Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Twenty-Two ( Chapter 22 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Shiv goes out of his way to do something unexpected; Hotstreak has a talk with Rosa Montoya
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.02.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 8.9K | Visits: 436 | Status: Completed
Shiv goes out of his way to do something unexpected; Hotstreak has a talk with Rosa Montoya
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.02.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 8.9K | Visits: 436 | Status: Completed
Right Here
Chapter Twenty-Two
Getting rip roaring drunk had made Hotstreak forget, temporarily, how pissed he was over the situation. Dimming his feelings with his favorite malts, he’d considered burning down a few things, causing a general ruckus in order to bring Static out so they could have words.
But in the end, he’d gotten too drunk to plan rationally, and when he had, his feelings and thoughts had taken over. He felt so despondent over himself–feeling pity entirely for himself. After all the effort and troubles he’d gone through to make sure Richie was okay, that he was safe and he was provided for, giving him EVERYTHING that he was capable of doing–and Richie didn’t want to be with him, anymore.
It didn’t matter that on one aspect, Richie was right–that they couldn’t continue living on the constant run. It was a lot of stress and pressure on one person. And Richie had been a ‘good boy’ for most of his life–it had been truly astounding for him to drop all that was within his comforts just for him.
But Hotstreak didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to think about how it hurt to have Richie go away with his best friend, to somewhere away from him, to consider leaving him.
That hurt worst of all–when all Hotstreak had wanted was to stay with him. He wanted to be with him all day, and truly enjoyed everything they did together. It was truly fascinating the way he’d begun to think, including Richie in all his plans and his thoughts–it was as if he’d never been an individual before. When staggering and trying to walk proved to be impossible, he’d taken a seat in one of the outside bistros that catered to those looking for outside conveniences, drew the hood of his jacket on over his head–and started to sober up.
Shamefully, he admitted to shedding a few tears, loss of control over his emotions blamed on the liquor. But if anyone asked, he’d just say that it was weed–which also brought to mind that ever since Richie had told him that that had been a trigger to his flashbacks, he’d stopped cold turkey just to insure that it didn’t happen again.
That made him angry, thinking about those aspects. He’d done so much for him, and Richie had ran off, intending to ‘think things over’. Well, that didn’t settle with him–he’d found all that he’d wanted and needed in the blond, and the blond fucked him over with this display.
Quite clearly, Hotstreak was down in the dumps and dragging things out irrationally. But he didn’t care. No one cared, anyway. He was the bad guy, the villain, the menace, the threat to all society–people like him didn’t have feelings and didn’t want to have all the normal things everyone else had. He lived on horror and bad things daily–he was incapable of feeling such good things.
...If only people knew that he didn’t feel that way–that he did have feelings and aspirations and regrets. Richie knew all that–he’d understood.
He hit the metal table in anger, cursing Richie’s name. Even when he felt pity for himself, he was thinking of him. It was annoying at how weak he’d gotten, how pathetic he was for treating the blond in this manner.
“Like a fuckin’ GIRL,” he growled, crossing his arms over his chest. It was offensive to think that he was mooning over the blond in the same actions he’d accused the blond of acting. He should be tough and uncaring–he should be laying down the law and ripping Richie apart with his command, but instead...he wasn’t. He’d chosen to get drunk and shed a few tears in his Woe Is Me moment. Ah, well, he’d figured. ‘Least he didn’t know anyone, and no one was bothering him. And no one knew what he was depressed over, anyway.
A waiter came by, asking if he wanted anything. Covered by the hat and hood, his features weren’t immediately recognizable as he asked for water, that he’d order later just to get the guy off his back. Night had fallen, and the soft outside lights had come on, illuminating things with a gentle glow that kept his features unrecognizable, and for his selfish moment to be undisturbed.
He slumped in his seat, reaching up to pull on the bill of his hat.
Perhaps...after he’d sobered some...he’d take a walk toward Hawkins’ neighborhood. Just to...walk. And maybe get a clear head, to conjure up a better argument and a grip on the situation. Once he was certain he had things under control, he’d go to Virgil’s house and look for Richie. They were able to talk things out–this wasn’t their first fight, and he didn’t want it to be their last.
But he simply hated the way he felt right now. Pathetically weak and definitely unmanly.
He looked up as his water was set down in front of him, with an assurance that the waiter would be by later to take his order. He picked up the cup of ice water, and sipped at it thoughtfully. With his free hand, he took out his cell phone and set it in the middle of the small table. He willed it to ring. For Richie to call and apologize to him for being so–so–damned female in his rages.
He had to snort.
He’d always accused the blond of being female, because that was the way he acted sometimes. It was all in his ‘feminine’ rages, the way he’d take over on a subject, obsess over it maniacally, then whine about it in a way that reminded Hotstreak of a girl.
It was a sign of affection! He thought. He only teased Richie about it because it riled the blond to humorous explosions, and Hotstreak liked seeing him riled because he knew he could have fun with it. He especially liked the way the blond’s nose would wrinkle, the way he would try to get all tough against him with his fists----
NO! No thinking affectionately about him!
He slammed his cup down on the table with a low, drunken growl, determined not to think of Richie’s good points. The guy pissed him off, he made him drink, he made him feel ill for himself–damn him.
He was starting to regain feeling back in his limbs, once more. That was a good sign he was sobering up. Crossing his arms once more, he glared at the cell, blinking in that lazy, slow way he had when he was too drunk to really think straight.
When a plate full of salad was set down across from him, he scowled up at the waiter, intending to curse him for interrupting his moment when he realized that it wasn’t the waiter. It was Rosa Montoya, giving him a pointed look as she took the seat across from him with a reserved sort of air that made him think of a police officer.
He scowled at her, darkly, with enough venom in his expression to send anyone running. But she settled as she tossed a napkin across her lap and prodded at the cherry tomatoes with one of the forks that had been sitting across from him.
“Well, well, well,” she murmured in that thick accent she had, sending warm tingles across his stomach. So he had a crush on her–who wouldn’t with that commanding presence of hers? He wondered how she’d be in bed, if she’d be just as dominating there as she was in the hospital. “We meet again.”
He didn’t think his lips would move in the manner that he liked, so he chose to continue scowling at her. But dropped his eyes to his cellphone. He remembered once telling Richie how Rosa rolled through her ‘r’s’ in a really sexy way–and had found himself kicked in the shin for being so disrespectful, then laughed at for having a crush on–he had to snarl aloud at himself. He didn’t want to think affectionately of the blond!
“I want to thank you for returning my car,” she said, pausing before biting into one of the tomatoes. “I was really happy to have it back. I had twenty-seven more payments to make on it. Thank you.”
He decided to ignore her. Couldn’t she see, with her feminine intuition or whatever, that he was busy feeling sorry for himself?
“It’s been well over awhile since I last seen you...you aren’t causing as much trouble as you were, before. It’s a good feeling, isn’t it?”
He was confused at the question. Still slumped, arms still crossed, and refusing to move his legs that overcrowded her chair, he glared at her from the safety shadows his hat and hood made.
“To stay out of trouble,” Rosa said, a slight smile at the corner of her lips as she correctly interpreted his confusion. “How are things going with you?”
She wasn’t using a condescending tone with him–she wasn’t mocking him or being overly snotty in her presence. The question was simple enough. He thought of the many things he could say: Fuck off, Fuck you, None of yer business. Eat shit...
“Fucked up,” was what he’d ended up saying, and he squeezed his eyes shut, giving an annoyed growl at himself. He drank too much, and he had lost control of his usual strength that kept people away from him. Even the waiter came by to check on him.
After he’d left, Rosa paused in forking into the Caesar salad, looking at him in concern. “Why is that? Is this why you’ve chosen to drown all of it in gallons of alcohol?”
None of yer fuckin’ business, was on his lips, but his inner self blurted out, “It’s the only way to drown out the shit I feel.”
“Ah...” Montoya nodded in understanding, chewing thoughtfully on another forkful of lettuce, cheese and onions. She took in the night above them, her Hispanic features displaying her concern. She looked back at him; patted her lips with the napkin she’d had in her lap. “It’s painful, isn’t it?”
He had to frown. What was? He gave her a look.
“Life. Things. Decisions. You must have made, or is in the process of making a very tough decision. Or...perhaps...you’ve done something to regret. Or...you’ve been hurt by someone you care about. That one tends to hurt the most, no matter who you are.” This last one was accompanied with a look, an eyebrow raising, her actions with her salad stilling as she searched the shadows of his hat and hood for the truth.
Hotstreak shifted in his seat. Women. Women were no good with their psychic intuition and their nosiness and their stupid perfume that made them smell really good...If Richie were here, he’d be teasing him with obvious directions at his admiration for the woman, or giving him simple knowing grins–No! No! NO!
“It ain’t any of that,” he grumbled, struggling to save face. Was his phone even on? Was it working? Did he forget to activate the minutes card again? He reached over to lift up the cell, to check its availability. Yes...there was service...he was in a good area to receive and send calls...so why wasn’t Richie calling him to apologize?
“You’re looking well,” Montoya then said, reaching for her tea. “Very healthy.”
“Yeah, I gained weight. So what?”
“No...not that...I’d say you’re normal for your size...six foot one? Two hundred pounds? You’re healthy. But that’s not what I was referring, to. I mean, you looked well in other aspects...”
He gave her a frown. “Are you hitting on me?”
She laughed, the sound cheery and loud within the night. Lowering her fork, she gave him a gentle smile. “I am old enough to be your mother, young man. I’m sorry if you’ve interpreted my concern for something amorous. But, no, I am not hitting on you, nor do I entertain thoughts of that nature concerning you. You’re a few years older than my son....and I see you in that aspect. Forgive me. But I was referring to your look of well being. When I last saw you, it was an obvious tense situation. You looked older, more strained, overworked–the life that you lead makes a person far older than what they actually are. But today, you have the expression of a man that has been very happy, if not upset for the current moment. There’s a certain glow about you.”
She touched her own face, indicating her cheeks.
She returned to forking through her salad, and Hotstreak stared quietly at her, wondering what she was high on. ‘Expressions of a happy man’? ‘Glow’? The last person to mock him about his features–and he knew what he looked like and was aware that he wasn’t the most attractive----got his ass kicked just because that guy had been uglier. He hated hypocrites.
“So, how is he? Has he seen Thom, yet?”
“Yeah,” Hotstreak muttered, then remembered belatedly that he was NOT going to talk to someone he didn’t know about the one person he cared about the most.
With an annoyed grimace, he shifted in his seat.
“That’s wonderful. I’m glad the two of you have stuck out that agonizing experience,” she said with low admiration. “I’m very proud of you, as well. For someone that the media has labeled as a bad influence and certainly one of the city’s greatest nuisances, you have a heart and a conscience. Unlike other bastards out there...not that I’m excusing you for all the trouble you have made, mind you. You’re still a criminal, and you still have many things to make up for in terms of consequences–but the sacrifice you have made for one person in a truly horrifying event makes you more of a person in my eyes. You can be saved, you know.”
Hotstreak shifted awkwardly in his seat. Damn woman and her thoughts...couldn’t she keep them to herself? When someone praised him, he felt odd about himself. Foreign and alien. Especially when he hadn’t had this sort of guidance before.
“You realize that drowning yourself in alcohol solves nothing?”
“Go away,” he muttered, shifting again. “I don’t need people like you tellin’ me what ta do, or how I should be dealin’ with things...”
Montoya worked on her salad for a few silent minutes; Hotstreak listened to the way she crunched through her greens, and watched the plate slowly beginning to lessen of its contents.
He glared at his cell phone. If Richie was making HIM apologize, then the blond had a serious ass kicking to expect when they met up.
Montoya had noticed his constant glances toward the device, and she lifted an eyebrow. But she said nothing as she signaled the waiter for another tea, and asked for her main course. As she was ordering, though, she looked at him. “Hungry? Food absorbs more alcohol....and you can use more liquids.”
He sullenly shrugged his shoulders, thinking of the many ways he could kick Richie’s ass. But, oddly, they kept drifting back to how they were going to make up and forgive, and he’d be groping that said ass during hot, greedy, satisfying–
Montoya leaned back in her seat as he forced himself to finish off the water from the previous glass, suddenly eager to sober up. She took in the light jacket, the dark t-shirt and the Pistons logo on his hat. She knew instinctively that he were upset–she’d seen her husband and teenage son pouting too many times, with too many obvious signals of their childishness that she would recognize that sort of action on any male.
She didn’t know this young, lost male. She only knew what he did, what he was capable of. Before that night at the hospital, she would never give him a second thought. But she had seen that he was obviously human, that he experienced human emotions. She had started thinking of her son, wondering what he’d be like without parental guidance, love–and saw him in Hotstreak’s place, without the powers.
Surviving on the streets, maintaining a street rep, doing things that he’d been taught by others; a lost child was a lost child. She didn’t want to think this way about him. She didn’t want to see him as human.
But she did, and she couldn’t help but feel concern and pity for him. She cursed inwardly at herself, shifting in her seat. She shouldn’t be here, talking to him in this manner, wanting to like him for his feelings toward the blond, wanting to believe that he was incapable of causing the chaos that he did. But it was impossible to do when she could see his reddened eyes and hear the occasional sniffle that usually accompanied crying. How could one NOT see this being as a human when one heard and witnessed such things?
She knew it would be awhile for their orders to show. She rested her hands on the table, and with a gentle, prodding smile, asked, “Do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?”
Hotstreak looked at her, intending to tell her where she could shove her words, but instead heard himself start to blurt out what had been bothering him–starting with his and Richie’s fight.
He knew then that he was going to take this moment of weakness to the damn grave–if anyone found out that he was blurting out relationship woes to some–some–woman, then his rep had definitely gone down the drain.
OooooooooooO
The turn was taken too wide–Shiv lost control of the vehicle as he’d tried to take the Y turn back to Dakota, and the Escort’s driver took advantage of that one moment. The grill of the Escort slammed at current speed against the Navigator’s back end, sending the bigger vehicle off-course with the move. Shiv tried to regain control of the SUV, but miscalculated upon feeling the pull of the off-pavement strip. He jerked the wheel violently, intending to correct the mistake, but ended up overcorrecting. The Navigator’s two right side wheels lost contact with the pavement, the once proud vehicle slamming into the road, skidding along its side as the Escort followed through with the previous action. That proved disastrous for the two males inside, the tail end of the Navigator spinning around violently, sending them both against the right side of the interior, with unapologetic violence.
The vehicle skidded completely away from the road, found a dip between the Y’s separating roads, and rolled into a violent cacophony of bending metal and cracking glass. Dirt flew up, the headlights slashing through the darkness as it settled onto its left side with a protesting screech of sound. Airbags were deployed throughout the dash, the side windows, cushioning its passengers with sharp explosions of sound. Shiv thought, while being tossed around in his seatbelt and having his face and upper body muffled by the bursting airbag, that the Roll Stability control the vehicle was supposed to possess was severely overrated. But at least the airbags had worked.
The Escort, sporting accordion-style damage to its bumper and hood, was smoking with the damage it had gained from the impact. The driver had braked immediately after sending it crashing, and was slowly turning the vehicle around. There was much difficulty in doing so, for the smaller vehicle had taken extensive damage from the collusion. There was a clackety-clack sound ringing throughout the night air as the engine struggled to keep functioning.
Shiv hurriedly kicked away his seatbelt and the steering wheel airbag, having landed in an awkward position against the driver’s side door, muscles aching from the terrible wrenching his body had taken from the roll. As the downed vehicle settled within the dirt terrain between the Y, there was an uneasy moment in which he thought the vehicle would roll again, his hands flying out to steady himself along the dash and the top of the windshield.
Terror at being gunned down by Ivan and the others had him moving quickly, crawling out from the driver’s seat, the angle of the downed vehicle preventing him sure footing.
Crawling to his feet, settling his weight on the middle console and the dash, he peered into the back of the vehicle, hearing the Escort screeching to a stop nearby. Breathing heavily, he clutched the leather seat, his fingers digging into the material as he jerked his head around to peer out the cracked windshield. He could see Ivan getting out from the Escort, as well as several others–all of them packing heat. How they managed to fit into that small car made him wonder as he felt himself start to shake with panic.
He gulped loudly as he realized how peeved Ivan looked–even in the shadows, it was evident that he was very pissed.
Shuffling awkwardly past the driver’s seat, he crawled into the back, where Richie was laying. He wondered faintly if he’d killed him, reaching out to shake his shoulder. Richie hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt, and the damage showed in scrapes that were visible along the visible patches of skin. His nose was bloodied, a long cut along his left temple eking out color that matted his blond strands. Shiv wouldn’t be surprised if he’d managed to kill the guy.
“C’mon c’mon c’mon!” he hissed, hearing the obvious sounds of someone crawling onto the vehicle to access the undamaged the side door. He tore off the blindfold that had kept Richie’s eyes covered, seeing blank eyes staring off to nothing.
Shiv refused to believe that he was dead, and was proved right upon hearing the slow breathing. Seeing that the blond was still handcuffed, he formed a sword with his right hand, and used that to cut apart the chain that kept the cuffs together.
There was loud cursing as the doors were found locked, and Shiv glanced upward in a panic, using one hand to jerk at Richie’s hoodie, and the other to conjure his shuriken.
“SHIV!” he heard Ivan scream. “Yer gonna getcha fuckin’ yellow ass KICKED! Never thought ya’d do this, man! What the fuck you be thinkin’?”
“Get up, asshole!” Shiv hissed, pulling on Richie, trying to make him stand as he eyed the side door once more. Gunshots rang out, and there was the metallic ting as one broke through the window, landing with an explosive plop into the leather cushions of one of the individual back seats. The door was being opened, and Shiv paused in pulling Richie up, crouching, readying his throw.
Once a face appeared, he let loose with a couple of the shuriken, having charged them for explosive impact. The man screamed as the sharp, six sided star embedded within his forehead, the charge exploding a few seconds later. Those standing nearby scrambled off the vehicle, and gunshots rang out as they fired into the windows.
Shiv crouched, covering his head, pressing himself against the seat as he gave a loud, panicked shout. He heard the impacts bullets made upon hitting the seat, and looked up to see that Richie was still standing there–staring blankly at his feet. He reached up, grabbing the teen’s hoodie to pull him down, exclaiming aloud at his stupidity.
The gunshots slowed, and eventually ceased upon Ivan’s shouting.
Breathing heavily, eyes wide, Shiv looked up, ears straining as he sought to hear what actions were being taken now. He heard someone trying to kick in the windshield–the repetitive clunk of foot against plexi-glass gave an ominous beat to the situation as he heard the men converse with each other on what to do.
His fingers curled into Richie’s hoodie, and he looked at the blond once more, seeing that same blank expression on his face. He shook him urgently, hissing, “What is wrong with you?”
The door overhead opened tentatively, and he looked up, preparing his last two shuriken, charging them. Two of the men peered in cautiously, surveying the damage–Shiv let his weapons fly. One of them was fast enough to move, the other caught a charged star in the face. At the sickening explosion of bone and matter, Shiv conjured up several more, trying to think of a way out of here. More bullets blasted into the vehicle, and he threw himself over Richie, trying to press them closer to the window they stood upon, hearing the guys outside shout obscenities and threats.
Ivan was screaming at them, but he was going unheard and unchecked as the barrage continued. Shiv just prayed that if he did die, he didn’t die slowly. He clutched the material of Richie’s hoodie tightly, his own agitation displayed with his clinging.
And through it all, Richie kept silent and still, staring at nothing and reacting to nothing. They were under fire, trapped within an immobilized vehicle, and he did nothing.
The barrage stopped, and Shiv realized he was panting heavily, his heart racing as the adrenaline surged throughout his body. He couldn’t think of a way out–eventually, Ivan and the others would win. He couldn’t keep throwing charged shuriken forever–he would run out of the energy needed. Their luck in not being hit would run out. Looking up from Richie’s back, Shiv strained his ears, hearing that Ivan was directing a couple of men up top, and a few at the windshield.
The plexi-glass finally gave way, the flexible glass being pulled from its supports by those standing up front. Shiv peered at this from his awkward position in the back, where he was just thin enough to get away with crouching on the window, between the back seat, Richie, and the individual single seat that provided cover.
Swallowing hard, he positioned himself to hurl his weapons, and jolted upon hearing the trunk door being opened. He looked back to see a couple of AK-47's being leveled his way, two anxious faces peering in. His throwing arm locked as he looked into the barrels. He whirled quickly, letting loose with his stars as they started to pull their triggers. Bullets sprayed briefly within the vehicle, and Shiv threw himself over Richie once more–not to protect him, but because he was diving for cover, and Richie was taking up the space needed. The two backed away, still firing from their distance away from the vehicle. He’d missed hitting both with his shuriken.
Hot heat tore through his shirt, making him cry out as he tried pressing himself closer to the window. He could smell Richie’s scents----that smell of musk, that cinnamon and mint mixture–he had to suppress the urge to retch, thinking of that night when he could smell the same smells upon Ebon. He covered his nose with his hand and struggled to think.
Leather tore under explosive impact, and he felt heat fly through his hair. He covered his head with both arms, screaming aloud with panic and terror.
The shooting stopped, and he stopped screaming.
Ivan was shrieking up a storm, cursing those that kept on shooting–there were a couple of shots fired, followed with more shouting.
Shiv then jerked with realization that they were fighting each other–the gunshots were being directed away from the vehicle, and while he heard screaming, he could still hear Ivan shouting. But it was further away–the guy must have been taking cover somewhere–Shiv realized that this chaos as going to work for them. He reached back, fingers digging into Richie’s hoodie, and he was jerking the teen after him. Richie moved–except his movement was sluggish, uncoordinated–as if he were intoxicated.
Shiv felt utmost panic build within as he peered out through the empty air of the windshield, seeing that the area was clear in that direction. More gunshots were fired, but it was away from the vehicle. They were still fighting each other.
He pulled Richie after him as he crawled through the downed vehicle, and slithered over the dash. Glancing out, he could see the minute flashes from firing weaponry, and guessed that whomever was shooting was chasing someone west ward. He looked over at the Escort, which was unprotected. He jerked on the blond’s hoodie, crawling out from the vehicle, and running with strained effort toward the vehicle.
Several gunshots made him duck in panic, hearing the sharp cracks of impact as bullets found their way into surrounding trees. He lost his grip on the blond, turning to see that a few of Ivan’s followers were moving their way. Shiv glanced around, seeing that they were the only ones there–satisfied with this, he formed a kama within one hand, the light illuminating the darkness with a brief flash of magenta, and he charged forward.
Two of the men immediately turned and ran–the other held his gun high and aimed, firing repeatedly as Shiv charged at him. Shiv ducked low, feeling a grin curl his lips as he imagined what he could do to this one. He feinted right, then charged left, swinging the curved blade upward–the man gave a gurgled shout as the blade curved upward into his throat, hooking out through his mouth.
Marveling at the angle his weapon had made, Shiv used his body weight to swing the man down onto the ground, his blade catching against the unfortunate victim’s jawbone, locking into place. As a result, Shiv found himself falling with him, landing with a grunt against his back. He jerked his weapon out through the throat, cackling at the odd ripping noise that was produced, and heard approaching footsteps.
Ivan emerged from the darkness, his face a mask of fury as he eyed Shiv–the Asian wasn’t going to chance going after him. Ivan was capable of hitting his target. He absorbed the weapon, turning to run back to the Escort when something hot and explosive slammed through his upper right shoulder. The pain was immediate–he flew forward with a loud cry, his arm going dead upon impact. He hit the ground with a sprawling grace, hearing Ivan roar with satisfaction. The pain made him want to black-out–it made him want to retch, to cry, to scream–but he did nothing as the heat spread throughout his back and chest. It felt as if his breath had been torn from him.
He could hear Ivan stomping over, snarling incoherently, and Shiv realized how dead he was. Ivan would make sure that he’d suffer–he managed to turn onto his back, wincing at the hot flash of pain that radiated to every nerve ending he had. He couldn’t think of any defensive measures–couldn’t think of anything other than the fury that Ivan displayed.
And suddenly, Ivan was jerking backwards, the explosions of gunshots going off near Shiv’s head. Ivan ducked behind the fallen Navigator in a flurry of surprised movement. Shiv was confused until he felt his shirt grabbed, and he was being jerked off the ground.
“I’ma KILL YOU BOTH!” Ivan screamed furiously, one arm appearing around the belly of the Navigator, firing aimlessly in their direction. “I’ll MAKE IT SLOW!”
“I hate you, but if he’s against you, then you’re on my side,” Richie snarled at Shiv, pulling the meta to his feet.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” Shiv shouted at him, conjuring throwing knives at the approach of a man that emerged from the shadows. He was instantly ducking back into the trees as Richie held his gun awkwardly, bemoaning the lack of good aim. The blond had taken his semi-automatic from the body of a man that had taken one of Shiv’s shuriken in the face.
Shiv took the driver’s side of the vehicle, his arm burning with sensation–he had to reach up, grabbing it, wishing that the pain would end as he focused on the dash. The vehicle was still running–to their luck. Richie was jumping into the passenger side seat, throwing him an anxious glance as he realized just how out the meta was.
Shiv found that if he focused intensely on the actions needed to get them out, he was able to block out some of the pain. With his left arm, he jerked the gearshift into Drive, and slammed a foot on the gas, feeling the tires catch briefly within the dirt, the engine protesting violently in its damaged state. Gunshots once again showered around them, metal pings audible as the pair ducked, covering their heads.
Richie looked up, then winced, sniffing the air. It was of intense copper, of something distinctively thick.
“What’s that smell?” he asked, turning to look into the seat behind them.
Shiv glanced at him, sniffing deeply of blood, of exposed body parts. He looked into the rearview, eyeing the backseat. Knew that the bodies of Richie’s parents were in the trunk. He looked at Richie, giving him an incredulous and bewildered expression.
Just as Shiv maneuvered onto the road, there was a flash of headlights, and a loud screech of brakes and tires. He shouted aloud as he wrenched violently on the wheel, just barely managing to get them both out of harm’s way.
The Range Rover skidded along the pavement, and finally came to a stop nearby. Shiv was immediately ditching the Escort, forming a sword with his good arm, and racing at the driver that shot out of his seat, ready to scream at his stupidity.
Richie was following after him, throwing an anxious glance towards Ivan and the one other guy that had chosen to stay on his good side. The two were racing toward the Rover, and as he heard Shiv threaten the bewildered driver with his sword, Richie held the gun out awkwardly and depressed the trigger.
Prepared for the kick, he wasn’t prepared for the off-shots he made, making Ivan and the other guy duck and dive for cover behind the Escort. Shiv was screaming at him, then, and he turned to see that the driver had been kicked to the side, Shiv taking over the driver’s seat once more.
Instead of wasting time in running around the vehicle, Richie dove into the back seat, Shiv cursing aloud as he realized that this was a manual shift vehicle. His right arm was basically useless, throbbing with intense pain–he reached over with his left, struggling to maneuver the gear shift into the appropriate position. His left elbow was also used, nudging the steering wheel, curses leaving his mouth at this highly frustrating task.
The Range Rover jerked as Shiv tried to take off in third gear, and at the grinding of gears and the awkward lurching once more, there were more gunshots raining over the vehicle. Finally, though, Shiv managed to get the vehicle into first, and was taking off in a flurry of movement. Richie peered out the back window, seeing that the driver was taking off into the woods, and that Ivan and his friend were diving into the broken Escort to give chase.
He slumped wearily in the back seat, the adrenaline coursing throughout his system. He shoved the gun away from him, wiping his fingers and his hands on his pants, feeling his arms shaking. He looked at the driver’s seat, at the Asian that had caused him much grief as Gear. He could feel his hatred for the meta welling up deep within, wanting to hurt him for his part that night–but he couldn’t do it when good conscience told him that Shiv had defied Ivan to help him.
...that was odd in itself. Shiv helping him. The guy had made his life hell as Gear! He still had the scar from last year when Shiv had sliced him while he was trapped in an Dumpster. What had made the bang baby switch sides?
He was utterly confused at Shiv’s intentions–he didn’t understand why Shiv was going through this much effort. What was in it for him? What had made him turn against the only person he seemed to respect?
At that moment, shifting in the seat to rub at oddly sore shoulders and raw wrists, he remembered the car ride. Panicked upon remembering his parents.
“Where are my parents?” he cried, shooting forward to grip the driver’s seat, the severed handcuffs digging into his skin. He could smell the mixture of blood and body odor from the other meta. In the grip of all moments, it was oddly reassuring–for Shiv to bleed made him just as human as the rest of them. He really didn’t like the sweaty, gray pallor that had taken over Shiv’s complexion. “My mom and dad! Where are they? Are they all right? Did they get away?”
Shiv turned, giving him an incredulous expression. Richie shouted and pushed his head, forcing him to focus on the road. The Range Rover jerked as Shiv pulled it back onto the road, steadying it.
“W-What are you talking about?” Shiv shouted, the wheel jerking under his agitated hand. Since the surge of adrenaline had left him, he had been battling gray spots and pain from his shoulder wound, as well as the accompanying effects of nausea and the urge to pass out.
Then, he remembered something–he reached down awkwardly with his left arm, using his right knee to steer the wheel, and took out Richie’s glasses from his sock, where he’d put them earlier. He handed them to the surprised blond, who took them from him gratefully.
“You know what happened to them!” he then insisted.
Richie stared at him in sightless reaction, then shook his head.
“No,” he said, his voice low and full of apprehension. “No...no, I–I don’t–Ivan must have–I must have been–I might have fainted, or something...I don’t–we were in that other vehicle, and–where are my parents?”
Shiv started to look back at him in confusion, realizing that Richie was serious. His mind raced, wondering how it was that the blond couldn’t remember that entire incident at the marsh. It just didn’t seem right.
“They’re dead, man!” he exclaimed. “They’re dead! They shot them! Dude, you were talking to them!”
Richie stared at him in silence, feeling everything start to fade. A roaring sound began thundering through his ears, and his eyes closed----his stomach turned, and he was forcing himself to bend in the seat, touching his feet. The thought of his parents being killed made something violent twist inside of him–he hadn’t seen them or heard from them in months. He wondered how they’d died, what had happened between the moment of seeing Shiv’s power flash to life back there and the ride out here, with Ivan punching him. He was so frustrated in that he couldn’t remember anything. Ivan must have punched him hard enough to render him unconscious.
All he could remember was seeing nothing–the blindfold. Damn Ivan and his ways of keeping Richie from seeing anything. His parents had been so close–he could still smell his mother, and could hear the soft growl of Sean’s voice. What had happened to them? It hurt him in knowing that he hadn’t been able to say goodbye to them, to apologize to them for bringing them into this chaotic mess.
His father had been looking for him–searching for him. What had he been meaning to say? What had Sean Foley wanted to say with him? And to think, Richie had taken every effort possible to avoid him.
Overwhelming guilt and despair ran through him, making everything curl into a painful hardness within his chest. Struggling to overcome his shock at finding out what had happened to his parents, he forced himself to think of the situation for now. Ivan was still alive, and he was after them. Perhaps he could grieve and sort things out after this.
Shiv saw that he’d disappeared from his line of vision, twisting to look back at him then sitting straight once more. The car chase had lasted for miles–they were forty-five miles out of Dakota. He could see the bright night lights of the city just above the tree tops. He grew anxious as he had no idea where they were going, what was going to happen, now.
His shoulder was throbbing painfully, and he felt wholly nauseated. There was a dissipating heat in his shoulder that pulsated with every beat of his heart, blood pumping from his arm, wetting his clothes and the seat–the warmth coasted down his arm and puddled on the middle console. His stomach continued to tighten with agitation, and the gray spots began turning black. His skin took on a clammy feel, his hands turning sticky with sweat. His throat laced with bile, and the tires made a protesting screech as slow reaction had him turning away from the edge of the road once more.
“Shit,” he muttered, swaying. He barely had enough comprehension to knock the gear into neutral. “I ain’t gonna make it. I’mina–just–rest my eyes for a little bit.”
“Pull–over!” Richie growled between gritted teeth, straightening as he realized just how far gone Shiv was.
The Range Rover drove along the edge of the road, slapping down flexible road reflectors, then slammed to a stop that sent both of them forward. Shiv rested his forehead upon the steering wheel, struggling to keep himself from sleeping. He heard Richie talking to him, felt his hand on his back–but all he could truly hear was the rush of thunder throughout his head, feeling his shoulder ooze sullenly with his own lifeforce. And then, he was out.
Richie cursed as he realized that Shiv had passed out, and while he understood the effects of gunshot wounds, he really thought that it was a bad time for the meta to be fainting at a time like this. He reached forward, to jerk the emergency brake on. Glancing behind him, knowing that the Escort had to have been slowed by its previous damage, he climbed out from the back seat of the car, climbing into the passenger side seat. He reached over to push Shiv off the steering wheel, glancing at the entrance wound. It was neat and round, the hole just wide enough for a fingertip to penetrate. The exit wound would be so much bigger, more gaping.
It was so raw and open, skin and material covered in red, that Richie had to turn away to regain his composure. Smelling the other meta’s blood made him sick–in general, wounds like these made him sick. They were so much different to see in pictures...at least the pictures didn’t smell.
He could recall his own pain and trauma from the time Jimmy had shot him–in reaction, his leg throbbed in sympathetic release. Taking controlled breaths, he jerked his hoodie off, and ripped at his sleeves. It took a few moments to get the proper length and material needed, but he managed to wrap what he’d gathered around and under Shiv’s shoulder, effectively applying pressure needed to stop the blood flow. But he wondered if it was too late–he’d lost a lot of blood. And a lot of time had passed since Ivan had shot him–he wondered if Shiv was even going to make it back to Dakota. Shock had taken the metahuman over–a person would die of shock alone.
As he was staring at the vehicle, wondering if he could drive the standard transmission vehicle, his eyes flit over something that made him scream aloud with joy–the man had a cell phone. He picked it up, flicking it open, fingers automatically finding the numbers he needed. As he held the phone to his ear, he glanced up at the rearview mirror–and saw a vehicle with one headlight coming up their way.
He looked back at Shiv, feeling his breathing increase–then back at the rearview. He heard Hotstreak’s gruff answer at the other end, but couldn’t find the prompt to answer back. He lowered the phone, twisting in his seat as the watched the approaching car with horror. Upon seeing that it was the Escort, he gave a wordless sound of despair, and looked at Shiv.
He dropped the phone, reaching over to shake Shiv, hearing the clackety-clack noise of the ruined engine the Escort possessed.
“SHIV!” he shouted, the purple haired meta’s head bouncing against the window. “Wake up! They’re here! Wake up!”
He heard the doors opening and slamming shut, and he looked up, seeing Ivan marching over to the Rover, gun in hand. He paused, looking into the back seat, where he’d dropped his gun. He wasn’t sure how many rounds were left, but there were two of those armed men, and he hadn’t driven a vehicle before–he dove into the backseat, finding the weapon as Ivan walked up to the driver’s side, aiming the gun as the black man moved to open the door.
Figuring upon Shiv’s death, feeling hopeless and desperate, Richie held the gun within both hands, and fired out his window. Glass shattered, the recoil of the weapon making Richie’s hands jerk upward, but Ivan screamed aloud as he fell back out of his sight. The other man began firing at the Rover from behind, and Richie pushed himself onto the floor of the back seat, shouting at Shiv to wake up. Ivan was screaming obscenities from outside, and the gunshots ceased immediately. From his uncomfortable position on the floor, Richie could hear Ivan getting up, cursing aloud.
Richie’s hands shook as he held the hateful weapon tightly, trying to calm his breathing. Realizing that he couldn’t hold the pair of them off forever, he closed his eyes----admitting defeat. Shiv was as good as dead; he had no doubt that the metahuman was in the throes of shock, and was currently dying from its effects. He had no doubt that he had less than five rounds left within the weapon he was holding–and they were still miles out from Dakota. He didn’t want to admit defeat–but it was the only situation plausible.
He had an idea of why Ivan was going through such lengths to obtain him–it was only obvious. He licked his lips, opening his eyes as he saw Ivan moving cautiously outside, sneaking a peek through the damaged window. Richie raised the gun once more to fire, but only heard the ominous click of an empty clip. Several more presses of the trigger only ensured that the gun was indeed useless.
Ivan opened the door, and Richie sat up, ready to hurl the weapon at him, to at least physically fight with him.
Only to be jerked against the backseat as the Rover gassed forward, Shiv in command once more. Ivan shouted aloud as he barely avoided being knocked over by the vehicle. Richie could have laughed in relief at the close escape, but the vehicle was swerving, and Shiv was draped over the steering wheel–the engine revved in protest as gas was applied, the gear still stuck in first. The door clicked shut upon movement, and Richie hurriedly climbed out from the floor, seeing that Shiv was just barely functioning.
He took the gearshift, shouting at him to depress the clutch. It took a few minutes, but Shiv managed to perform the command, Richie shifting them into slowly through the gears, effectively allowing them to gain speed. Straightening, he glanced out the back, seeing that Ivan and his friend had taken over the Escort once more, and were giving chase.
Richie glanced at Shiv, then down at the way they were losing speed once more. He stood awkwardly between the seats, and grabbed him by his arms, giving the command for the metahuman to leave his seat–to take the passenger side. Once realizing that he was taking over, Shiv kept one foot pressed on the gas, his good arm directing the wheel, and managed to slide over the console to the passenger side seat so that Richie could take the driver’s seat. Awkwardly, Richie adjusted the driver’s seat so that he could sit comfortably, and pressed his foot over Shiv’s, taking control of the wheel.
He hoped that they weren’t coming to a stop soon–that perhaps they could make it into the city before he came to that obstacle. Shiv removed his foot and his hand from the wheel, slumping in his seat with an incoherent sound. Glancing over at him, Richie found that medical attention was needed for the metahuman–he remembered the cell phone. Keeping both hands on the wheel, he saw that Shiv was sitting on the thing.
Belatedly, he remembered that he’d been talking to Hotstreak–and realized with dawning horror that the older meta had probably heard all that had just occurred. He knew Hotstreak would panic; and when the guy panicked, he did things to the extreme.
He had to wince at what the pyro would do, already imagining things blowing up, at people getting hurt, the pyro thinking irrationally in his actions to get to him. But in another small way, he hoped that he’d get to him or Static, to get Ivan off the streets.
He hated feeling defenseless and helpless–it was one of the more maddening things in his life. But he knew when to admit that he needed the help only they were able to give. And this was definitely one of those times.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Getting rip roaring drunk had made Hotstreak forget, temporarily, how pissed he was over the situation. Dimming his feelings with his favorite malts, he’d considered burning down a few things, causing a general ruckus in order to bring Static out so they could have words.
But in the end, he’d gotten too drunk to plan rationally, and when he had, his feelings and thoughts had taken over. He felt so despondent over himself–feeling pity entirely for himself. After all the effort and troubles he’d gone through to make sure Richie was okay, that he was safe and he was provided for, giving him EVERYTHING that he was capable of doing–and Richie didn’t want to be with him, anymore.
It didn’t matter that on one aspect, Richie was right–that they couldn’t continue living on the constant run. It was a lot of stress and pressure on one person. And Richie had been a ‘good boy’ for most of his life–it had been truly astounding for him to drop all that was within his comforts just for him.
But Hotstreak didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to think about how it hurt to have Richie go away with his best friend, to somewhere away from him, to consider leaving him.
That hurt worst of all–when all Hotstreak had wanted was to stay with him. He wanted to be with him all day, and truly enjoyed everything they did together. It was truly fascinating the way he’d begun to think, including Richie in all his plans and his thoughts–it was as if he’d never been an individual before. When staggering and trying to walk proved to be impossible, he’d taken a seat in one of the outside bistros that catered to those looking for outside conveniences, drew the hood of his jacket on over his head–and started to sober up.
Shamefully, he admitted to shedding a few tears, loss of control over his emotions blamed on the liquor. But if anyone asked, he’d just say that it was weed–which also brought to mind that ever since Richie had told him that that had been a trigger to his flashbacks, he’d stopped cold turkey just to insure that it didn’t happen again.
That made him angry, thinking about those aspects. He’d done so much for him, and Richie had ran off, intending to ‘think things over’. Well, that didn’t settle with him–he’d found all that he’d wanted and needed in the blond, and the blond fucked him over with this display.
Quite clearly, Hotstreak was down in the dumps and dragging things out irrationally. But he didn’t care. No one cared, anyway. He was the bad guy, the villain, the menace, the threat to all society–people like him didn’t have feelings and didn’t want to have all the normal things everyone else had. He lived on horror and bad things daily–he was incapable of feeling such good things.
...If only people knew that he didn’t feel that way–that he did have feelings and aspirations and regrets. Richie knew all that–he’d understood.
He hit the metal table in anger, cursing Richie’s name. Even when he felt pity for himself, he was thinking of him. It was annoying at how weak he’d gotten, how pathetic he was for treating the blond in this manner.
“Like a fuckin’ GIRL,” he growled, crossing his arms over his chest. It was offensive to think that he was mooning over the blond in the same actions he’d accused the blond of acting. He should be tough and uncaring–he should be laying down the law and ripping Richie apart with his command, but instead...he wasn’t. He’d chosen to get drunk and shed a few tears in his Woe Is Me moment. Ah, well, he’d figured. ‘Least he didn’t know anyone, and no one was bothering him. And no one knew what he was depressed over, anyway.
A waiter came by, asking if he wanted anything. Covered by the hat and hood, his features weren’t immediately recognizable as he asked for water, that he’d order later just to get the guy off his back. Night had fallen, and the soft outside lights had come on, illuminating things with a gentle glow that kept his features unrecognizable, and for his selfish moment to be undisturbed.
He slumped in his seat, reaching up to pull on the bill of his hat.
Perhaps...after he’d sobered some...he’d take a walk toward Hawkins’ neighborhood. Just to...walk. And maybe get a clear head, to conjure up a better argument and a grip on the situation. Once he was certain he had things under control, he’d go to Virgil’s house and look for Richie. They were able to talk things out–this wasn’t their first fight, and he didn’t want it to be their last.
But he simply hated the way he felt right now. Pathetically weak and definitely unmanly.
He looked up as his water was set down in front of him, with an assurance that the waiter would be by later to take his order. He picked up the cup of ice water, and sipped at it thoughtfully. With his free hand, he took out his cell phone and set it in the middle of the small table. He willed it to ring. For Richie to call and apologize to him for being so–so–damned female in his rages.
He had to snort.
He’d always accused the blond of being female, because that was the way he acted sometimes. It was all in his ‘feminine’ rages, the way he’d take over on a subject, obsess over it maniacally, then whine about it in a way that reminded Hotstreak of a girl.
It was a sign of affection! He thought. He only teased Richie about it because it riled the blond to humorous explosions, and Hotstreak liked seeing him riled because he knew he could have fun with it. He especially liked the way the blond’s nose would wrinkle, the way he would try to get all tough against him with his fists----
NO! No thinking affectionately about him!
He slammed his cup down on the table with a low, drunken growl, determined not to think of Richie’s good points. The guy pissed him off, he made him drink, he made him feel ill for himself–damn him.
He was starting to regain feeling back in his limbs, once more. That was a good sign he was sobering up. Crossing his arms once more, he glared at the cell, blinking in that lazy, slow way he had when he was too drunk to really think straight.
When a plate full of salad was set down across from him, he scowled up at the waiter, intending to curse him for interrupting his moment when he realized that it wasn’t the waiter. It was Rosa Montoya, giving him a pointed look as she took the seat across from him with a reserved sort of air that made him think of a police officer.
He scowled at her, darkly, with enough venom in his expression to send anyone running. But she settled as she tossed a napkin across her lap and prodded at the cherry tomatoes with one of the forks that had been sitting across from him.
“Well, well, well,” she murmured in that thick accent she had, sending warm tingles across his stomach. So he had a crush on her–who wouldn’t with that commanding presence of hers? He wondered how she’d be in bed, if she’d be just as dominating there as she was in the hospital. “We meet again.”
He didn’t think his lips would move in the manner that he liked, so he chose to continue scowling at her. But dropped his eyes to his cellphone. He remembered once telling Richie how Rosa rolled through her ‘r’s’ in a really sexy way–and had found himself kicked in the shin for being so disrespectful, then laughed at for having a crush on–he had to snarl aloud at himself. He didn’t want to think affectionately of the blond!
“I want to thank you for returning my car,” she said, pausing before biting into one of the tomatoes. “I was really happy to have it back. I had twenty-seven more payments to make on it. Thank you.”
He decided to ignore her. Couldn’t she see, with her feminine intuition or whatever, that he was busy feeling sorry for himself?
“It’s been well over awhile since I last seen you...you aren’t causing as much trouble as you were, before. It’s a good feeling, isn’t it?”
He was confused at the question. Still slumped, arms still crossed, and refusing to move his legs that overcrowded her chair, he glared at her from the safety shadows his hat and hood made.
“To stay out of trouble,” Rosa said, a slight smile at the corner of her lips as she correctly interpreted his confusion. “How are things going with you?”
She wasn’t using a condescending tone with him–she wasn’t mocking him or being overly snotty in her presence. The question was simple enough. He thought of the many things he could say: Fuck off, Fuck you, None of yer business. Eat shit...
“Fucked up,” was what he’d ended up saying, and he squeezed his eyes shut, giving an annoyed growl at himself. He drank too much, and he had lost control of his usual strength that kept people away from him. Even the waiter came by to check on him.
After he’d left, Rosa paused in forking into the Caesar salad, looking at him in concern. “Why is that? Is this why you’ve chosen to drown all of it in gallons of alcohol?”
None of yer fuckin’ business, was on his lips, but his inner self blurted out, “It’s the only way to drown out the shit I feel.”
“Ah...” Montoya nodded in understanding, chewing thoughtfully on another forkful of lettuce, cheese and onions. She took in the night above them, her Hispanic features displaying her concern. She looked back at him; patted her lips with the napkin she’d had in her lap. “It’s painful, isn’t it?”
He had to frown. What was? He gave her a look.
“Life. Things. Decisions. You must have made, or is in the process of making a very tough decision. Or...perhaps...you’ve done something to regret. Or...you’ve been hurt by someone you care about. That one tends to hurt the most, no matter who you are.” This last one was accompanied with a look, an eyebrow raising, her actions with her salad stilling as she searched the shadows of his hat and hood for the truth.
Hotstreak shifted in his seat. Women. Women were no good with their psychic intuition and their nosiness and their stupid perfume that made them smell really good...If Richie were here, he’d be teasing him with obvious directions at his admiration for the woman, or giving him simple knowing grins–No! No! NO!
“It ain’t any of that,” he grumbled, struggling to save face. Was his phone even on? Was it working? Did he forget to activate the minutes card again? He reached over to lift up the cell, to check its availability. Yes...there was service...he was in a good area to receive and send calls...so why wasn’t Richie calling him to apologize?
“You’re looking well,” Montoya then said, reaching for her tea. “Very healthy.”
“Yeah, I gained weight. So what?”
“No...not that...I’d say you’re normal for your size...six foot one? Two hundred pounds? You’re healthy. But that’s not what I was referring, to. I mean, you looked well in other aspects...”
He gave her a frown. “Are you hitting on me?”
She laughed, the sound cheery and loud within the night. Lowering her fork, she gave him a gentle smile. “I am old enough to be your mother, young man. I’m sorry if you’ve interpreted my concern for something amorous. But, no, I am not hitting on you, nor do I entertain thoughts of that nature concerning you. You’re a few years older than my son....and I see you in that aspect. Forgive me. But I was referring to your look of well being. When I last saw you, it was an obvious tense situation. You looked older, more strained, overworked–the life that you lead makes a person far older than what they actually are. But today, you have the expression of a man that has been very happy, if not upset for the current moment. There’s a certain glow about you.”
She touched her own face, indicating her cheeks.
She returned to forking through her salad, and Hotstreak stared quietly at her, wondering what she was high on. ‘Expressions of a happy man’? ‘Glow’? The last person to mock him about his features–and he knew what he looked like and was aware that he wasn’t the most attractive----got his ass kicked just because that guy had been uglier. He hated hypocrites.
“So, how is he? Has he seen Thom, yet?”
“Yeah,” Hotstreak muttered, then remembered belatedly that he was NOT going to talk to someone he didn’t know about the one person he cared about the most.
With an annoyed grimace, he shifted in his seat.
“That’s wonderful. I’m glad the two of you have stuck out that agonizing experience,” she said with low admiration. “I’m very proud of you, as well. For someone that the media has labeled as a bad influence and certainly one of the city’s greatest nuisances, you have a heart and a conscience. Unlike other bastards out there...not that I’m excusing you for all the trouble you have made, mind you. You’re still a criminal, and you still have many things to make up for in terms of consequences–but the sacrifice you have made for one person in a truly horrifying event makes you more of a person in my eyes. You can be saved, you know.”
Hotstreak shifted awkwardly in his seat. Damn woman and her thoughts...couldn’t she keep them to herself? When someone praised him, he felt odd about himself. Foreign and alien. Especially when he hadn’t had this sort of guidance before.
“You realize that drowning yourself in alcohol solves nothing?”
“Go away,” he muttered, shifting again. “I don’t need people like you tellin’ me what ta do, or how I should be dealin’ with things...”
Montoya worked on her salad for a few silent minutes; Hotstreak listened to the way she crunched through her greens, and watched the plate slowly beginning to lessen of its contents.
He glared at his cell phone. If Richie was making HIM apologize, then the blond had a serious ass kicking to expect when they met up.
Montoya had noticed his constant glances toward the device, and she lifted an eyebrow. But she said nothing as she signaled the waiter for another tea, and asked for her main course. As she was ordering, though, she looked at him. “Hungry? Food absorbs more alcohol....and you can use more liquids.”
He sullenly shrugged his shoulders, thinking of the many ways he could kick Richie’s ass. But, oddly, they kept drifting back to how they were going to make up and forgive, and he’d be groping that said ass during hot, greedy, satisfying–
Montoya leaned back in her seat as he forced himself to finish off the water from the previous glass, suddenly eager to sober up. She took in the light jacket, the dark t-shirt and the Pistons logo on his hat. She knew instinctively that he were upset–she’d seen her husband and teenage son pouting too many times, with too many obvious signals of their childishness that she would recognize that sort of action on any male.
She didn’t know this young, lost male. She only knew what he did, what he was capable of. Before that night at the hospital, she would never give him a second thought. But she had seen that he was obviously human, that he experienced human emotions. She had started thinking of her son, wondering what he’d be like without parental guidance, love–and saw him in Hotstreak’s place, without the powers.
Surviving on the streets, maintaining a street rep, doing things that he’d been taught by others; a lost child was a lost child. She didn’t want to think this way about him. She didn’t want to see him as human.
But she did, and she couldn’t help but feel concern and pity for him. She cursed inwardly at herself, shifting in her seat. She shouldn’t be here, talking to him in this manner, wanting to like him for his feelings toward the blond, wanting to believe that he was incapable of causing the chaos that he did. But it was impossible to do when she could see his reddened eyes and hear the occasional sniffle that usually accompanied crying. How could one NOT see this being as a human when one heard and witnessed such things?
She knew it would be awhile for their orders to show. She rested her hands on the table, and with a gentle, prodding smile, asked, “Do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?”
Hotstreak looked at her, intending to tell her where she could shove her words, but instead heard himself start to blurt out what had been bothering him–starting with his and Richie’s fight.
He knew then that he was going to take this moment of weakness to the damn grave–if anyone found out that he was blurting out relationship woes to some–some–woman, then his rep had definitely gone down the drain.
OooooooooooO
The turn was taken too wide–Shiv lost control of the vehicle as he’d tried to take the Y turn back to Dakota, and the Escort’s driver took advantage of that one moment. The grill of the Escort slammed at current speed against the Navigator’s back end, sending the bigger vehicle off-course with the move. Shiv tried to regain control of the SUV, but miscalculated upon feeling the pull of the off-pavement strip. He jerked the wheel violently, intending to correct the mistake, but ended up overcorrecting. The Navigator’s two right side wheels lost contact with the pavement, the once proud vehicle slamming into the road, skidding along its side as the Escort followed through with the previous action. That proved disastrous for the two males inside, the tail end of the Navigator spinning around violently, sending them both against the right side of the interior, with unapologetic violence.
The vehicle skidded completely away from the road, found a dip between the Y’s separating roads, and rolled into a violent cacophony of bending metal and cracking glass. Dirt flew up, the headlights slashing through the darkness as it settled onto its left side with a protesting screech of sound. Airbags were deployed throughout the dash, the side windows, cushioning its passengers with sharp explosions of sound. Shiv thought, while being tossed around in his seatbelt and having his face and upper body muffled by the bursting airbag, that the Roll Stability control the vehicle was supposed to possess was severely overrated. But at least the airbags had worked.
The Escort, sporting accordion-style damage to its bumper and hood, was smoking with the damage it had gained from the impact. The driver had braked immediately after sending it crashing, and was slowly turning the vehicle around. There was much difficulty in doing so, for the smaller vehicle had taken extensive damage from the collusion. There was a clackety-clack sound ringing throughout the night air as the engine struggled to keep functioning.
Shiv hurriedly kicked away his seatbelt and the steering wheel airbag, having landed in an awkward position against the driver’s side door, muscles aching from the terrible wrenching his body had taken from the roll. As the downed vehicle settled within the dirt terrain between the Y, there was an uneasy moment in which he thought the vehicle would roll again, his hands flying out to steady himself along the dash and the top of the windshield.
Terror at being gunned down by Ivan and the others had him moving quickly, crawling out from the driver’s seat, the angle of the downed vehicle preventing him sure footing.
Crawling to his feet, settling his weight on the middle console and the dash, he peered into the back of the vehicle, hearing the Escort screeching to a stop nearby. Breathing heavily, he clutched the leather seat, his fingers digging into the material as he jerked his head around to peer out the cracked windshield. He could see Ivan getting out from the Escort, as well as several others–all of them packing heat. How they managed to fit into that small car made him wonder as he felt himself start to shake with panic.
He gulped loudly as he realized how peeved Ivan looked–even in the shadows, it was evident that he was very pissed.
Shuffling awkwardly past the driver’s seat, he crawled into the back, where Richie was laying. He wondered faintly if he’d killed him, reaching out to shake his shoulder. Richie hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt, and the damage showed in scrapes that were visible along the visible patches of skin. His nose was bloodied, a long cut along his left temple eking out color that matted his blond strands. Shiv wouldn’t be surprised if he’d managed to kill the guy.
“C’mon c’mon c’mon!” he hissed, hearing the obvious sounds of someone crawling onto the vehicle to access the undamaged the side door. He tore off the blindfold that had kept Richie’s eyes covered, seeing blank eyes staring off to nothing.
Shiv refused to believe that he was dead, and was proved right upon hearing the slow breathing. Seeing that the blond was still handcuffed, he formed a sword with his right hand, and used that to cut apart the chain that kept the cuffs together.
There was loud cursing as the doors were found locked, and Shiv glanced upward in a panic, using one hand to jerk at Richie’s hoodie, and the other to conjure his shuriken.
“SHIV!” he heard Ivan scream. “Yer gonna getcha fuckin’ yellow ass KICKED! Never thought ya’d do this, man! What the fuck you be thinkin’?”
“Get up, asshole!” Shiv hissed, pulling on Richie, trying to make him stand as he eyed the side door once more. Gunshots rang out, and there was the metallic ting as one broke through the window, landing with an explosive plop into the leather cushions of one of the individual back seats. The door was being opened, and Shiv paused in pulling Richie up, crouching, readying his throw.
Once a face appeared, he let loose with a couple of the shuriken, having charged them for explosive impact. The man screamed as the sharp, six sided star embedded within his forehead, the charge exploding a few seconds later. Those standing nearby scrambled off the vehicle, and gunshots rang out as they fired into the windows.
Shiv crouched, covering his head, pressing himself against the seat as he gave a loud, panicked shout. He heard the impacts bullets made upon hitting the seat, and looked up to see that Richie was still standing there–staring blankly at his feet. He reached up, grabbing the teen’s hoodie to pull him down, exclaiming aloud at his stupidity.
The gunshots slowed, and eventually ceased upon Ivan’s shouting.
Breathing heavily, eyes wide, Shiv looked up, ears straining as he sought to hear what actions were being taken now. He heard someone trying to kick in the windshield–the repetitive clunk of foot against plexi-glass gave an ominous beat to the situation as he heard the men converse with each other on what to do.
His fingers curled into Richie’s hoodie, and he looked at the blond once more, seeing that same blank expression on his face. He shook him urgently, hissing, “What is wrong with you?”
The door overhead opened tentatively, and he looked up, preparing his last two shuriken, charging them. Two of the men peered in cautiously, surveying the damage–Shiv let his weapons fly. One of them was fast enough to move, the other caught a charged star in the face. At the sickening explosion of bone and matter, Shiv conjured up several more, trying to think of a way out of here. More bullets blasted into the vehicle, and he threw himself over Richie, trying to press them closer to the window they stood upon, hearing the guys outside shout obscenities and threats.
Ivan was screaming at them, but he was going unheard and unchecked as the barrage continued. Shiv just prayed that if he did die, he didn’t die slowly. He clutched the material of Richie’s hoodie tightly, his own agitation displayed with his clinging.
And through it all, Richie kept silent and still, staring at nothing and reacting to nothing. They were under fire, trapped within an immobilized vehicle, and he did nothing.
The barrage stopped, and Shiv realized he was panting heavily, his heart racing as the adrenaline surged throughout his body. He couldn’t think of a way out–eventually, Ivan and the others would win. He couldn’t keep throwing charged shuriken forever–he would run out of the energy needed. Their luck in not being hit would run out. Looking up from Richie’s back, Shiv strained his ears, hearing that Ivan was directing a couple of men up top, and a few at the windshield.
The plexi-glass finally gave way, the flexible glass being pulled from its supports by those standing up front. Shiv peered at this from his awkward position in the back, where he was just thin enough to get away with crouching on the window, between the back seat, Richie, and the individual single seat that provided cover.
Swallowing hard, he positioned himself to hurl his weapons, and jolted upon hearing the trunk door being opened. He looked back to see a couple of AK-47's being leveled his way, two anxious faces peering in. His throwing arm locked as he looked into the barrels. He whirled quickly, letting loose with his stars as they started to pull their triggers. Bullets sprayed briefly within the vehicle, and Shiv threw himself over Richie once more–not to protect him, but because he was diving for cover, and Richie was taking up the space needed. The two backed away, still firing from their distance away from the vehicle. He’d missed hitting both with his shuriken.
Hot heat tore through his shirt, making him cry out as he tried pressing himself closer to the window. He could smell Richie’s scents----that smell of musk, that cinnamon and mint mixture–he had to suppress the urge to retch, thinking of that night when he could smell the same smells upon Ebon. He covered his nose with his hand and struggled to think.
Leather tore under explosive impact, and he felt heat fly through his hair. He covered his head with both arms, screaming aloud with panic and terror.
The shooting stopped, and he stopped screaming.
Ivan was shrieking up a storm, cursing those that kept on shooting–there were a couple of shots fired, followed with more shouting.
Shiv then jerked with realization that they were fighting each other–the gunshots were being directed away from the vehicle, and while he heard screaming, he could still hear Ivan shouting. But it was further away–the guy must have been taking cover somewhere–Shiv realized that this chaos as going to work for them. He reached back, fingers digging into Richie’s hoodie, and he was jerking the teen after him. Richie moved–except his movement was sluggish, uncoordinated–as if he were intoxicated.
Shiv felt utmost panic build within as he peered out through the empty air of the windshield, seeing that the area was clear in that direction. More gunshots were fired, but it was away from the vehicle. They were still fighting each other.
He pulled Richie after him as he crawled through the downed vehicle, and slithered over the dash. Glancing out, he could see the minute flashes from firing weaponry, and guessed that whomever was shooting was chasing someone west ward. He looked over at the Escort, which was unprotected. He jerked on the blond’s hoodie, crawling out from the vehicle, and running with strained effort toward the vehicle.
Several gunshots made him duck in panic, hearing the sharp cracks of impact as bullets found their way into surrounding trees. He lost his grip on the blond, turning to see that a few of Ivan’s followers were moving their way. Shiv glanced around, seeing that they were the only ones there–satisfied with this, he formed a kama within one hand, the light illuminating the darkness with a brief flash of magenta, and he charged forward.
Two of the men immediately turned and ran–the other held his gun high and aimed, firing repeatedly as Shiv charged at him. Shiv ducked low, feeling a grin curl his lips as he imagined what he could do to this one. He feinted right, then charged left, swinging the curved blade upward–the man gave a gurgled shout as the blade curved upward into his throat, hooking out through his mouth.
Marveling at the angle his weapon had made, Shiv used his body weight to swing the man down onto the ground, his blade catching against the unfortunate victim’s jawbone, locking into place. As a result, Shiv found himself falling with him, landing with a grunt against his back. He jerked his weapon out through the throat, cackling at the odd ripping noise that was produced, and heard approaching footsteps.
Ivan emerged from the darkness, his face a mask of fury as he eyed Shiv–the Asian wasn’t going to chance going after him. Ivan was capable of hitting his target. He absorbed the weapon, turning to run back to the Escort when something hot and explosive slammed through his upper right shoulder. The pain was immediate–he flew forward with a loud cry, his arm going dead upon impact. He hit the ground with a sprawling grace, hearing Ivan roar with satisfaction. The pain made him want to black-out–it made him want to retch, to cry, to scream–but he did nothing as the heat spread throughout his back and chest. It felt as if his breath had been torn from him.
He could hear Ivan stomping over, snarling incoherently, and Shiv realized how dead he was. Ivan would make sure that he’d suffer–he managed to turn onto his back, wincing at the hot flash of pain that radiated to every nerve ending he had. He couldn’t think of any defensive measures–couldn’t think of anything other than the fury that Ivan displayed.
And suddenly, Ivan was jerking backwards, the explosions of gunshots going off near Shiv’s head. Ivan ducked behind the fallen Navigator in a flurry of surprised movement. Shiv was confused until he felt his shirt grabbed, and he was being jerked off the ground.
“I’ma KILL YOU BOTH!” Ivan screamed furiously, one arm appearing around the belly of the Navigator, firing aimlessly in their direction. “I’ll MAKE IT SLOW!”
“I hate you, but if he’s against you, then you’re on my side,” Richie snarled at Shiv, pulling the meta to his feet.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” Shiv shouted at him, conjuring throwing knives at the approach of a man that emerged from the shadows. He was instantly ducking back into the trees as Richie held his gun awkwardly, bemoaning the lack of good aim. The blond had taken his semi-automatic from the body of a man that had taken one of Shiv’s shuriken in the face.
Shiv took the driver’s side of the vehicle, his arm burning with sensation–he had to reach up, grabbing it, wishing that the pain would end as he focused on the dash. The vehicle was still running–to their luck. Richie was jumping into the passenger side seat, throwing him an anxious glance as he realized just how out the meta was.
Shiv found that if he focused intensely on the actions needed to get them out, he was able to block out some of the pain. With his left arm, he jerked the gearshift into Drive, and slammed a foot on the gas, feeling the tires catch briefly within the dirt, the engine protesting violently in its damaged state. Gunshots once again showered around them, metal pings audible as the pair ducked, covering their heads.
Richie looked up, then winced, sniffing the air. It was of intense copper, of something distinctively thick.
“What’s that smell?” he asked, turning to look into the seat behind them.
Shiv glanced at him, sniffing deeply of blood, of exposed body parts. He looked into the rearview, eyeing the backseat. Knew that the bodies of Richie’s parents were in the trunk. He looked at Richie, giving him an incredulous and bewildered expression.
Just as Shiv maneuvered onto the road, there was a flash of headlights, and a loud screech of brakes and tires. He shouted aloud as he wrenched violently on the wheel, just barely managing to get them both out of harm’s way.
The Range Rover skidded along the pavement, and finally came to a stop nearby. Shiv was immediately ditching the Escort, forming a sword with his good arm, and racing at the driver that shot out of his seat, ready to scream at his stupidity.
Richie was following after him, throwing an anxious glance towards Ivan and the one other guy that had chosen to stay on his good side. The two were racing toward the Rover, and as he heard Shiv threaten the bewildered driver with his sword, Richie held the gun out awkwardly and depressed the trigger.
Prepared for the kick, he wasn’t prepared for the off-shots he made, making Ivan and the other guy duck and dive for cover behind the Escort. Shiv was screaming at him, then, and he turned to see that the driver had been kicked to the side, Shiv taking over the driver’s seat once more.
Instead of wasting time in running around the vehicle, Richie dove into the back seat, Shiv cursing aloud as he realized that this was a manual shift vehicle. His right arm was basically useless, throbbing with intense pain–he reached over with his left, struggling to maneuver the gear shift into the appropriate position. His left elbow was also used, nudging the steering wheel, curses leaving his mouth at this highly frustrating task.
The Range Rover jerked as Shiv tried to take off in third gear, and at the grinding of gears and the awkward lurching once more, there were more gunshots raining over the vehicle. Finally, though, Shiv managed to get the vehicle into first, and was taking off in a flurry of movement. Richie peered out the back window, seeing that the driver was taking off into the woods, and that Ivan and his friend were diving into the broken Escort to give chase.
He slumped wearily in the back seat, the adrenaline coursing throughout his system. He shoved the gun away from him, wiping his fingers and his hands on his pants, feeling his arms shaking. He looked at the driver’s seat, at the Asian that had caused him much grief as Gear. He could feel his hatred for the meta welling up deep within, wanting to hurt him for his part that night–but he couldn’t do it when good conscience told him that Shiv had defied Ivan to help him.
...that was odd in itself. Shiv helping him. The guy had made his life hell as Gear! He still had the scar from last year when Shiv had sliced him while he was trapped in an Dumpster. What had made the bang baby switch sides?
He was utterly confused at Shiv’s intentions–he didn’t understand why Shiv was going through this much effort. What was in it for him? What had made him turn against the only person he seemed to respect?
At that moment, shifting in the seat to rub at oddly sore shoulders and raw wrists, he remembered the car ride. Panicked upon remembering his parents.
“Where are my parents?” he cried, shooting forward to grip the driver’s seat, the severed handcuffs digging into his skin. He could smell the mixture of blood and body odor from the other meta. In the grip of all moments, it was oddly reassuring–for Shiv to bleed made him just as human as the rest of them. He really didn’t like the sweaty, gray pallor that had taken over Shiv’s complexion. “My mom and dad! Where are they? Are they all right? Did they get away?”
Shiv turned, giving him an incredulous expression. Richie shouted and pushed his head, forcing him to focus on the road. The Range Rover jerked as Shiv pulled it back onto the road, steadying it.
“W-What are you talking about?” Shiv shouted, the wheel jerking under his agitated hand. Since the surge of adrenaline had left him, he had been battling gray spots and pain from his shoulder wound, as well as the accompanying effects of nausea and the urge to pass out.
Then, he remembered something–he reached down awkwardly with his left arm, using his right knee to steer the wheel, and took out Richie’s glasses from his sock, where he’d put them earlier. He handed them to the surprised blond, who took them from him gratefully.
“You know what happened to them!” he then insisted.
Richie stared at him in sightless reaction, then shook his head.
“No,” he said, his voice low and full of apprehension. “No...no, I–I don’t–Ivan must have–I must have been–I might have fainted, or something...I don’t–we were in that other vehicle, and–where are my parents?”
Shiv started to look back at him in confusion, realizing that Richie was serious. His mind raced, wondering how it was that the blond couldn’t remember that entire incident at the marsh. It just didn’t seem right.
“They’re dead, man!” he exclaimed. “They’re dead! They shot them! Dude, you were talking to them!”
Richie stared at him in silence, feeling everything start to fade. A roaring sound began thundering through his ears, and his eyes closed----his stomach turned, and he was forcing himself to bend in the seat, touching his feet. The thought of his parents being killed made something violent twist inside of him–he hadn’t seen them or heard from them in months. He wondered how they’d died, what had happened between the moment of seeing Shiv’s power flash to life back there and the ride out here, with Ivan punching him. He was so frustrated in that he couldn’t remember anything. Ivan must have punched him hard enough to render him unconscious.
All he could remember was seeing nothing–the blindfold. Damn Ivan and his ways of keeping Richie from seeing anything. His parents had been so close–he could still smell his mother, and could hear the soft growl of Sean’s voice. What had happened to them? It hurt him in knowing that he hadn’t been able to say goodbye to them, to apologize to them for bringing them into this chaotic mess.
His father had been looking for him–searching for him. What had he been meaning to say? What had Sean Foley wanted to say with him? And to think, Richie had taken every effort possible to avoid him.
Overwhelming guilt and despair ran through him, making everything curl into a painful hardness within his chest. Struggling to overcome his shock at finding out what had happened to his parents, he forced himself to think of the situation for now. Ivan was still alive, and he was after them. Perhaps he could grieve and sort things out after this.
Shiv saw that he’d disappeared from his line of vision, twisting to look back at him then sitting straight once more. The car chase had lasted for miles–they were forty-five miles out of Dakota. He could see the bright night lights of the city just above the tree tops. He grew anxious as he had no idea where they were going, what was going to happen, now.
His shoulder was throbbing painfully, and he felt wholly nauseated. There was a dissipating heat in his shoulder that pulsated with every beat of his heart, blood pumping from his arm, wetting his clothes and the seat–the warmth coasted down his arm and puddled on the middle console. His stomach continued to tighten with agitation, and the gray spots began turning black. His skin took on a clammy feel, his hands turning sticky with sweat. His throat laced with bile, and the tires made a protesting screech as slow reaction had him turning away from the edge of the road once more.
“Shit,” he muttered, swaying. He barely had enough comprehension to knock the gear into neutral. “I ain’t gonna make it. I’mina–just–rest my eyes for a little bit.”
“Pull–over!” Richie growled between gritted teeth, straightening as he realized just how far gone Shiv was.
The Range Rover drove along the edge of the road, slapping down flexible road reflectors, then slammed to a stop that sent both of them forward. Shiv rested his forehead upon the steering wheel, struggling to keep himself from sleeping. He heard Richie talking to him, felt his hand on his back–but all he could truly hear was the rush of thunder throughout his head, feeling his shoulder ooze sullenly with his own lifeforce. And then, he was out.
Richie cursed as he realized that Shiv had passed out, and while he understood the effects of gunshot wounds, he really thought that it was a bad time for the meta to be fainting at a time like this. He reached forward, to jerk the emergency brake on. Glancing behind him, knowing that the Escort had to have been slowed by its previous damage, he climbed out from the back seat of the car, climbing into the passenger side seat. He reached over to push Shiv off the steering wheel, glancing at the entrance wound. It was neat and round, the hole just wide enough for a fingertip to penetrate. The exit wound would be so much bigger, more gaping.
It was so raw and open, skin and material covered in red, that Richie had to turn away to regain his composure. Smelling the other meta’s blood made him sick–in general, wounds like these made him sick. They were so much different to see in pictures...at least the pictures didn’t smell.
He could recall his own pain and trauma from the time Jimmy had shot him–in reaction, his leg throbbed in sympathetic release. Taking controlled breaths, he jerked his hoodie off, and ripped at his sleeves. It took a few moments to get the proper length and material needed, but he managed to wrap what he’d gathered around and under Shiv’s shoulder, effectively applying pressure needed to stop the blood flow. But he wondered if it was too late–he’d lost a lot of blood. And a lot of time had passed since Ivan had shot him–he wondered if Shiv was even going to make it back to Dakota. Shock had taken the metahuman over–a person would die of shock alone.
As he was staring at the vehicle, wondering if he could drive the standard transmission vehicle, his eyes flit over something that made him scream aloud with joy–the man had a cell phone. He picked it up, flicking it open, fingers automatically finding the numbers he needed. As he held the phone to his ear, he glanced up at the rearview mirror–and saw a vehicle with one headlight coming up their way.
He looked back at Shiv, feeling his breathing increase–then back at the rearview. He heard Hotstreak’s gruff answer at the other end, but couldn’t find the prompt to answer back. He lowered the phone, twisting in his seat as the watched the approaching car with horror. Upon seeing that it was the Escort, he gave a wordless sound of despair, and looked at Shiv.
He dropped the phone, reaching over to shake Shiv, hearing the clackety-clack noise of the ruined engine the Escort possessed.
“SHIV!” he shouted, the purple haired meta’s head bouncing against the window. “Wake up! They’re here! Wake up!”
He heard the doors opening and slamming shut, and he looked up, seeing Ivan marching over to the Rover, gun in hand. He paused, looking into the back seat, where he’d dropped his gun. He wasn’t sure how many rounds were left, but there were two of those armed men, and he hadn’t driven a vehicle before–he dove into the backseat, finding the weapon as Ivan walked up to the driver’s side, aiming the gun as the black man moved to open the door.
Figuring upon Shiv’s death, feeling hopeless and desperate, Richie held the gun within both hands, and fired out his window. Glass shattered, the recoil of the weapon making Richie’s hands jerk upward, but Ivan screamed aloud as he fell back out of his sight. The other man began firing at the Rover from behind, and Richie pushed himself onto the floor of the back seat, shouting at Shiv to wake up. Ivan was screaming obscenities from outside, and the gunshots ceased immediately. From his uncomfortable position on the floor, Richie could hear Ivan getting up, cursing aloud.
Richie’s hands shook as he held the hateful weapon tightly, trying to calm his breathing. Realizing that he couldn’t hold the pair of them off forever, he closed his eyes----admitting defeat. Shiv was as good as dead; he had no doubt that the metahuman was in the throes of shock, and was currently dying from its effects. He had no doubt that he had less than five rounds left within the weapon he was holding–and they were still miles out from Dakota. He didn’t want to admit defeat–but it was the only situation plausible.
He had an idea of why Ivan was going through such lengths to obtain him–it was only obvious. He licked his lips, opening his eyes as he saw Ivan moving cautiously outside, sneaking a peek through the damaged window. Richie raised the gun once more to fire, but only heard the ominous click of an empty clip. Several more presses of the trigger only ensured that the gun was indeed useless.
Ivan opened the door, and Richie sat up, ready to hurl the weapon at him, to at least physically fight with him.
Only to be jerked against the backseat as the Rover gassed forward, Shiv in command once more. Ivan shouted aloud as he barely avoided being knocked over by the vehicle. Richie could have laughed in relief at the close escape, but the vehicle was swerving, and Shiv was draped over the steering wheel–the engine revved in protest as gas was applied, the gear still stuck in first. The door clicked shut upon movement, and Richie hurriedly climbed out from the floor, seeing that Shiv was just barely functioning.
He took the gearshift, shouting at him to depress the clutch. It took a few minutes, but Shiv managed to perform the command, Richie shifting them into slowly through the gears, effectively allowing them to gain speed. Straightening, he glanced out the back, seeing that Ivan and his friend had taken over the Escort once more, and were giving chase.
Richie glanced at Shiv, then down at the way they were losing speed once more. He stood awkwardly between the seats, and grabbed him by his arms, giving the command for the metahuman to leave his seat–to take the passenger side. Once realizing that he was taking over, Shiv kept one foot pressed on the gas, his good arm directing the wheel, and managed to slide over the console to the passenger side seat so that Richie could take the driver’s seat. Awkwardly, Richie adjusted the driver’s seat so that he could sit comfortably, and pressed his foot over Shiv’s, taking control of the wheel.
He hoped that they weren’t coming to a stop soon–that perhaps they could make it into the city before he came to that obstacle. Shiv removed his foot and his hand from the wheel, slumping in his seat with an incoherent sound. Glancing over at him, Richie found that medical attention was needed for the metahuman–he remembered the cell phone. Keeping both hands on the wheel, he saw that Shiv was sitting on the thing.
Belatedly, he remembered that he’d been talking to Hotstreak–and realized with dawning horror that the older meta had probably heard all that had just occurred. He knew Hotstreak would panic; and when the guy panicked, he did things to the extreme.
He had to wince at what the pyro would do, already imagining things blowing up, at people getting hurt, the pyro thinking irrationally in his actions to get to him. But in another small way, he hoped that he’d get to him or Static, to get Ivan off the streets.
He hated feeling defenseless and helpless–it was one of the more maddening things in his life. But he knew when to admit that he needed the help only they were able to give. And this was definitely one of those times.