Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Fifteen ( Chapter 15 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Richie's father spazzes out for the last time; Hotstreak and Static have it out
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.02.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 6.0K | Visits: 517 | Status: Completed
Richie's father spazzes out for the last time; Hotstreak and Static have it out
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.02.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 6.0K | Visits: 517 | Status: Completed
Right Here
Chapter Fifteen
That night, Richie picked at his food absently, not really paying attention to the conversation that was actually occurring between his parents. The occasional clink of silverware on porcelain clashed with the soft rise and fall of their voices. There was the scent of alcohol, his father having stopped at the pub before coming home to eat. He had been so lost in his thoughts about what was happening with Virgil and that of the punks in the street that he hadn’t heard the last few times his mother and father tried engaging him into the conversation.
Virgil had been acting more forceful for the last couple of months, he realized. Always snapping at those close to him. Always apologizing for some action or wrong word he’d said. It felt as if Virgil had been replaced with a tamer version of his father; Sean was always quick to insult and hurt in sarcastic terms of relative ‘fun’, and when he realized that no one was laughing or joking along with him, he often made his defensive backup in forms of snaps and snarls. What made him different from Virgil was that Virgil actually apologized for his actions and words–and meant it.
It had been easier to deal with Sean; Virgil was different. He didn’t want to compare his best friend to his father, but as Virgil continued to behave in a manner that made Richie think of Sean, it was impossible to let it go. He thought of the way he’d snapped at Frieda today–it had been uncalled for. Frieda had been pretty hurt over the incident, but had tried to laugh it off. Richie had felt awkward after that, foolishly trying to make excuses and failing on that account.
Virgil had mentioned how ‘pressured’ he felt as Static–that citizens of Dakota didn’t appreciate what he was doing. Richie had known how he’d felt for awhile, but just upon realizing the actual intensity of his feelings was something surprising. On that note, he wondered when Virgil had even gone out as Static...as far as he knew, Virgil had been staying with Daisy or with his family. He hadn’t mentioned any recent patrols or problems, lately. He rolled his eyes up from his food, thinking of their conversation on their way home from school this afternoon.
He felt bad for being unable to regain his duties as Gear–but the thought of pulling his shredded costume out from that bag made him sick. He didn’t want to see it, yet. And every time he thought about it, he was quick to think of something else.
He pushed his plate away, and finished off the cup of milk that sat nearby.
He yearned for Hotstreak–it was one of those deep aches that made every feeling he had for the meta feel as if it were a physical push from deep within. His fingers itched, tingling as he yearned to feel the meta’s warm skin against them. It was a physical need to want Hotstreak close by. With him, he felt safe and comforted; he felt light-hearted and secure. Being with Francis Stone made him feel everything else he was lacking at home or presently with Virgil. The more the days passed by without any word from him, Richie was definitely feeling more desperate for his contact than ever.
Those fragile days after the attack had been effective in drawing him even closer to the older male; Hotstreak had once again proved he was capable of things that no one would ever think possible, and it was for him. He couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for the meta to take him to the hospital, especially considering his phobia of the place.
But he had done it for Richie. In a way, he himself was still stunned at the ensuing actions Hotstreak had done for him. It had only intensified what he’d previously felt for the redhead.
He kept thinking about that run-down motel Hotstreak was staying at–he was pretty sure he could find it. But with Ebon’s friends stalking him every time he ventured out from the house, he knew that it would be a bad idea. Especially considering that Ebon had no clue where Hotstreak was staying. It just wouldn’t do for him to lead Ebon’s cronies to Hotstreak.
But Richie missed him terribly–the more he thought of him, the more it hurt deep inside when he realized that he couldn’t get to him. He had to be patient–wait for him. If Ebon found out that they were together again...
He knew the living shadow could use him easily against the redhead. He didn’t want to put Hotstreak in that position, for he knew the intense hatred the pair had against each other. He didn’t want Hotstreak to lose any sort of face or have to make a decision to choose Richie over street rep.
Because Richie knew he would chose his street cred–it was an easy decision. But Richie also knew that Hotstreak would feel remorse and guilt over it.
He knew Hotstreak cared for him–this recent action proved it. He didn’t need to ask for verification or admittance. It was all in the actions.
He jerked upward in surprise upon hearing his father shout his name. So involved in his thoughts that he hadn’t even heard Sean calling his name.
“I asked you a question,” Sean snapped at him, looking darkly annoyed as he finished off his own cup of milk.
“I’m sorry...I was just–thinking of school,” Richie muttered, lowering his eyes to the table. Sean wasn’t in the same class as Ebon–but he was still a threat. Even more so when Richie was incapable of defending himself quite yet. Montoya had warned him that for two to four weeks, he had to lay off the physical activity.
“I asked you who keeps calling you. Your mother mentioned that you have many people calling over here. None of them...Virgil.”
Richie fiddled with his fork. He thought of the menaces that Ebon worked with that continuously called him under the guise of friends from school. He thought of their taunts, their ‘messages’. He shook his head.
“Just some kids from school,” he answered quietly.
“What do they want?”.
“I...I don’t know. They–I don’t get along with them very well. I guess they’re just harassing me for the fun of it. I dunno...”
"Did you tell them to stop? It costs extra to change the number. I don’t want people calling here all hours of the night when I’m trying to sleep. I woke up three times in the past week to hear the phone ringing.”
“...I don’t have any control over what they do, dad,” Richie muttered. His jaw clenched as Sean gave him an irritated expression, Maggie staring in silence at her half empty plate.
“Did they find out that you’re a faggot?” Sean asked, his lips sneering at the hateful word.
Richie wasn’t going to answer; but he reached up to fiddle with his earring, shifting his eyes up from the table to give him a look of contempt. Sean narrowed his eyes, and Richie watched his knuckles whiten slightly.
“Is that why they keep calling here? That’s just the sort of shit that happens, Richard. If you hadn’t decided to become a fairy, I wouldn’t be having fucking kids calling here, wasting my time and my relaxation with their petty little games. You aren’t paying the phone bill. I am.”
“It’s not like they’re calling collect! And it’s not like I encourage them!”
“You being what you are isn’t encouraging them? This is just the sort of thing that pisses me off, Richard. I shouldn’t have let you grow up this way. But I work hard. Every day! I go into the factory, I put in ten to twelve hours of back breaking work, and every day that I am not here, your mother influences you. It was probably because of her doing that you turned fairy. Her female influences made you what you are–you had no real male guidance! For that, I have myself to blame. But I worked hard, and what do I come home to? Two fucking females that are incapable of anything ‘cept draw in more bills and do nothing. Did you even find a job, yet?”
“...No.”
“Why not?”
“...I have school. School takes up my time. Especially with college–”
“How the hell does it do that? I never see you doing homework! I never hear of you winning any academic awards–! How in the hell does school take up your fucking time? There are part-time jobs out there that will work with school. In fact, I’ve been thinking about this, Richard. The cost of living has been rising steadily, and with me having to support both you worthless pieces of dogshit on my own paycheck has gotten more difficult. I’ve been on you to getting that job, and you still haven’t! Instead, you waste your time runnin’ around with that nigger and his family, and leaving everything for your mother to do! That’s unacceptable.”
“Dad, don’t be a jerk. Just lay-off–”
“Are you calling me a jerk? Did you just call me a jerk? Who’s the fucking jerk taking up space and not paying for it? Like I’m made of fuckin’ money! Always eating, cleaning out the fridge–what are you, pregnant? Got a boyfriend and had him knock you up? I’m sick and tired of opening that refrigerator and finding it half empty! I know your mother shops–but you’re in there, minute after minute, eating everything in sight! Is that what you faggots do nowadays?”
Richie had noticed that he had been eating alot...food was comforting when there wasn’t anything else to rely on. All the stress that he’d been experiencing lately prompted cravings for anything edible, and Virgil had even commented about him polishing off a Super-sized bag of Doritos the other day.
His lips thinned at the way his father continued to attack him, and he forced himself to think of other things to drown out Sean’s griping. If he tried to leave the table, Sean would merely take that as a prompt to follow.
He glanced at his mother, having learned a long time ago to never rely on her interference. Maggie avoided the both of them by cutting up her meat, chewing deliberately as Sean ranted. Richie looked away from his mother and began to run theories on possibilities of him ever taking on either of his parents’ personalities.
He couldn’t imagine himself with Sean’s attitude and perspective; and he couldn’t see himself as Maggie, trying all that he could to avoid entering a confrontation or breaking up a fight to prevent harm. He wasn’t either of his parents; and that made him feel quite good despite the fact that Sean’s voice was rising, the older Foley realizing that the younger wasn’t listening to him.
Richie barely registered the empty cup that was flung at his head, jerking his head back to avoid being hit. Sean was out of his seat, looking quite furious as he slapped his hands down on the table.
“What the fuck?” Richie exclaimed, his anger overriding his previous willingness to escape further confrontation. “Why are you throwing stuff at me?”
“I am TALKING to you, and you aren’t even listening!”
“Most of this stuff I’ve heard before, dad! Why should I have to listen to it over and over again?”
“Well, if you would have done what I told you to do, I wouldn’t be repeating myself over and over again! And don’t you swear at me! Don’t you ever use that tone with me! I didn’t fuckin’ work hard all day just to have some faggot of a son speak to me in that tone of voice! If I wanted some fairy tellin’ me what to do, I may as well as invite myself to your nigger friend’s house and listen to their fuckin’ bullshit–!”
“Stop bringing my friends into this! This isn’t about them! It’s me you’re pissed at–stay focused on me!”
“Me, me, me!” Sean mimicked. “I’m finished with you. Drilling anything into that poufy head of yours is just as useless as you are. You know what? Fuck this. Maybe you can move in with your friends. Or your faggot boyfriend. I don’t want you under my roof, no more. You’re eighteen–I want you out.”
“Sean–!” Maggie finally spoke up, looking up with apprehension. “You can’t do that! Where would he go?”
Now that Sean was on a roll, apparently warming up to the idea, he shot his wife a dirty look and renewed his tirade as he looked back at Richie.
“That’ll cut back on the money I spend on you. Find your own place. Live the real life. Find out what it means to have a job, to work hard, to pay your own way! It’s about time you stopped relying on my funds and your mother. You’re old enough. I want you out of here. Then I won’t have to support no queer on my hard-earned paycheck.”
Richie felt himself trembling, his fingers clenched hard as he stared up at his father with rising anger and fury. He rose from his chair, feeling his legs shake, forcefully supporting himself by leaning on the table. “So you’re kicking me out?”
“Get your shit and get going. You should have had a job a long time ago. You would have had your money. You would have had your own place. Instead, you chose to slack off and fuck around. I’m tired of supporting you. Get your shit and go.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go!”
“I don’t fuckin’ care! You aren’t my problem, anymore! Far as I’m concerned, I never had a kid! I like this idea–get your shit.”
“I don’t know where to go!”
“Get your shit.”
“You can’t just kick me out like this! Why are you being such a jerk?”
“I said get your shit, Richard! GET OUT!”
“What did I do to make you feel this way towards me? Why couldn’t you have just accepted me? Why did you always have to hate me?” Richie shouted at him, focused intensely on his father as his previously eaten dinner performed an uncomfortable roll within his stomach. Fear at the darkness outside, for being kicked out of the house he’d lived in for over fourteen years left him feeling ill. Panic started to assail him, as well as confusion, hurt and disbelief.
“I didn’t want a pansy for a son! I made a mistake, letting your mother raise you! You never were like the other boys–always lookin’ at that trash you have, always holing yourself up for stupid video players, always hanging out with the trash that respectable people avoid–! You never did anything for me to be proud of! I could never hold my head up whenever other men talked about their sons. Their athletes, their young men–young men that played sports and went out with girls and got in trouble doing normal boy things–! But you–! All you did was hang out with niggers and giggled over boys in spandex–! It disgusts me! How could I have been proud of what you do when you did nothing?”
“I am your flesh and blood–! I am who I am! I can’t help being who I am, and if I changed just to make you happy, I wouldn’t be happy!” Richie exclaimed, hearing his voice break as he spoke.
Sean’s disgust for him increased at the hitch, and he shook his head in revulsion. “Get your shit, Richard. Get out of here.”
“Dad–!”
“Don& #8217;t call me that!”
“You’ve been drinking–! You don’t know what you’re saying!”
“I mean it! Or I’m callin’ the cops, tell them you’re trespassing. I want you off my property! And don’t think of asking your mother for money, because she doesn’t have any to give.”
“You’re not thinking clearly, dad! You don’t mean it–!”
“GET OUT, RICHARD!”
“I don’t know where to go!”
Sean’s face reddened all of a sudden, and Maggie gave a loud cry as he walked around the table, Richie hurriedly pushing himself away from the setting, feeling that surge of adrenaline racing through him. His father was quick, but he’d learned how to fight just as dirty. Having that boost of confidence in that he could actually hurt his father gave him what he needed to use as Sean reached for him.
Richie batted his hands away, stumbling back to give himself space. Sean reached for him again, this time catching him by his shirt. In earnest, Richie swung his forearm down onto his wrist, effectively disengaging Sean’s grip and freeing himself.
“GET OUT!” Sean finally screamed, his voice obscenely loud and fearsome within the two story.
Richie stared at him in silence for several seconds, then swallowed hard. He turned and hurried out from the dining room, mind racing. He could go to the gas station–he’d figure out what to do then. But he was a mess of feelings; shock, confusion, fear, helplessness–he’d wanted to leave home, but not in this unprepared manner.
He thought it was only the alcohol talking–Sean reeked of it. He just wasn’t thinking clearly. He’d regret it in the morning. He couldn’t possibly think that kicking Richie out of the house would make him feel better.
His room suddenly felt alien as he raced in, grabbing his school bag where he’d dropped it earlier. He didn’t know what to take–his mind raced as he heard Maggie protesting loudly, Sean taking his anger out on her with his shouts.
Richie then began gathering his clothes–handfuls of underwear, socks, shirts, pants–he didn’t know if they were even coordinated as he dropped them onto the bed. He grabbed items off the hangars and found a spare backpack on the top shelf of his closet.
He snagged that, then proceeded to stuff what he could into the wide mouth, not taking note of what he was doing. Footsteps up the stairwell told him his father was coming, and he hastened his movement, looking around himself for anything else he thought he would need. His toothbrush, his spare set of glasses, his Shock Vox, his–that money he’d found the morning after Ebon left that horrid ‘present’.
He’d been so tempted to tear those two bills to shreds upon finding them–but common sense told him that it was money he didn’t have. He jerked open his desk drawer and found the wadded up pieces of green, stuffing that into his pocket before Sean walked in. The older Foley grabbed his school bag and tossed that out into the hall. He grabbed the other bag that Richie had just packed and did the same.
“Get out.”
“I am!” His jacket...he needed a jacket. No, was he truly going to stay away? His father couldn’t be kicking him out! This was just another drunken rampage and it would be all different in the morning–!
Sean didn’t wait for him as he hastened to find the Shock Vox, uncaring of what Sean thought of it as he pulled it out from his pillows. Sean had his shirt gripped once more, and he was yanking Richie out of his room. He stumbled over his bags in the hall as Sean slammed the door shut. Maggie was standing near the stairway, crying silently, hands pressed to her mouth as she watched her only son fumble to pick up his bags.
“Get out!”
“I’m GOING! Get off my back, you drunken dick!”
“What’d you say to me?”
Richie whirled to face him, awkwardly holding his overstuffed bags by their straps. “You heard me! You called me a worthless piece of shit–you’re just as bad! Drunken, useless potato-head! You’re just as bad as those you look down on! You’re nothing important! You don’t do anything that deserves respect!”
He barely had time to spit out all these words as Sean lunged at him, pulling him down the stairway with an enraged snarl. Richie had to follow along, losing grip on one of his bags as he fought to keep his footing, to keep from being dragged behind him.
Maggie gave a screaming protest as she followed, Sean opening the front door. Her fingers curled into Richie’s shirt, pulling back at him as Sean tried to force him out. Caught within the tug-of-war, Richie gripped his bag tightly and tried to hug his mother.
But Sean’s strength was greater, and he yanked on Richie hard enough for the blond to finally lose his footing. He fell onto the porch with a pained grunt, slipping on the ice and feeling the sharp cold of the air as it forced his breath away.
The front door slammed shut, his parents’ shouting audible behind the cheap wood.
Shivering violently, Richie rose from the porch, trying to catch his breath. He had lost his grip on his jacket–he picked up his backpack, unsure of which one it was due to the darkness, and tried to get a sense of balance. It was quiet in his neighborhood–he had no doubt his neighbors had heard everything.
He glared at the closed door, hugging himself, then swallowed hard as he registered what the activity had done to his stitches. It made movement uncomfortable, but he didn’t think it re-tore what had been fixed. He shouldered his bag and carefully made his way down the stairs. He could hear his mother screaming in protest, and Sean raging, but felt no need to go back. He was still confused and scared–he’d wanted out, but not in this manner.
He stopped to look back at his house–it’d be different in the morning. When Sean sobered up, he would realize that kicking Richie out wasn’t a wise choice.
What was he supposed to do?
Richie glanced up and down the street, feeling his legs lock up at the darkness between street lamps. He really didn’t want to venture out of that comfortably lit house–he didn’t want to walk through the shadows. He was scared.
He forced himself to walk, stumbling on the ice. Virgil should be home...and if not, he knew it was okay to Robert. It was just the matter of getting there that made Richie entirely nervous.
He walked as hastily as he could, trying not to acknowledge the dark.
OooooooooooO
Static was finally out and about–the familiar glow of his flight path had people looking up with surprise and mixed messages as they pointed them out.
Due to the cold, not much was occurring, and his police scanner had been pretty quiet all night. He was still anticipating trouble, knowing that there wasn’t a night that went by without ANY activity. Everything was going all right...he wasn’t feeling suffocated by his mask, or weighed down by his costume. Though he had some doubts and simmering anger boiling within, just anticipating a back-handed show of gratefulness by someone he’d no doubt be rescuing, Static was just surprised that he was out and about. What prompted him out, really, was seeing his friend’s face after that incident with the Blazer. He was making his way into the lower class neighborhoods of Dakota when fire lit the night.
He gave a long, suffering sigh at recognizing Hotstreak’s flames, all of it coming from a nearby block that were composed mainly of Hispanics. He jerked out his Shock Vox, depressing the transmitter as he coasted in that direction.
“Richie!” he growled into the device. “What the hell happened to your leash?”
Richie’s reply came a few moments later, his voice bespeaking his confusion. “Huh? Was I supposed to have one?”
“To keep this bitch in line, yeah!”
“...Still not following!”
“Never mind. I’ve run into your...er...friend. Wanna give me a heads up on why he’s fuckin’ over some people?”
Richie’s heavy sigh was cut off as his friend signed off. Static put the Vox away and coasted over the neighborhood, seeing that multiple fires had downed a couple of power poles; that a car rested on its side, the interior clearly on fire; a house fully engulfed in flames. And people were being herded into a small alleyway, Hotstreak bellowing up a storm amidst all the cries in Spanish from those he was threatening.
“–fuckin’ ‘family’ turns away, without ever once questioning what she was feeling! All of you should be put away! All of you SUCK! I hope you all ROT! She loved you an’ you all fucked her over!”
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, HERE?” Static screamed to be heard as he swooped down, using his powers to pick up the overturned car and fling it at the bang baby.
Hotstreak heard him over his own bellows, turning to see the car flying at him. He dove out of the way to avoid being flattened, the cracking sound of metal connecting with pavement overtaking the new screams from those trapped in the alley.
“Get the fuck outta here, Static! You don’t know shit what these fuckers did!”
“God...you really need to go back to grammar school,” Static replied with a heavy expression. “There are days when I’m tempted to lock you up in some obscure location and have Richie teach you the proper usage of ENGLISH!”
Hotstreak looked momentarily stunned. “Huh?”
“May I ask, beforehand, what the hell you’re doing? What the hell did these people do to you? Ain’t like they’re armed! They all look defenseless and scared out of their minds!” Static moved between Hotstreak and the scared bunch of souls that looked utterly grateful for his interference.
Finally, he thought, catching their expressions. Some appreciation...
Regaining his balance, Hotstreak clenched his fists, both of which ignited into flame as he eyed Static with contempt. “They’re Theresa’s family...they didn’t do SHIT for her. They let her get fuckin’ killed! They didn’t do shit to help her! She did nothing but love them, and they turned her away!”
Static was confused, but his plan on distracting the meta so that the group could escape was working. Having Hotstreak’s full attention allowed him to maneuver away from the alley, giving him prompt space to work with as he continued to face the redhead.
“So...let me get this straight...Theresa’s family had her killed? And you’re seekin’ revenge?” he asked.
“Basically.”
“Why the hell is it any of your business?” Static exclaimed, shaking his head. “Theresa some sort of lady-love?”
He barely had time to avoid the barrage of fireballs that were sent his way, and gave a sharp gasp as he began registering the heat. He’d forgotten that Hotstreak had a couple of new tricks up those short red sleeves of his. He forced himself higher up to escape the heat that radiated from the bang baby, hearing the weakened responses of various metals around them. Looking down, he saw that more street lamps were dangling limply against the bubbling street, the overturned car having lost its rubber wheels, the snow melted and evaporated throughout the entire neighborhood.
“Don’t be talkin’ shit, Static! You don’t know shit!” he heard Hotstreak’s furious bellow. “That was my friend, muthafucker! How would you feel if Rich’s family did the same to him, an’ he went down that same fuckin’ way?”
Oh, that pissed Static off, thinking of it that way. But it pissed him off even more that Hotstreak used Richie’s name out loud, when they were already vulnerable.
He charged up, hurling bolts of electricity downwards, feeling that simmering anger boiling to the surface. Hotstreak was avoiding the bolts, dashing out of the way, looking for cover as Static raged.
“This doesn’t give you permission to kill people that weren’t involved!” Static roared. “She knew what she was getting into! You shouldn’t be taking that shit out on her family! I’ll bet they did all they could for her–!”
He swept upward to avoid another barrage of fireballs, inhaling sharply of charred rubber and metal as he swept through the neighborhood.
“They didn’t do shit!” Hotstreak continued, grunting with the force of his throws. “She tried going home–! But they turned her away! All she had was love for them!”
“You’re such an avenging God of Love, why don’t you turn your stupid white ass around an’ go back to the one that professes the same thing about you!”
“...The fuck are you talkin’ about?”
“Don’t make me get all preachy with you! You know what I’m talkin’ about! Or do you want me to say it all out loud?”
“Fuck you, Static! Don’t know where you be gettin’ all this fucked up shit from, but you all whacked out! What, did poundin’ away at that bitch of yours cause you to go dumb?”
Static charged up again, hissing between his teeth at the insult. Hotstreak grinned maniacally, then was up and over a wooden fence before Static could say anything in defense. Then it really hit him–how in the hell did Hotstreak know who he was?
He tore his Shock Vox from his jacket pocket, sailing down low to give chase.
“Richie!” he snarled into the device. “How in the hell does Hotstreak know who I am?”
“I t-told y-you, Static! He figured it out on his own!”
“...Why you stuttering?”
“I-It’s f-freakin’ c-cold out h-here!”
“What the hell are you doing outside?”
“I-I’ll t-talk t-to ya la-t-t-ter.”
Static nodded in answer, slipping the device into his pocket as he swept along the yard that Hotstreak had disappeared in. Seeing no sign of the bang baby, but hearing a dog barking erratically just down the row, he sped off in that direction, sweeping the sleeves up on his arms.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are, you funky toad!” he hollered. “I ain’t got all fuckin’ night for you! I stopped playin’ hide an’ go seek–hell...just last year, actually. But that’s NOT the point! I don’t wanna chase ya all night! What you did back there earns ya a good slapping, or two! There better not have been people hurt!”
“Fuck you, Static! You don’t know shit about anything!” he heard Hotstreak’s bellow coming from somewhere to his left. He whirled around, reaching down to grip the edge of his disk as his eyes focused beyond the glow of his powers, scanning the shadows of the various back yards. There was a pen full of pitbulls that were snarling upward at him, their teeth clicking together as they snapped at him.
“They betrayed her! They fucked her over! Fuckin’ family’s s’pposed to be there for ya! Yer s’pposed to be able to go home to someone that loves ya unconditionally! An’ they fucked her over!”
“You keep repeating yourself,” Static growled, unable to pinpoint his location.
“Yeah...sorry about that...I downed a forty or three before I came out here...actually, I was s’pposed to be here the other night, but...y’know how that goes...”
So, I’ve got a drunken Hotstreak to chase around, and it just keeps getting interesting with him professing all this bullshit about Theresa, Static thought with a roll of his eyes.
He heard the whistle of sound, and whirled, seeing a full bottle of undetermined liquid flying toward him. He ducked the bottle, seeing that it had been thrown from the top of a module garage off to his left. He swooped into that direction, just in time to see Hotstreak sprinting down the sidewalk, toward a nearby pedestrian bridge that would take him into the park.
Static burst after him, gritting his teeth as he gave chase. Just as he was going to shoot a charge of electricity, gunshots pierced the air, prompting both of them to whirl about, to see if they were in any danger themselves.
Two vehicles raced by on a nearby road, clearly exchanging gunfire.
“Great,” Static muttered, making a decision as he turned and headed after the fight.
“Sucker!” Hotstreak bellowed after him, then laughed as he disappeared into the darkness of the park.
Chapter Fifteen
That night, Richie picked at his food absently, not really paying attention to the conversation that was actually occurring between his parents. The occasional clink of silverware on porcelain clashed with the soft rise and fall of their voices. There was the scent of alcohol, his father having stopped at the pub before coming home to eat. He had been so lost in his thoughts about what was happening with Virgil and that of the punks in the street that he hadn’t heard the last few times his mother and father tried engaging him into the conversation.
Virgil had been acting more forceful for the last couple of months, he realized. Always snapping at those close to him. Always apologizing for some action or wrong word he’d said. It felt as if Virgil had been replaced with a tamer version of his father; Sean was always quick to insult and hurt in sarcastic terms of relative ‘fun’, and when he realized that no one was laughing or joking along with him, he often made his defensive backup in forms of snaps and snarls. What made him different from Virgil was that Virgil actually apologized for his actions and words–and meant it.
It had been easier to deal with Sean; Virgil was different. He didn’t want to compare his best friend to his father, but as Virgil continued to behave in a manner that made Richie think of Sean, it was impossible to let it go. He thought of the way he’d snapped at Frieda today–it had been uncalled for. Frieda had been pretty hurt over the incident, but had tried to laugh it off. Richie had felt awkward after that, foolishly trying to make excuses and failing on that account.
Virgil had mentioned how ‘pressured’ he felt as Static–that citizens of Dakota didn’t appreciate what he was doing. Richie had known how he’d felt for awhile, but just upon realizing the actual intensity of his feelings was something surprising. On that note, he wondered when Virgil had even gone out as Static...as far as he knew, Virgil had been staying with Daisy or with his family. He hadn’t mentioned any recent patrols or problems, lately. He rolled his eyes up from his food, thinking of their conversation on their way home from school this afternoon.
He felt bad for being unable to regain his duties as Gear–but the thought of pulling his shredded costume out from that bag made him sick. He didn’t want to see it, yet. And every time he thought about it, he was quick to think of something else.
He pushed his plate away, and finished off the cup of milk that sat nearby.
He yearned for Hotstreak–it was one of those deep aches that made every feeling he had for the meta feel as if it were a physical push from deep within. His fingers itched, tingling as he yearned to feel the meta’s warm skin against them. It was a physical need to want Hotstreak close by. With him, he felt safe and comforted; he felt light-hearted and secure. Being with Francis Stone made him feel everything else he was lacking at home or presently with Virgil. The more the days passed by without any word from him, Richie was definitely feeling more desperate for his contact than ever.
Those fragile days after the attack had been effective in drawing him even closer to the older male; Hotstreak had once again proved he was capable of things that no one would ever think possible, and it was for him. He couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for the meta to take him to the hospital, especially considering his phobia of the place.
But he had done it for Richie. In a way, he himself was still stunned at the ensuing actions Hotstreak had done for him. It had only intensified what he’d previously felt for the redhead.
He kept thinking about that run-down motel Hotstreak was staying at–he was pretty sure he could find it. But with Ebon’s friends stalking him every time he ventured out from the house, he knew that it would be a bad idea. Especially considering that Ebon had no clue where Hotstreak was staying. It just wouldn’t do for him to lead Ebon’s cronies to Hotstreak.
But Richie missed him terribly–the more he thought of him, the more it hurt deep inside when he realized that he couldn’t get to him. He had to be patient–wait for him. If Ebon found out that they were together again...
He knew the living shadow could use him easily against the redhead. He didn’t want to put Hotstreak in that position, for he knew the intense hatred the pair had against each other. He didn’t want Hotstreak to lose any sort of face or have to make a decision to choose Richie over street rep.
Because Richie knew he would chose his street cred–it was an easy decision. But Richie also knew that Hotstreak would feel remorse and guilt over it.
He knew Hotstreak cared for him–this recent action proved it. He didn’t need to ask for verification or admittance. It was all in the actions.
He jerked upward in surprise upon hearing his father shout his name. So involved in his thoughts that he hadn’t even heard Sean calling his name.
“I asked you a question,” Sean snapped at him, looking darkly annoyed as he finished off his own cup of milk.
“I’m sorry...I was just–thinking of school,” Richie muttered, lowering his eyes to the table. Sean wasn’t in the same class as Ebon–but he was still a threat. Even more so when Richie was incapable of defending himself quite yet. Montoya had warned him that for two to four weeks, he had to lay off the physical activity.
“I asked you who keeps calling you. Your mother mentioned that you have many people calling over here. None of them...Virgil.”
Richie fiddled with his fork. He thought of the menaces that Ebon worked with that continuously called him under the guise of friends from school. He thought of their taunts, their ‘messages’. He shook his head.
“Just some kids from school,” he answered quietly.
“What do they want?”.
“I...I don’t know. They–I don’t get along with them very well. I guess they’re just harassing me for the fun of it. I dunno...”
"Did you tell them to stop? It costs extra to change the number. I don’t want people calling here all hours of the night when I’m trying to sleep. I woke up three times in the past week to hear the phone ringing.”
“...I don’t have any control over what they do, dad,” Richie muttered. His jaw clenched as Sean gave him an irritated expression, Maggie staring in silence at her half empty plate.
“Did they find out that you’re a faggot?” Sean asked, his lips sneering at the hateful word.
Richie wasn’t going to answer; but he reached up to fiddle with his earring, shifting his eyes up from the table to give him a look of contempt. Sean narrowed his eyes, and Richie watched his knuckles whiten slightly.
“Is that why they keep calling here? That’s just the sort of shit that happens, Richard. If you hadn’t decided to become a fairy, I wouldn’t be having fucking kids calling here, wasting my time and my relaxation with their petty little games. You aren’t paying the phone bill. I am.”
“It’s not like they’re calling collect! And it’s not like I encourage them!”
“You being what you are isn’t encouraging them? This is just the sort of thing that pisses me off, Richard. I shouldn’t have let you grow up this way. But I work hard. Every day! I go into the factory, I put in ten to twelve hours of back breaking work, and every day that I am not here, your mother influences you. It was probably because of her doing that you turned fairy. Her female influences made you what you are–you had no real male guidance! For that, I have myself to blame. But I worked hard, and what do I come home to? Two fucking females that are incapable of anything ‘cept draw in more bills and do nothing. Did you even find a job, yet?”
“...No.”
“Why not?”
“...I have school. School takes up my time. Especially with college–”
“How the hell does it do that? I never see you doing homework! I never hear of you winning any academic awards–! How in the hell does school take up your fucking time? There are part-time jobs out there that will work with school. In fact, I’ve been thinking about this, Richard. The cost of living has been rising steadily, and with me having to support both you worthless pieces of dogshit on my own paycheck has gotten more difficult. I’ve been on you to getting that job, and you still haven’t! Instead, you waste your time runnin’ around with that nigger and his family, and leaving everything for your mother to do! That’s unacceptable.”
“Dad, don’t be a jerk. Just lay-off–”
“Are you calling me a jerk? Did you just call me a jerk? Who’s the fucking jerk taking up space and not paying for it? Like I’m made of fuckin’ money! Always eating, cleaning out the fridge–what are you, pregnant? Got a boyfriend and had him knock you up? I’m sick and tired of opening that refrigerator and finding it half empty! I know your mother shops–but you’re in there, minute after minute, eating everything in sight! Is that what you faggots do nowadays?”
Richie had noticed that he had been eating alot...food was comforting when there wasn’t anything else to rely on. All the stress that he’d been experiencing lately prompted cravings for anything edible, and Virgil had even commented about him polishing off a Super-sized bag of Doritos the other day.
His lips thinned at the way his father continued to attack him, and he forced himself to think of other things to drown out Sean’s griping. If he tried to leave the table, Sean would merely take that as a prompt to follow.
He glanced at his mother, having learned a long time ago to never rely on her interference. Maggie avoided the both of them by cutting up her meat, chewing deliberately as Sean ranted. Richie looked away from his mother and began to run theories on possibilities of him ever taking on either of his parents’ personalities.
He couldn’t imagine himself with Sean’s attitude and perspective; and he couldn’t see himself as Maggie, trying all that he could to avoid entering a confrontation or breaking up a fight to prevent harm. He wasn’t either of his parents; and that made him feel quite good despite the fact that Sean’s voice was rising, the older Foley realizing that the younger wasn’t listening to him.
Richie barely registered the empty cup that was flung at his head, jerking his head back to avoid being hit. Sean was out of his seat, looking quite furious as he slapped his hands down on the table.
“What the fuck?” Richie exclaimed, his anger overriding his previous willingness to escape further confrontation. “Why are you throwing stuff at me?”
“I am TALKING to you, and you aren’t even listening!”
“Most of this stuff I’ve heard before, dad! Why should I have to listen to it over and over again?”
“Well, if you would have done what I told you to do, I wouldn’t be repeating myself over and over again! And don’t you swear at me! Don’t you ever use that tone with me! I didn’t fuckin’ work hard all day just to have some faggot of a son speak to me in that tone of voice! If I wanted some fairy tellin’ me what to do, I may as well as invite myself to your nigger friend’s house and listen to their fuckin’ bullshit–!”
“Stop bringing my friends into this! This isn’t about them! It’s me you’re pissed at–stay focused on me!”
“Me, me, me!” Sean mimicked. “I’m finished with you. Drilling anything into that poufy head of yours is just as useless as you are. You know what? Fuck this. Maybe you can move in with your friends. Or your faggot boyfriend. I don’t want you under my roof, no more. You’re eighteen–I want you out.”
“Sean–!” Maggie finally spoke up, looking up with apprehension. “You can’t do that! Where would he go?”
Now that Sean was on a roll, apparently warming up to the idea, he shot his wife a dirty look and renewed his tirade as he looked back at Richie.
“That’ll cut back on the money I spend on you. Find your own place. Live the real life. Find out what it means to have a job, to work hard, to pay your own way! It’s about time you stopped relying on my funds and your mother. You’re old enough. I want you out of here. Then I won’t have to support no queer on my hard-earned paycheck.”
Richie felt himself trembling, his fingers clenched hard as he stared up at his father with rising anger and fury. He rose from his chair, feeling his legs shake, forcefully supporting himself by leaning on the table. “So you’re kicking me out?”
“Get your shit and get going. You should have had a job a long time ago. You would have had your money. You would have had your own place. Instead, you chose to slack off and fuck around. I’m tired of supporting you. Get your shit and go.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go!”
“I don’t fuckin’ care! You aren’t my problem, anymore! Far as I’m concerned, I never had a kid! I like this idea–get your shit.”
“I don’t know where to go!”
“Get your shit.”
“You can’t just kick me out like this! Why are you being such a jerk?”
“I said get your shit, Richard! GET OUT!”
“What did I do to make you feel this way towards me? Why couldn’t you have just accepted me? Why did you always have to hate me?” Richie shouted at him, focused intensely on his father as his previously eaten dinner performed an uncomfortable roll within his stomach. Fear at the darkness outside, for being kicked out of the house he’d lived in for over fourteen years left him feeling ill. Panic started to assail him, as well as confusion, hurt and disbelief.
“I didn’t want a pansy for a son! I made a mistake, letting your mother raise you! You never were like the other boys–always lookin’ at that trash you have, always holing yourself up for stupid video players, always hanging out with the trash that respectable people avoid–! You never did anything for me to be proud of! I could never hold my head up whenever other men talked about their sons. Their athletes, their young men–young men that played sports and went out with girls and got in trouble doing normal boy things–! But you–! All you did was hang out with niggers and giggled over boys in spandex–! It disgusts me! How could I have been proud of what you do when you did nothing?”
“I am your flesh and blood–! I am who I am! I can’t help being who I am, and if I changed just to make you happy, I wouldn’t be happy!” Richie exclaimed, hearing his voice break as he spoke.
Sean’s disgust for him increased at the hitch, and he shook his head in revulsion. “Get your shit, Richard. Get out of here.”
“Dad–!”
“Don& #8217;t call me that!”
“You’ve been drinking–! You don’t know what you’re saying!”
“I mean it! Or I’m callin’ the cops, tell them you’re trespassing. I want you off my property! And don’t think of asking your mother for money, because she doesn’t have any to give.”
“You’re not thinking clearly, dad! You don’t mean it–!”
“GET OUT, RICHARD!”
“I don’t know where to go!”
Sean’s face reddened all of a sudden, and Maggie gave a loud cry as he walked around the table, Richie hurriedly pushing himself away from the setting, feeling that surge of adrenaline racing through him. His father was quick, but he’d learned how to fight just as dirty. Having that boost of confidence in that he could actually hurt his father gave him what he needed to use as Sean reached for him.
Richie batted his hands away, stumbling back to give himself space. Sean reached for him again, this time catching him by his shirt. In earnest, Richie swung his forearm down onto his wrist, effectively disengaging Sean’s grip and freeing himself.
“GET OUT!” Sean finally screamed, his voice obscenely loud and fearsome within the two story.
Richie stared at him in silence for several seconds, then swallowed hard. He turned and hurried out from the dining room, mind racing. He could go to the gas station–he’d figure out what to do then. But he was a mess of feelings; shock, confusion, fear, helplessness–he’d wanted to leave home, but not in this unprepared manner.
He thought it was only the alcohol talking–Sean reeked of it. He just wasn’t thinking clearly. He’d regret it in the morning. He couldn’t possibly think that kicking Richie out of the house would make him feel better.
His room suddenly felt alien as he raced in, grabbing his school bag where he’d dropped it earlier. He didn’t know what to take–his mind raced as he heard Maggie protesting loudly, Sean taking his anger out on her with his shouts.
Richie then began gathering his clothes–handfuls of underwear, socks, shirts, pants–he didn’t know if they were even coordinated as he dropped them onto the bed. He grabbed items off the hangars and found a spare backpack on the top shelf of his closet.
He snagged that, then proceeded to stuff what he could into the wide mouth, not taking note of what he was doing. Footsteps up the stairwell told him his father was coming, and he hastened his movement, looking around himself for anything else he thought he would need. His toothbrush, his spare set of glasses, his Shock Vox, his–that money he’d found the morning after Ebon left that horrid ‘present’.
He’d been so tempted to tear those two bills to shreds upon finding them–but common sense told him that it was money he didn’t have. He jerked open his desk drawer and found the wadded up pieces of green, stuffing that into his pocket before Sean walked in. The older Foley grabbed his school bag and tossed that out into the hall. He grabbed the other bag that Richie had just packed and did the same.
“Get out.”
“I am!” His jacket...he needed a jacket. No, was he truly going to stay away? His father couldn’t be kicking him out! This was just another drunken rampage and it would be all different in the morning–!
Sean didn’t wait for him as he hastened to find the Shock Vox, uncaring of what Sean thought of it as he pulled it out from his pillows. Sean had his shirt gripped once more, and he was yanking Richie out of his room. He stumbled over his bags in the hall as Sean slammed the door shut. Maggie was standing near the stairway, crying silently, hands pressed to her mouth as she watched her only son fumble to pick up his bags.
“Get out!”
“I’m GOING! Get off my back, you drunken dick!”
“What’d you say to me?”
Richie whirled to face him, awkwardly holding his overstuffed bags by their straps. “You heard me! You called me a worthless piece of shit–you’re just as bad! Drunken, useless potato-head! You’re just as bad as those you look down on! You’re nothing important! You don’t do anything that deserves respect!”
He barely had time to spit out all these words as Sean lunged at him, pulling him down the stairway with an enraged snarl. Richie had to follow along, losing grip on one of his bags as he fought to keep his footing, to keep from being dragged behind him.
Maggie gave a screaming protest as she followed, Sean opening the front door. Her fingers curled into Richie’s shirt, pulling back at him as Sean tried to force him out. Caught within the tug-of-war, Richie gripped his bag tightly and tried to hug his mother.
But Sean’s strength was greater, and he yanked on Richie hard enough for the blond to finally lose his footing. He fell onto the porch with a pained grunt, slipping on the ice and feeling the sharp cold of the air as it forced his breath away.
The front door slammed shut, his parents’ shouting audible behind the cheap wood.
Shivering violently, Richie rose from the porch, trying to catch his breath. He had lost his grip on his jacket–he picked up his backpack, unsure of which one it was due to the darkness, and tried to get a sense of balance. It was quiet in his neighborhood–he had no doubt his neighbors had heard everything.
He glared at the closed door, hugging himself, then swallowed hard as he registered what the activity had done to his stitches. It made movement uncomfortable, but he didn’t think it re-tore what had been fixed. He shouldered his bag and carefully made his way down the stairs. He could hear his mother screaming in protest, and Sean raging, but felt no need to go back. He was still confused and scared–he’d wanted out, but not in this manner.
He stopped to look back at his house–it’d be different in the morning. When Sean sobered up, he would realize that kicking Richie out wasn’t a wise choice.
What was he supposed to do?
Richie glanced up and down the street, feeling his legs lock up at the darkness between street lamps. He really didn’t want to venture out of that comfortably lit house–he didn’t want to walk through the shadows. He was scared.
He forced himself to walk, stumbling on the ice. Virgil should be home...and if not, he knew it was okay to Robert. It was just the matter of getting there that made Richie entirely nervous.
He walked as hastily as he could, trying not to acknowledge the dark.
OooooooooooO
Static was finally out and about–the familiar glow of his flight path had people looking up with surprise and mixed messages as they pointed them out.
Due to the cold, not much was occurring, and his police scanner had been pretty quiet all night. He was still anticipating trouble, knowing that there wasn’t a night that went by without ANY activity. Everything was going all right...he wasn’t feeling suffocated by his mask, or weighed down by his costume. Though he had some doubts and simmering anger boiling within, just anticipating a back-handed show of gratefulness by someone he’d no doubt be rescuing, Static was just surprised that he was out and about. What prompted him out, really, was seeing his friend’s face after that incident with the Blazer. He was making his way into the lower class neighborhoods of Dakota when fire lit the night.
He gave a long, suffering sigh at recognizing Hotstreak’s flames, all of it coming from a nearby block that were composed mainly of Hispanics. He jerked out his Shock Vox, depressing the transmitter as he coasted in that direction.
“Richie!” he growled into the device. “What the hell happened to your leash?”
Richie’s reply came a few moments later, his voice bespeaking his confusion. “Huh? Was I supposed to have one?”
“To keep this bitch in line, yeah!”
“...Still not following!”
“Never mind. I’ve run into your...er...friend. Wanna give me a heads up on why he’s fuckin’ over some people?”
Richie’s heavy sigh was cut off as his friend signed off. Static put the Vox away and coasted over the neighborhood, seeing that multiple fires had downed a couple of power poles; that a car rested on its side, the interior clearly on fire; a house fully engulfed in flames. And people were being herded into a small alleyway, Hotstreak bellowing up a storm amidst all the cries in Spanish from those he was threatening.
“–fuckin’ ‘family’ turns away, without ever once questioning what she was feeling! All of you should be put away! All of you SUCK! I hope you all ROT! She loved you an’ you all fucked her over!”
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, HERE?” Static screamed to be heard as he swooped down, using his powers to pick up the overturned car and fling it at the bang baby.
Hotstreak heard him over his own bellows, turning to see the car flying at him. He dove out of the way to avoid being flattened, the cracking sound of metal connecting with pavement overtaking the new screams from those trapped in the alley.
“Get the fuck outta here, Static! You don’t know shit what these fuckers did!”
“God...you really need to go back to grammar school,” Static replied with a heavy expression. “There are days when I’m tempted to lock you up in some obscure location and have Richie teach you the proper usage of ENGLISH!”
Hotstreak looked momentarily stunned. “Huh?”
“May I ask, beforehand, what the hell you’re doing? What the hell did these people do to you? Ain’t like they’re armed! They all look defenseless and scared out of their minds!” Static moved between Hotstreak and the scared bunch of souls that looked utterly grateful for his interference.
Finally, he thought, catching their expressions. Some appreciation...
Regaining his balance, Hotstreak clenched his fists, both of which ignited into flame as he eyed Static with contempt. “They’re Theresa’s family...they didn’t do SHIT for her. They let her get fuckin’ killed! They didn’t do shit to help her! She did nothing but love them, and they turned her away!”
Static was confused, but his plan on distracting the meta so that the group could escape was working. Having Hotstreak’s full attention allowed him to maneuver away from the alley, giving him prompt space to work with as he continued to face the redhead.
“So...let me get this straight...Theresa’s family had her killed? And you’re seekin’ revenge?” he asked.
“Basically.”
“Why the hell is it any of your business?” Static exclaimed, shaking his head. “Theresa some sort of lady-love?”
He barely had time to avoid the barrage of fireballs that were sent his way, and gave a sharp gasp as he began registering the heat. He’d forgotten that Hotstreak had a couple of new tricks up those short red sleeves of his. He forced himself higher up to escape the heat that radiated from the bang baby, hearing the weakened responses of various metals around them. Looking down, he saw that more street lamps were dangling limply against the bubbling street, the overturned car having lost its rubber wheels, the snow melted and evaporated throughout the entire neighborhood.
“Don’t be talkin’ shit, Static! You don’t know shit!” he heard Hotstreak’s furious bellow. “That was my friend, muthafucker! How would you feel if Rich’s family did the same to him, an’ he went down that same fuckin’ way?”
Oh, that pissed Static off, thinking of it that way. But it pissed him off even more that Hotstreak used Richie’s name out loud, when they were already vulnerable.
He charged up, hurling bolts of electricity downwards, feeling that simmering anger boiling to the surface. Hotstreak was avoiding the bolts, dashing out of the way, looking for cover as Static raged.
“This doesn’t give you permission to kill people that weren’t involved!” Static roared. “She knew what she was getting into! You shouldn’t be taking that shit out on her family! I’ll bet they did all they could for her–!”
He swept upward to avoid another barrage of fireballs, inhaling sharply of charred rubber and metal as he swept through the neighborhood.
“They didn’t do shit!” Hotstreak continued, grunting with the force of his throws. “She tried going home–! But they turned her away! All she had was love for them!”
“You’re such an avenging God of Love, why don’t you turn your stupid white ass around an’ go back to the one that professes the same thing about you!”
“...The fuck are you talkin’ about?”
“Don’t make me get all preachy with you! You know what I’m talkin’ about! Or do you want me to say it all out loud?”
“Fuck you, Static! Don’t know where you be gettin’ all this fucked up shit from, but you all whacked out! What, did poundin’ away at that bitch of yours cause you to go dumb?”
Static charged up again, hissing between his teeth at the insult. Hotstreak grinned maniacally, then was up and over a wooden fence before Static could say anything in defense. Then it really hit him–how in the hell did Hotstreak know who he was?
He tore his Shock Vox from his jacket pocket, sailing down low to give chase.
“Richie!” he snarled into the device. “How in the hell does Hotstreak know who I am?”
“I t-told y-you, Static! He figured it out on his own!”
“...Why you stuttering?”
“I-It’s f-freakin’ c-cold out h-here!”
“What the hell are you doing outside?”
“I-I’ll t-talk t-to ya la-t-t-ter.”
Static nodded in answer, slipping the device into his pocket as he swept along the yard that Hotstreak had disappeared in. Seeing no sign of the bang baby, but hearing a dog barking erratically just down the row, he sped off in that direction, sweeping the sleeves up on his arms.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are, you funky toad!” he hollered. “I ain’t got all fuckin’ night for you! I stopped playin’ hide an’ go seek–hell...just last year, actually. But that’s NOT the point! I don’t wanna chase ya all night! What you did back there earns ya a good slapping, or two! There better not have been people hurt!”
“Fuck you, Static! You don’t know shit about anything!” he heard Hotstreak’s bellow coming from somewhere to his left. He whirled around, reaching down to grip the edge of his disk as his eyes focused beyond the glow of his powers, scanning the shadows of the various back yards. There was a pen full of pitbulls that were snarling upward at him, their teeth clicking together as they snapped at him.
“They betrayed her! They fucked her over! Fuckin’ family’s s’pposed to be there for ya! Yer s’pposed to be able to go home to someone that loves ya unconditionally! An’ they fucked her over!”
“You keep repeating yourself,” Static growled, unable to pinpoint his location.
“Yeah...sorry about that...I downed a forty or three before I came out here...actually, I was s’pposed to be here the other night, but...y’know how that goes...”
So, I’ve got a drunken Hotstreak to chase around, and it just keeps getting interesting with him professing all this bullshit about Theresa, Static thought with a roll of his eyes.
He heard the whistle of sound, and whirled, seeing a full bottle of undetermined liquid flying toward him. He ducked the bottle, seeing that it had been thrown from the top of a module garage off to his left. He swooped into that direction, just in time to see Hotstreak sprinting down the sidewalk, toward a nearby pedestrian bridge that would take him into the park.
Static burst after him, gritting his teeth as he gave chase. Just as he was going to shoot a charge of electricity, gunshots pierced the air, prompting both of them to whirl about, to see if they were in any danger themselves.
Two vehicles raced by on a nearby road, clearly exchanging gunfire.
“Great,” Static muttered, making a decision as he turned and headed after the fight.
“Sucker!” Hotstreak bellowed after him, then laughed as he disappeared into the darkness of the park.