Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Twenty-Five ( Chapter 25 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Right Here
Chapter Twenty-Five



If they weren’t being brought down by S’s throwing knives, or by the stray bullets that were caused by panicking souls, they were being gunned down by Ivan. His fury in that he’d lost everything he’d worked hard to gain was immense. Everything had gone down the drain–there wasn’t anything else he could fall upon to regain his footing. D and V had come in, swept everything up into their accounts and manufactured their networks to merge in with his–he knew that they had taken everything with them, leaving him with nothing. And if they were taking Jerome out of the picture–well, that meant a lot of shit coming down on him. They had covered up their tracks and left him in a combined mixture of shit stemming from both his end and theirs.

He had nothing to lose. He was finished. Might as well as take down as many he can just to save some sort of face.

Something flew by his head, and he heard the sharp whistle it made. A knife. Kangor was still keeping S busy, having taken cover behind one of the few weapons crates that had been left behind. Others varied in their cover, and the doorways were filled with the bodies of the dead. Six people remained standing, including him–everyone else had been cut down.

He looked down at the blond at his feet, then regarded the situation with a feverish glare. S was hiding behind her table, popping up only to throw an occasional blade–Kangor waited for those particular moments–the others were shooting at S and at each other. He bent, jerking Richie up by his hair, and started pulling the blond with him. A live hostage was a good thing. S popped up from the table, hurling a knife in his direction. By grace of luck, Ivan jerked his head to the side, and fired his weapon, the teen diving back behind her cover.

Ivan shoved his way out the door, stumbling over a large, bulky body. His mind was filled with the images of the vehicles just outside the building–if he could just make a getaway–

“LET GO OF ME!” Richie shouted, twisting in his grip, his fingers clawing up toward his eyes.

Ivan jerked his head back to keep from getting his eyes ripped out, bringing the butt of the gun in a wide downward arc. He hit the blond–he felt the jerking stop, and heard the awkward crack of metal against flesh, but Richie shifted his fingers from his face, stumbling against him; one of his fingers caught the hoop of Ivan’s earring, and the next moment he knew, the blond was ripping out that earring.

Ivan gave a short howl as pain radiated outward from his ear, and fury had him hitting the blond again and again with his weapon. Forgoing the live hostage bit, he had enough of this nuisance. He had a low tolerance for pain, atop of that.

Richie collapsed on the floor, spitting out blood. Ivan reached down, snarling incoherently as he grabbed the blond’s shirt collar, and forced him against the wall, jamming the barrel of his weapon against his exposed neck.

“Where’s the mouth, now, huh?” he growled. “It’s been nothin’ but quiet all this entire time. I’d been relishing that silence. ALWAYS with the fuckin’ MOUTH! You know what really gets me off, thinkin’ ‘bout that time? How, when I fucked you, you were QUIET. NOTHIN’ came from that mouth. NOTHIN’. No stupid ass, crackerjack sayin’, no fuckin’ idiot ramblin’s. Just. Silence.”

Richie opened his mouth to say something, and Ivan pushed him hard, making his head crack against the wall.

“YOU WILL SAY NOTHIN’!” he screamed, his hand releasing his collar, fingers splaying over Richie’s mouth in an attempt to keep him from saying anything. “You will say nothin’, an’ if you do, I’ll rip out that tongue of yours. I’ll knock in your teeth. Then, you’ll be suckin’ dick with dentures.”

Richie stared at him in silence, trying to breathe in as best as he could with the gun jammed against his windpipe. But as he smelled the sour scent of evil, of marijuana and expensive cologne, he became aware of something trickling throughout his insides. Something registered, then–he knew why his mid-section hurt. A severely uncomfortable feeling, it was that of bleeding from the inside. Standing in this position, being forced against the wall–it felt worse. He grew intensely dizzy upon realizing this, staring into Ivan’s hate-filled eyes. Even if Ivan didn’t finish him off, this bleeding would.

Something wavered, just for a second, and while he processed that Ivan was intensely furious at his ability to continue talking, his brain didn’t seem to function the way he wanted to. All these thoughts, all this chaos–and the best thing he could come up to in reply to Ivan’s words were, “At least my sheets were dry.”

No matter how much he realized that wasn’t what he wanted to say, that it didn’t make sense to this entire situation, they still continued out. This rapid shifting of images, of memories didn’t seem to help as he fought for some control over the situation.

Ivan gave him a confused look. He then shook his head in disgust, then dropped his hold on him.

“Fuckin’ useless,” he muttered, raising the gun, jamming it against Richie’s forehead. “That’s all you’ll ever be–”

He was bodily tackled, the gunshot going off with a loud bang. Ivan gave a low growl as he released his gun in the ensuing impact against the floor, scraping his face against the carpet. Once he realized who was on top of him, ready to throw down his fists, he would have cackled in amusement.

Thinking of Hotstreak coming in to save his boyfriend was a rather amusing thought.

What wasn’t so amusing was the fists that kept slamming repeatedly against his face. At the repeated contact, something in the back of his mind wondered why the redhead wasn’t using his powers. A surge of desperation and the need for control had given him nearly superhuman strength–he was NOT letting this metahuman take him down. He was NOT going to lose–he had lost his entire mercantile, but that didn’t mean he had to lose to Hotstreak.

With a surge of motion, he was pushing up from the floor, hands shooting forward to shove Hotstreak’s face to one side. One of Hotstreak’s fists grazed across his jaw, knocking him senseless for a few seconds–but as his surprising strength threw the redhead off of him, Ivan was up and moving. He saw his weapon lying nearby, and lunged for it.

Both of them were racing for the weapon, their fingers clawing towards the Glock, and Ivan shifted, bringing a leg up to smash against Hotstreak’s stomach. The redhead immediately recoiled, allowing Ivan to move, groping for the weapon. Once his long fingers curled around the Glock, he was on his back, preparing to fire.

Hotstreak recovered from the impact of shoe against gut, and had his hand out, heat gathering up within moments. At the surging discomfort that raced throughout Ivan’s hand as the gun began to collect that gathered heat, the black man was up and shifting back, looking at Richie. He was without his powers, he was weaponless–Ivan wasn’t going to release his weapon, nor was he going to be held at such a disadvantage.

He lunged toward the blond, only to have a fireball whip just past his face, between them. He gave a cursing shout as he heard Hotstreak gathering more fireballs.
Fire? Heat? Was it worth the hostage?

Ivan hesitated between continuing to Richie, or turning and taking Hotstreak’s powers dead on. He wasn’t afraid of dying–he was afraid of losing. He had this piece of trash under his heel all this time–he was NOT going to let him win!

With an enraged scream due to his oncoming helplessness, he raised his Glock and fired repeatedly at Hotstreak. The redhead dropped his hold on his powers, moving to avoid the onslaught when he wheeled backward with a surprised cry. Ivan had to grin with malicious glee–one of the bullets had hit true. He watched with fascination as Hotstreak tumbled backwards, grimacing as one hand raced up to his left arm.

It wasn’t enough. Even if the bang baby could still melt him, the pain from the impact of bullet was enough to keep him unfocused. Ivan raised his gun again, running forward. He was not going to miss this time. Hotstreak looked up in surprise, removing his hand, something coming to his lips–but Ivan was pulling the trigger, a sharp bark of laughter escaping at his win.

Just as he neared the redhead for a better advantage, the tip of his shoe caught on the carpet, and he pressed the trigger as he stumbled–missing Hotstreak by mere inches.

“FUCK!” he screamed, pressing the trigger again–but his clip was out. There was nothing more.

The redhead realized this, blinking in shock–then, one look into the black man’s face, stunned with the miss, sent him laughing with an almost hysterical tinge. He released his arm and lunged at Ivan, catching him around the waist. Both of them hit the floor, where he immediately began throwing punches.

He wasn’t thinking clearly–he just kept seeing this wretched man hitting Theresa; hurting Richie. He wanted to take him apart with his bare fists–his powers never even came to mind. What had taken over was mindless rage. Primitive, no-fuss, human rage. Now that he had a better hold of him, he began raining punches into Ivan’s face–his neck–anything. He wanted to hurt and destroy–nothing else came to mind.

Ivan struggled to get loose, kicking, his arms flailing. Always on the back of his mind was the way Hotstreak kept from using his powers. If he had...the battle would be over. Why wasn’t he using them?

Amid the punches, one of his hands shot out, his fingers squeezing Hotstreak’s throat–the redhead was forced to pause, Ivan shifting his grip so that his palm was pressed solidly against his windpipe, his fingers digging into his neck muscles.

Hotstreak choked, trying to suck in air–both of his hands clamped down on Ivan’s throat, squeezing with just as much pressure, Ivan grimacing. Releasing one hand, Hotstreak punched him, wanting to break something in that wretched head. He wanted blood, he wanted to see his insides–but he was seeing gray spots the more Ivan continued to squeeze, and he heard the thundering of blood rush throughout his head–faintly, he was aware of activity up the hall, but he was too intensely focused on Ivan to look away.

He managed to bring his fist up, slamming down hard against Ivan’s left cheek–he heard the satisfying crack of sound, and Ivan let go of him to emit a pained howl. Hitting that very same spot, Hotstreak felt the give of bone underneath his knuckles, and gave a wild sound of satisfaction. Ivan bucked, and Hotstreak tightened his thighs, keeping himself from being tossed. Ivan reached up, his fingertips scratching down his face, then suddenly curling into his crotch.

Panic at being touched in this manner, with evil intent, Hotstreak managed to yank himself away before Ivan could finish through with that grab. Ivan wasn’t so easily defeated, nor was he the type to run away the moment he had a chance–as soon as Hotstreak moved off, hands moving protectively over his crotch, Ivan had his fist balled up, and he slammed it across Hotstreak’s face, knocking the redhead back.

Growling incoherently, the meta ignored the blinding flash of pain, and he lunged forward, arms wrapping around Ivan. It was then he registered that they weren’t falling onto the floor–that, instead, they were tumbling down the stairs. At the painful crack of his elbow against the edge of a stair, at Ivan howling as something snapped, Hotstreak let go of his opponent, and the pair of them tumbled down the stairway in a myriad tumble of limbs and clothing. He reached out to ensnare his fingers through Ivan’s shirt, keeping the black man from getting away. They hit the wall in combined thumps, both momentarily stunned.

Panting heavily, Hotstreak shifted, taking the fall better than Ivan had. The black man was cradling his right arm against his body, cursing–as soon as he realized that Hotstreak was moving, his left hand shot out to grab his hair. Hotstreak pulled him into a headlock, and the pair pushed and pulled against each other, trying to get a better advantage against the other. Amid the punches that continued to rain down on each other, both hitting with almost aimless abandon, Ivan managed to get a foothold against the wall, using that to push himself forward–and they were tumbling down the other set of stairs.

Ivan used a roll down the last set of stairs to roll on top of Hotstreak, his left hand shooting out to dig his thumb into the wound on Hotstreak’s left arm–the redhead howled in pain as Ivan jammed his thumb deep into muscle, blood pooling around his digit; he relished the agony that Hotstreak expressed in his expression and in the way his arm jerked.

To have someone helpless under his power; to give out pain that gave him power–Ivan laughed at his agony. With a forceful clench of air, Hotstreak locked eyes with him for a mere moment–then jerked his left arm up, the inside of his elbow knocking Ivan’s arm up and dislodging his thumb, then punched Ivan against his lower belly. He’d been aiming for his groin, but Ivan had shifted at the last second. Still, the impact was needed as Ivan hissed, wrenching himself off of him, moving to scramble away. Hotstreak rolled onto his belly, and lurched after him, catching his ankle.

Ivan fell to the floor once more, cursing aloud as his fingernails scratched across the carpet. He was rapidly losing sight in his left eye–the skin had swollen, and he felt abnormal shifting where the bone once was.

But he rolled onto his back, punching wildly; screaming curses as Hotstreak’s heavier weight settled over him. His fingers once again found the bullet wound, and instead of jamming his thumb into the sullenly oozing wound, he jammed both his index and middle finger in, the snug fit making him laugh psychotically as Hotstreak screamed in agony once more. At the heavier meta’s give, Ivan bucked him off, careful to keep his fingers where they were. He crawled over the meta, forcefully probing the wound, enjoying the suffering Hotstreak was in.

“You know what?” he asked between pants, his useless right arm dangling at his side. At Hotstreak’s grimace, the way he tried suppressing another scream, Ivan laughed again. He leaned closer, enjoying the sight of his enemy writhing in pain. “This is EXACTLY what it felt like to be inside of him. Tight, hot–an’ the way he bled for me. He screamed just like you. I tore him apart. He liked it. Enjoyed it. Begged for more.”

His fingernails scraped against muscle–felt it give. Snap like a rubberband. Hotstreak gave another scream, but his eyes suddenly focused on Ivan, wide and dark with fury. His hand shot up, his fingers clenching around Ivan’s neck–as Ivan choked, he desperately forced more pressure into his probing of the bullet wound.

“You’ll die NOW,” Hotstreak snarled, and Ivan felt his eyes widen as he felt the heat–and suddenly fire was surging all over his head and shoulders, his skin instantly giving under the immense heat.

He gave an inhuman shriek as every muscle jerked, his body trying to yank away from Hotstreak. The redhead tightened his fingers around his throat, preventing him from being able to leave, and administered more heat, more flame. He felt Ivan’s skin and muscle dissolve with sickeningly gooey results around his hand–listened to his death shrieks as he burned. He watched the black man go, burning skin splattering to the carpet with sharp hisses as tissue melted away from bone. A revolting mixture of burnt flesh and smoke cause his nose to wrinkle, but he still held tight–until Ivan stopped screaming and there was nothing of his throat left to hold.

He stepped back, panting as he watched the blackened, burning corpse sink to its knees, and flop forward. Where there had been Ivan’s evil smirk was nothing more than a scorched skull.

Blankly realizing what he was looking at, numbly aware that he’d won, Hotstreak stared at the bright flame that continued to eat at the name brand clothing. It almost didn’t register–he kept expecting for Ivan to pop back up.

But he didn’t.

OooooooooooO

Static zipped through the halls, listening to the sudden quiet. The gunshots had stopped almost as soon as he’d come in–while he wasn’t sure where everyone was, he had an idea of where to look. They couldn’t be holed up in one of the rooms–or perhaps the penthouse, or the honeymoon suites. But it wouldn’t make any sense for those men to be there.

He took the dead escalator down to the second floor, where he saw the first of Ivan’s dead crew. Taking a guess, he flashed into that direction, seeing Hotstreak’s presence in the scorched marks along the wall, the singed smell of flesh...the redhead had barged in this way, seemed to give second thought to those that were in his way–but why was it so quiet?

He heard what sounded like a struggle just up ahead, around the corner–he moved to shoot in that direction, to see what was going on when one of the heavy oak doors that opened into the ball room slammed open–catching him off-guard.

He slammed into it with a surprised cry, knocked off his disk as the door hit S at the same time, knocking her back. Both landed onto the hall floor with collective grunts, both surprised by the other’s appearance.

Static sat up, rubbing his forehead with a pained wince as he took in the teenager’s appearance. She seemed to recognize him, her eyes widening slightly–and suddenly her hands were equipped with throwing knives that she’d retrieved from some magical spot from within her shirt.

Static threw up his shield to keep the knives from hitting him, the three lethal weapons bouncing harmlessly off his powers. S gave a faltering frown, then turned and began running away from him, hesitating near a bulky man’s body, her eyes focused on the gun just out of his outstretched hand.

“Hey, YOU! STOP!” Static shouted, lunging to his feet, and racing after her.

She whirled, then, dropping down to the floor in a crouch to retrieve the dead man’s weapon. At the sight of the gun taking aim on him, Static hesitated for just a second–then gave a disapproving frown, his hand glowing as he used his powers to snatch the weapon from her.

“Kids shouldn’t be playing with guns,” he snarled.

She rolled her eyes, slumping briefly over the dead man’s back. She seemed to regard him with thought, her blunt cut bangs mussed. Static wondered just how old she actually was–the thought of her playing around in a gang made him severely uneasy. He’d faced eleven-year-olds that were packing heat because their big brothers were in a gang, and had told them to do so. It was so hard facing someone younger that carried weapons of death with confidence and control.

It enraged him, actually. To be helpless–to being unable to save everyone.

His hands flashed with power, and she reacted with a frown, slowly rising to her feet.

At the sharp crack of a gunshot, both reacted in surprise. They’d been so intensely focused on each other, that they’d forgotten about the scuffle just down the adjoining hall.

“FUCK!” they heard Ivan scream maniacally, this curse followed by Hotstreak’s accompanying laughter.

S chose that moment to attack–leaping across the dead man’s body and kicking out with her left foot, catching Static off guard. The superhero gave a pained “oof!” as his jaw seemed to shoot in the opposite direction, his face following moments later. He hit the floor with a jolting drop, S poised over him. Her bare foot raised, and Static observed dirty heel before both of them moved. Her foot slammed harmlessly against the floor as he rolled, and kicked out with his feet. He wasn’t a martial artist–and what tactics he’d learned was basic.

She was kicking at him again, and he had to dive out of the way. Her foot slammed into the small janitor’s closet with a loud clunk!, and she was jerking the door open; mops, brooms, and a bucket spilled out. He reacted quickly to keep her from getting a weapon–especially something wooden, something that he couldn’t control with his powers. He lunged at her, bodily tackling her away from the supply closet.

Realizing just how much he relied on his powers, Static fell against S, who hit the floor with a surprised “Awrp!”. She was then rolling quickly over onto her side, reaching out for something.

“Don’t you touch it!” Static screamed, powers flaring to life as he moved the gun out of her reach. S growled, then lunged at him, throwing a series of kicks. Static avoided all that he could, stumbling back, his hands tracing along the wall as he tried to keep himself from backing into anything. He tripped over an unmoving body, and fell with a grunt to the floor.

“Ow, V!”

He looked up in surprise, seeing Richie sitting against the wall, looking blankly in his direction. Static forgot about S; he forgot about Hotstreak and Ivan trying to kill each other just down the hall; he forgot about other accompanying factors. Just the sight of his best friend with his blue tinged lips and unexpressive eyes made him momentarily blank.

Movement caught his eye, and he looked up to see S leaping at him, one of her feet extended. He caught her foot within both hands, put his weight into his roll, and had her slamming against the floor. He reached out, grabbing her right arm, and yanked it up and behind her, using his body weight to keep her pinned there.

She growled at the unnatural position, but relaxed.

Panting, Static looked at Richie again, seeing the way the blond had his arms curled around his mid-section, his eyes staring off into space; a frantic look down the hall told him that Ivan was trying to strangle Hotstreak, with the redhead punching him repeatedly across the face.

S chose that moment to do something unexpected; there was a loud pop as she forcefully dislocated her shoulder, giving Static an immensely uncomfortable experience at being able to feel this occurrence, and she used her body to roll them both across the floor, effectively throwing him off.

He hit the wall with a startled grunt, and looked up to see her wrench her shoulder back into its joint with nothing more than a grin. She then turned to take off.

“I should’ve done this earlier!” he snarled, charging her clothes–with a startled cry, she found herself being slammed forcefully into the wall, her clothes attaching to the dull wallpaper and preventing her from moving.

Static looked back in time to see Ivan and Hotstreak disappear down a stairway. Amid curses, grunts, and howls, he figured that wasn’t a battle he shouldn’t interfere with. But the question was, Why wasn’t Hotstreak using his powers? The battle would have been over in an instant.

He moved awkwardly to his feet. He looked over Richie, finding that grayish pallor very disturbing–that the unfocused manner in which the blond was in kept him running through possibilities. It was obvious Richie didn’t know what was going on. Worried, he drew off his jacket, touching Richie’s clammy skin with the exposed flesh just above his glove–cold, but intensely moist. His dark blue shirt was soaked with sweat.

He crouched before him, taking in the blood soaked shirt that had been wrapped around his wrists. As he jerked it off, to see what damage had been done, he was startled to see the metal handcuffs that had broken into the blond’s skin–it made him shudder as he realized just how far in the metal had cut. Loose skin, tissue and bits of muscle protruded over the thin metal–it made him sick. His fingertips were blue, and his hands were cold to the touch.

As soon as he removed the shirt, the bleeding seemed to begin again. Panic gripped Static’s heart then, and he crouched, whipping his coat over him. Shock victims had to be stabilized. They needed medical attention. It had been nearly ten minutes since he’d called Lewis–the chief had assured them a twenty minute arrival.

Something caught his hearing, then. A loud crack of sound that was somewhat distanced from their position. He looked away from Richie, to where he’d forced S to cling–and saw only her torn clothes. His eyes widened in surprise and dismay as he realized that a teenage girl, a very DEADLY teenage girl, was walking around naked as the day she was born. That crack of sound was actually very familiar–it was almost as if it were a–

Jolting force sent him flying, bonelessly, to the carpet. His skin scraped ragged against the tacky texture. Stars whirled, and he heard the slither of feet against carpet, peripheral vision catching sight of a moving figure.

Instinct had him pushing away from the floor, his muscles feeling shaky as he did so. Jerking himself to his feet, powers flaring to life in both hands, he looked up to see where she was positioned, and found himself instantly distracted by her naked form. It was just startling to see a naked female–an athletically formed female at that–facing off against him. It just didn’t happen to him.

S didn’t give him a chance to recover from his shock of seeing her that way–she had the broken wooden broom handle jamming into his gut, knocking the wind from him. As his body reacted naturally, bending over, air shooting past his lips, the same weapon was brought down against his back. It was welded with such force that the handle snapped in half with a loud crack reminiscent of the last one.

Static slammed into the floor with a pained grunt, S cursing aloud at the damage done to her weapon. She held the piece that remained in her hand, and looked back at Richie.

Static was immediately up, lunging at her. She rolled with his momentum, forcing herself onto her back, pulling him along. Both feet slammed into his mid-section, and he was sent flying, head over heels, across the floor. Both were lunging back to their feet again, Static shooting off streams of his electricity, with voltage low enough to stun her, not hurt her. She dodged every one with the fluid ease he’d seen in Shiv’s actions–thinking of the meta made him falter, and she used that chance to hurl her remaining weapon at him.

Unable to duck, he took the rounded end of the handle right across his brow–it hurt immensely, knocking him hard enough to see stars once more. He stumbled back, trying to regain balance as she searched the floor for the other piece. Finding it, she lunged in that direction, and Static recovered from the blow quick enough to throw a zap at her.

She danced away from her weapon, giving an annoyed growl as she looked over at Richie once more. Instantly, Static was pulling all available power into both hands, snarling incoherently as he challenged her to follow through with her thoughts.

She eyed his lit hands with contemplative gesture, her lithe, toned body shifting as she moved to face him. He had to squeeze his eyes shut, then open them again–focusing just beyond her left shoulder. Trying NOT to look at the exposed breasts; the color of her pubic hair. How could a girl just RUN AROUND like that without a sense of modesty?

She was moving toward him, he realized, and he gave an awkward shout as she turned the sprint into a cartwheel, then somersault–both bare feet slammed into his chest, knocking him backward as he tried to keep from touching her. Flying through the air for several split seconds, he hit the thinly carpeted floor with his shoulder, then rolled awkwardly against the wall.

She was giggling in that mad, insane way she had, and horror had him racing to turn over–seeing that she was walking calmly to Richie. Static held up at hand, giving a concentrated expressing as he called silently for the metal that hid behind the walls of the room–at the shifting and cracking sounds, S paused in her threat, looking around herself.

She gave a startled squeak as various metal pipes forced themselves from the floors and walls, looming at her with all the qualities of a snake ready to strike. She looked around herself with concern, then dove to the side. Static gritted his teeth, manipulating the ‘snakes’ into his control as they followed with her; ripping through the carpet, tearing through wood, making protesting sounds as they were bent and prodded into positions they weren’t meant for.

S retrieved the last piece of her weapon, and tossed herself into a roll along the floor. As the pipes curled around her form, she flung the piece of wood–not at Static, but at Richie.

Static gave a startled gasp as he reacted quickly–one hand shot out, intending the stop the weapon in mid-air–but he hadn’t control over wood. He could only watch helplessly as the sharp edges neared his best friend’s vulnerable head.

There was a sickening crunch of sound as the sharp edge found its target, wedging deep within minute resistance–and Static stared with drawing shock as he realized that S’s throw had been perfect.

Richie blinked normally, focusing dazed eyes in his direction, then landing on the piece of wood that jutted out from the wall just beside his head.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, leaning away from it. “Papa’s throwing the skewers at nana, again.”

Virgil would ask him what he’d meant by that–later. He looked over at S, to see her slither out of the mess he’d made with the various pipes, and land with a gentle ‘thwop’ onto the floor.

“I give,” she announced, hands on her hips. “Not that you won, or anything..”

Unsure of where this was going, Static slowly lifted to his feet. His powers flashed to life as he regarded her cautiously.

She looked over at him, her head tilting questionably. “Can I get dressed? Please?”

“S-sure,” Static answered, stammering as he kept his eyes focused just above her head.

She nodded, turning away from them to her clothes that were still clinging to the wall. With a simple command, Static let them fall. As she picked up her jeans, he sneaked a quick glance at Richie, to see if he were still okay. Richie was letting his head rest against the wooden weapon, staring blankly off into space.

It scared him–shouldn’t the teen be responding to ANYTHING? That he had people killing each other all around him, and he merely sat there, staring off as if he were in daydreamland?

Static turned to address S, seeing her pull her hand from her mouth. He wasn’t sure what she’d did, but she had pulled her jeans on and was tossing on her shirt–sans underwear. Both outfits were horridly ruined–she’d torn through them, with some unidentifiable weapon–so they didn’t exactly cover what they were supposed to.

She once again regarded him with one her stoic expressions.

“You know what’s fucked up about this entire thing?” she asked, frowning. Static blinked. He wasn’t sure how to address things. “That I didn’t have to do this. That I could have just walked away. But I didn’t.”

Static stared at her for a few moments, then nodded slowly. “Yeah...you could have. Or you could have gotten him help...”

S glanced over at Richie, then back at him. “My name’s Lucille,” she said quietly.

Static held his breath for a few moments. Then nodded again. “Hello, Lucille.”
“...Really stupid name, huh? But better than Honeysuckle. My mom was a hippie.”

Maybe it was better to keep her talking. Maybe he’d get some information out of her.

S frowned at him, then shook her head. She studied the floor for a few moments, then took a seat against the wall opposite Richie. She exhaled loudly, pulling her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Static regarded her with confusion, then took a few steps toward Richie. He looked at the way his friend rolled his head to the side, seemingly noticing S for the first time.

“He’s gonna die,” S muttered. “Just like him.”

Static shot her a frown, crouching down next to Richie. He couldn’t hear Hotstreak and Ivan–he wondered, numbly, who would be the victor.

“Like who?” he asked.

S stared off at the ceiling for a few moments, then shook her head in disgust. “I’d always wanted to be normal. To have normal problems. To be a girl. To have crushes and go to school. Not carry around weapons and kill people at a command. But...you get what you get.”

Static took a seat next to Richie–why was it taking so long for the police to come? He reached over, to run his fingers through his best friend’s hair, to somehow let him know that he was there next to him. Richie simply laid his head against his shoulder, and continued staring off into nothing.
It was surreal, at that moment–there were two dead bodies off to the side, Richie was slowly dying, a girl assassin was complaining about what she lacked–Static felt like it were something straight off something B-movie.

But he stared at her as she gave another disgusted regard at the hall, running her fingers through her layered hair.

“He always called me a freakin’ kid,” she muttered. “We did the same things. Had the same fuckin’ job. And he called me a kid. What was wrong with just wanting to hang out? To talk?”

Static didn’t know what she was talking about–he was confused by the way she continued to ramble on and on about being addressed as a ‘kid’.

“How old are you?” he asked curiously, smelling Richie’s sweat and blood as he continued to caress his friend’s scalp. His ears were straining–listening for sirens, for helicopters–for either Ivan and Hotstreak.

“...Fifteen.”

“You’re young.”

“Nah...just in age. Age ain’t nothin’ but a number...”

“You’ll be tried as a juvenile. Perhaps–”

“No.” A smile curled over her lips as she focused her dark eyes on him. “I won’t.”

“Well, honestly, I don’t know anything about court systems and–”

Her eyes closed suddenly, and her shoulders jerked. She gritted her teeth, and Static became aware of her breathing–short, almost rapid breaths.

“You okay?” he asked.

She looked at him, her skin turning pale. She shook her head. “I hate knowin’ that I didn’t do much. I wish I was able to go to Six Flaggs. I wish I was able to go to Seattle. I wish that I got more piercings...GOD, I wish he didn’t see me as a fuckin’ kid!”

“You can...and you will. But every choice needs a consequence, and–”

She turned to the side, and began dry heaving. Static realized that something was wrong then, unsure of what to do. He pulled away from Richie, moving over to S when she vomited what looked to be dark green mucus. There was the foul stench of stomach acid and something that reminded him of almonds...

She rose shakily to her feet, steadying herself with a hand against the wall. Static reached out to help her, but she shook his hand off.

“Leave me alone!” she snarled, pulling her hair from her face and staggering off, vomiting once more.

Static winced, uncomfortable with the smells, with the very fact of vomiting. He turned, looking down at Richie. His friend continued to stare blankly at the wall, missing everything as it passed. Static didn’t understand why Lewis and the others were taking so long–! He crouched again at Richie’s side, taking out the cell. He redialed the number he’d last called, and heard a thump from down the hall.

Getting up, ready to leap into action if needed, he rounded the corner to see S lying down in the middle of the all, sprawled as if she’d just–collapsed. He recalled seeing her hand leaving her mouth as she’d gotten dressed; the scent of almonds from the mucus.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the phone dropping from his ear. “Ninjas use cyanide to off themselves... FUCK! Not...not that I’m saying she was a fuckin’ ninja...FUCK.”

It was then he noticed Hotstreak coming up the hall, wearily clutching his arm. He was focused on Richie, disregarding anything else.

Static hesitated as he heard Lewis’s voice on the other end of the cellphone–he was torn between putting himself between Richie and Hotstreak–or letting them be.

He continued to distrust the redhead. But they were here for the same reason...

He forced himself to turn away and answer Lewis.