all right, Virgil,” Richie said on a sigh that bespoke the regularity of his forgiveness toward his best friend.
“No, really, Richie. I mean it. I just haven’t been thinking clearly, lately, an’ I’m takin’ it out on all the wrong people,” Virgil muttered, hands in his pockets as they stopped at an intersection. He wanted to apologize to Frieda, but every time he tried, he grew embarrassed by what he did and felt he couldn’t face her. It suddenly reminded him of another very recent event, and he decided to share, to somehow keep the lines open between himself and Richie.
“Last night, Sharon asked me to do this really simple thing–all I had ta do was take out the garbage. I told her I didn’t want to–it was fuckin’ cold. I said I’d do it today. But she got all bitchin’ an’ shit, an’ I finally just told her to shut the fuck up an’ do it herself. I don’t say that kinda thing to her, Richie. It was...I didn’t like it. I apologized, but she had her feelin’s hurt...Dad was pissed at me, too, but...all this stress, man. It’s tearing me down. There are times when I look at my costume an’ I don’t wanna put it on. I don’t want to do it. I have SATs comin’ up, I still haven’t made any replies to Dakota U or Georgetown–”
“You applied to Georgetown?” Richie asked incredulously. “I thought Dakota U was the only university you were interested in!”
“...Daisy’s goin’ to Georgetown. Or, at least, she applied. That and Brown.” Virgil shrugged. “I did it just so that I could be with her.”
“...You never told me you did that.”
“Well, it was my own decision. An’ I didn’t want you talkin’ me out of it.”
Richie blinked as he looked up at Virgil in surprise. “V, I would have never–”
“Yes, you would have! You’d bring up my superhero duties, an’ you’d get all preachy about me followin’ Daisy around. I know you, Rich. Well, sometimes I know you, but I know that would have come from you.”
Richie slowly shook his head, looking away as the light changed. They walked in silence across the street, bypassing the drift of dirty snow that had been stowed at the curb by a recent plowing.
“You mad at me?” Virgil suddenly asked, looking at him closely.
“No...why would I be mad at you?”
“Just...you got all quiet.”
“So did you...”
Virgil shifted his backpack, pulling up his fashionably baggy pants and adjusting his belt. “Where’d you apply?”
“...Dakota U. But...I think...I think I’m going to take a year off before going into school,” Richie said carefully, avoiding Virgil’s stare. “I’ve been here in Dakota my entire life. I kinda want to get out, see other things before being tied down that way.”
“When did you decide this?”
“...I dunno. Just came to mind from time to time.”
“That ain’t like you.”
“What?”
“For you to make that sort of thing. What would you do? You ain’t got a car; or a job. Where would you go?”
“I...I don’t know. Greyhound doesn’t cost that much...I just want to get out of here.”
“What made you make that decision? It’s weird, Rich. I can’t see you doin’ that,” Virgil repeated, giving his friend an incredulous stare. “You’ve always been the stay-at-home kinda guy. Never venturing out. I guess it’s cool, though. It might do a lot of good for you to see the world...though I kinda wonder what made you want to do that.”
Richie shrugged. “I dunno. Just something that came to mind one day.”
“I...Rich, I think that–”
His friend came to a stop as his eyes focused on something beyond him. Virgil paused, glancing over to see a Ford Blazer slowly cruising up the opposite end of the street, the windows too darkly tinted for him to see inside. The Blazer slowed significantly once it was alined with the both of them, then the driver’s side window lowered.
“Hey. Git over here. Let me holla at’cha,” the driver demanded, shoving his sunglasses up atop of his shaved head. “I gotta message I need ta deliver...Ivan sends his love, yo. He still be thinkin’ about you while he all jailed up. Said he’d call ya when he gets out. Mebbe ya guys can hook up, again.”
Virgil saw the way Richie’s face drained of color at the words. Then Richie immediately began walking, almost running as the driver hung out from the window, laughing and calling after him. Virgil was clueless as to what was happening as he stared after his friend, then at the driver that focused on him. A black teen, he lifted his chin in greeting.
“Hey...what’s your name? You Static?” he demanded, putting the vehicle in park and ignoring the frustrated honk of the vehicle behind him.
Virgil didn’t feel like answering–and it wouldn’t be wise, anyway. He waved at them in disgust then walked off, moving into a run to chase after his best friend. He looked back over his shoulder to see the Blazer take off with a protesting screech of the transmission, taunting laughter ringing out over the streets.
He finally caught up to Richie with his longer strides, and said his friend’s name with concern. When Richie ignored him, either too caught up in his own thoughts or having not heard him, Virgil reached out to stop him.
“What was that about?”
“I told you!” Richie’s voice was a pitch away from rising hysteria. “He’s everywhere! He has people following me! He has them calling me, or stalking me! I don’t know what I did to him to deserve this, Virgil! Why does he keep doing this to me? Why can’t he just have left it as he had on the fucking rooftop? Why does he–I want him to leave me alone!”
“Rich, why haven’t you told me–?”
“I have, Virgil! But you have your own problems to deal with! You have your own life, your own troubles! I can’t just keep dragging you into my mess! I don’t want to be here–this is why I want to leave! He’s going to keep harassing me until he finally does something else...I hate him, V, I hate him...but I’m so afraid of him that if I ever see him again, I know I’m going to freak out. And I feel so stupid and worthless–like I’ve been emasculated–! Which is why I get so angry all the time–! I just want to leave...I don’t want to be here, anymore...”
Virgil couldn’t tear his eyes away from his friend, taking in the splotchy redness that had overtaken the previous loss of color in his skin. He took in the reddened eyes, the frustrated and scared expression that made Richie a stranger to him. He noticed, that as the blond reached up to remove his glasses to wipe his eyes, that his hand was shaking badly.
He didn’t know what to say–he only felt that surge of protective anger sweep over him, and he mentally made a note to hunt down the Blazer later tonight. To get some answers and to stop this continuing harassment.