Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Twenty-Seven ( Chapter 27 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Virgil begins to heal; things are finally wrapped up
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.03.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 5.2K | Visits: 470 | Status: Completed
Virgil begins to heal; things are finally wrapped up
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.03.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 5.2K | Visits: 470 | Status: Completed
A/N: HUTZAH! Okay, this is my rant: I very much hate how this story turned out. I don’t like it. In fact, I absolutely DESPISE the way it came out. It’s NOT what I had planned out, and it’s waaaayyy too damn LONG! To top it all off, I hate what I did to these two characters overall in this particular story. (Crosses arms, pouts) But this was the direction it seemed to take the more I wrote and tried to cut things out. I admit, I overwhelmed myself with this and that...so it’s all my bad, actually. But...I enjoy writing stories. I enjoy making shit up and doing random research here and there as I try and discover what people may do in given situations like these...so, of course I had fun–I just don’t like what I did in the end. (Shrugs)
Ah well. Thanks to all that read and read and reviewed this story and all the others! Sorry if I disappointed you; hooray for all the entertainment you felt upon reading this! Thanks so much for setting aside your time to read my stuff. (Squeals) It’s worth all the knowledge in knowing that somewhere, someone is reading my stuff and liking/hating/laughing/making fun of/oohing and awhing/nitpicking/hamming over with a fellow author person/feeling superior over/feeling inadequate over/ and all that jazz...I have done my job as a fanfiction author in entertaining people...and feel satisfied. (Beams) (frowns) ...somewhat...
Ahem. Thanks to Jigsaw231 and I'm_Alive for their reviews...I love you both. You were with this story from the beginning, and all the way to the end, giving me the support that ya'll were still reading this crap...boyoboy. Jigsaw231---thanks for the very kind words, and the effort you took in locating my new hotspot. Hooray for now, you find out what happens! I'm_Alive---I guess it's okay...but I could see Hs vowing that kinda thing. He always seemed a little off in that aspect, and i wanted to play with it. As for the 'baby' thing---yeah, it makes me blush just writing it. It's so...sappy... (grimaces) And, as always---Tri, for continually letting me snot all over you with my complaints and whines and aspirations and demented ideas that never get posted...
ANYWHO! THANKS TO ALL THAT READ THIS! And, yes...the next chapt's the very ending. I PROMISE.
Right Here
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Programs like CSI led the public to believe that things would be solved immediately; that one clue led to the next, ensuring sure capture of the foes and securing justice for the victims. That everything, despite it all, would be okay.
It didn’t work that way.
It took over six months to round up at least half the details of what had happened in that single night. For stories to be straightened into facts–but even then, without proper witnesses or accounts from those that were actually alive to tell what had happened, there were still missing parts. Due to the damage performed with all known scenes, it had been difficult to lift any secure evidence to perform a conclusive finish in the investigation.
It took months to figure out why the Foleys were involved–a search of the house had turned up what seemed like a random burglary: missing vehicle, burglarized items, hacking into Sean’s meager bank account; this was all discounted upon the recovery of their bodies, further pressing a more intensive search into why this particular family was targeted. The Foleys shouldn’t have been involved–their murders had been a mystery–one would have guessed that they were a random homicide, had not the involvement of their son that night persisted to be solved.
Jerome Williams was tested–his DNA didn’t match Ivan’s. At the seemingly cinematic event in that Ivan had been replaced by the lookalike, the public grew awed at the entire story. As Jerome was transferred out, taken back to California for proper parole in his own damning mistakes, the investigation continued to pry into the events that led up to the chaos of that night.
The numerous funerals for all the gangbangers that had died had led to several gang fights at the cemetery, forcing the police to interfere. At the desecration of Ivan’s grave, at the solid surge of hatred and cries of satisfaction in his death, the public finally relaxed in that his reign of terror was over. But his villainous life continued to shock and horrify even after his death.
Lucille was an unknown with no real identification–her body was kept within Dakota, awaiting claiming–when none showed, she was given a small ceremony and laid to rest within a children’s cemetery. The effects of the high potent cyanide pill had been effective in killing off any remaining information she might have had in her involvement.
Richie Foley had died–continuous emergency procedures upon the medical flight to the hospital had fixed that. Numerous operations within the hospital had secured his life. Luck, miracles, fortune– all of it had been on his side–an incredible amount of it. Countless surgeries to fix his ruptured spleen, deflation of his right lung and removal of a third of his liver due to damage sustained in both car accidents had been taxing; damage done to his wrists had been extensive, but surgery had repaired what could. Brain swelling had been troublesome; a medically induced coma kept the teen unresponsive for days. By the time he was declared medically okay to speak to an officer, it was nearly four weeks after that horrid night–and he remembered nothing.
A great majority of this lack of remembrance was due to the traumatic events that he’d experienced–a specialist suggested that he’d developed disassociative traits in order for his mind to protect itself from the shock of the massacre that he’d apparently witnessed. It was common for victims to experience this trait in especially horrifying incidents.
The frustration in this dead end was apparent in Lewis and those investigating–Richie was the only known survivor within the chaos, and he had the knowledge they needed to complete their confusing puzzle.
As time passed, and he worked with a specialized therapist to recover his memories, pieces of the story began emerging; as did his involvement with Hotstreak. He didn’t confirm or deny their relationship–but the obvious implications were made as he was forced to reveal what he remembered before that night, detailing why Hotstreak had been involved.
Once it was realized who Richard Foley was, why he fell into Ivan Evans’ plans, the city went ballistic. At the identification of one of Dakota’s superheroes, a sort of numbed disbelief shot through the community. The columnists went wild with their opinions and their outrages; as well as their condolences and their gratitude. The mixed message was chaotic at most–but even as that pressing issue began to settle, the investigation continued, and facts were beginning to turn clear. Realizing that Ivan had been looking for the cure to his cure, part of the puzzle began to fit into other pieces.
After determining that he was telling the truth in that he had no memory of that night, Lewis ordered him into a mental health facility that would help him recover from his wounds and for the cure to be administered immediately; despite his other role as Gear, he was still a bang baby that needed to be cured. It was also to protect him from those wanting to retaliate against him–there were still others that wanted to hurt him, for either some previous appropriation as Gear or out of revenge for Ivan and the others.
Richie communicated with Virgil through letters that were screened before delivery; he wrote about how he felt, about how he regretted following his emotions rather than listening to logic; he apologized and he asked for forgiveness for never listening to him in the first place. Virgil’s replies were filled with encouragement and support; sorrow for never being there and pushing him away–with their fragile emotional states, the two began relying on each other for the comfort needed in this highly stressing time.
But when Richie began turning uncooperative due to his overwhelming stress, the letters to Virgil stopped. Not because he had nothing to say–but because he was ordered to stop communication, to prevent giving away what information was needed for the investigation.
As details leaked from what investigators could gather from him, the public began enjoying the streams of information that was revealed. Dakota was treated to a sympathetic columnist that ran his school picture and Hotstreak’s most recent mug shot together, the article detailing a forbidden love that had ultimately put them both in their positions today. With Hotstreak still eluding authorities and Richie in recovery in a holding facility, this column elicited mixtures of reactions from Dakota’s residents. Hate, pride, support; everyone had an opinion to express over Dakota’s bad boy falling in love with one of their former protectors.
The temperamental redhead continued to elude the authorities; it seemed as if he’d dropped right out of the city when matters began to become revealed. Former friends, chased out from the woodwork due to the rising rumors of his love affair with Richie and for the fact that Hotstreak was now being tracked down by the FBI, came forward to turn themselves in or to turn in information about his whereabouts. With the turnabout taken by his former associates, Hotstreak simply disappeared. He didn’t contact any of his trusted friends, and those that were faithful and supportive of him never heard from him again.
Though there was an occasional sighting of him, it began to feel as if the bang baby had skipped out of Dakota. Upon learning this, Richie had felt an overwhelming sense of sadness and depression; knowing that he was taking Hotstreak’s place had left him feeling bitter and sullen; his emotional state turned unstable. He began appreciating the sedatives that he was ordered to take when his mood swings turned violent. Anything to keep himself from feeling the unforgiving pain of heartbreak.
As time passed, the assailment of physical trauma from that night, the build-up of confusion and stress from what he could remember, and his heartbreak over Hotstreak had grown into a mass of unforgiving force–he had a mental breakdown.
The public loved drama–and loved it even more when someone was in turmoil. He was transferred out of Dakota, then–to an high security mental institution in Gotham City, a level below Arkham. He was still needed for information–and his current instability needed the security only for his own safety. There were still others vindictive enough to want to strike out at him while he was down, and Lewis was pulling strings to keep him out of harm’s way.
While this was occurring, it had taken over a year for those investigating to sort out the names and numbers Timmy had in his wallet–but even then, Shiv had come through with providing the information they needed to pierce together the players in Ivan’s crimes. For the information in Timmy’s wallet held enough clues to send investigators throughout Dakota to round up those in close accomplice to Ivan’s networks; providing a foothold into delving into D and V’s much more complicated drug ring throughout the world.
And while the DEA began delving into this world, bringing to light those that had been involved with both Ivan Evans and D and V, the overwhelming factors in that Dakota had merely been a pit stop in their grand scheme involving various countries within their ring put the Mid-Western town on the map. D and V were ‘ghosts’–mere ants compared to their more powerful elders that had prompted them to recruit Ivan. The case involving the two were taken out of Dakota’s hands and placed into the furthest reaches up in the hierarchy, the DEA taking over on that aspect.
True to his word, Static never returned.
Virgil Hawkins had officially retired from his position, and it was met with a mixture of shock, relief and disappointment. While he knew that there were some people out there that had appreciated what he’d done for Dakota over the last four years, he knew that there were others that celebrated this. To punctuate this, crime seemed to spike–for only for a small period of time. Nothing compared to Ivan’s bout of ‘terror’, and even as crime seemed to rise to an all time high–it also dipped and evened out.
He experienced a high level of guilt and anger during this period–feeling as if he were doing a truly horrible thing in thinking only for his own comfort, his own self. But as time passed, and he began focusing on his day-to-day efforts, he realized that he’d made the right choice.
He missed Richie terribly; he couldn’t deny that. He felt extreme guilt in not being able to help him, nor being the support that he knew Richie needed. He felt helplessness in knowing that he couldn’t–and didn’t–want to use his Static influences with the investigation.
As life proceeded to move on, he found that his, despite the turmoil, had turned around in an unsettling mess. He managed to graduate from high school; kept his opinions to himself when it was revealed who Richie Foley was. As many eyes turned on him, looking at him with many expressions of wonder, curiosity and excited shock, he knew he’d have to confess to his part, soon. Lewis kept on him; as Virgil Hawkins, Richie’s best friend, Virgil had to have known something about Richie’s involvement.
As his friend’s name was bashed about by his classmates and former teachers, speculation arising over his involvement with Hotstreak and as Gear, Virgil had to grit his teeth and take it. He began having problems with concentrating at school, with his previous relationships with his friends. He and Daisy broke up because his stress and agitation had made it too difficult for her to bear.
There were days where it just felt as if everyone were trying to keep him pressed against the ground. For all the pressure to smother him; for all the overwhelming anxieties to keep his eyes from shutting tight at night.
He was encouraged to take part in therapy as well. With his sister’s and father’s advice, he was heading to counseling sessions nearly three times a week.
Months seemed to pass too slowly; college started without the same flair of excitement and giddiness that he’d previously felt when starting a new school year. As they had in high school, speculations and doubts followed him. His classmates constantly hounded him about his involvement with Richie; about Static; about how he felt now that the entire city knew the real truth of that night.
The letters from Richie stopped; Daisy wanted to reconcile.
He dropped out from his first year of college with the threat of a mental breakdown. Virgil had felt he made the right choice as discontinuing as Static; even as things were hard, even as it became a struggle for him to continue on as Virgil Hawkins, he knew he made the right decision.
It was nearing the one year anniversary of Ivan Evans’ death when he received a letter from an unexpected source.
Before Richie had stopped writing, he’d declared his hate for Francis Stone; hate for abandoning him, for staying with him, for all those choices he made when he shouldn’t have. Virgil had assumed that it was only because he’d been headed for a mental breakdown that Richie had wrote this. He hadn’t taken it seriously. But, he had to admit to himself, that his own hate for the metahuman had grown at his abandonment. Hotstreak had made a promise, that night; well, Richie had survived, he was in a mental healthy facility. So why hadn’t the metahuman turned himself in, like he said he would?
The letter was short; wanting to know how Richie was doing, wanting to know if he was coming out, soon. There was no mention of the metahuman’s own activities; Virgil had known that the police were looking for him; that Francis was possibly out on the run outside the state. But the letter was postmarked from within Dakota.
The address was something he didn’t recognize. He had considered ripping the letter up, to let Francis go.
But the more he stared at the crummy handwriting, the way stiff apologies were rendered and excuses were made, he thought of his friend in the institution in Gotham and wondered if he would like to know what had happened to his so-called ‘love’. It was this that kept him from making a decision in writing, in sharing. He set the letter aside and lost himself in his thoughts.
He decided to talk with Adam. Adam always seemed to know what to say or do in times like these, and ever since Ivan’s death, the two had seemed to grow closer to each other.
OooooooooooO
He found Adam at the cemetery nearly a month later–he’d been working almost nonstop since the death of his brother, avoiding the ‘bad press’ that followed him. Sharon had complained about never having any time with him.
Walking up to the remaining Evans brother, Virgil felt his shoulders slump. The marker was a plain, type-written account on cheap plastic. The grass had been torn up; someone had defecated near the marker. But Adam continued to stare down at his brother’s grave, and Virgil waited for him to acknowledge him before making a move.
Silence passed, and Virgil listened to the wind passing through the trees. Looking up at the afternoon sky, he watched the wispy white clouds drift on by, and heard the low whine of a single engine plane as it coasted over the lake.
“He was all fucked up, wasn’t he?” Adam asked, his voice breaking through the silence. Virgil nearly jumped. He looked over at Adam, and nodded. “Just...had no conscience. Didn’t think of consequences. He knew what he was doin’, Virg. He knew what he was doin’ when he was sellin’, and gunnin’ down people. Knew what he was doin’ when he got all involved with them drug dealers down west. I don’t feel anythin’ for this monster. Don’t feel...like...I should be mournin’. Just...sometimes, when I’m doin’ somethin’? I just think back when we were kids. How he took care of me.”
Adam stared down at the marker for a few moments, then reached up to wipe his lips. “Just seems kinda weird. That this creature lyin’ underfoot is the same person that used to tie my shoes an’ make sure that I was wearing color coordinated sets when I was four. I should be feelin’ sad for the loss of that person. But...whenever I do...I think about the way Richie used to look at me after what Ivan did to him, or what shit I read in the papers that Ivan done. It don’t seem right, Virgil.”
Virgil felt his dreads being caressed by the afternoon breeze; lowered his head to stare blankly at the torn grass. Somehow, a monster laid beneath those torn mounds, and yet...he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for that person Adam had described in their youth.
Adam shifted away from the grave site, shaking his head. “One less monster to stress about, really. But...I should be feelin’ something other than satisfaction, I guess. But...in a way, I think I got done mournin’ the Ivan that had taken care of me a long time ago. And this person here...this sick bastard isn’t that person. I can differentiate that, and things would seem easier. I dunno...I just...”
Adam shrugged. Looked at Virgil with a studious expression.
“You look like shit,” he then said bluntly.
Virgil managed a smirk. “Yeah...but it works wonders with the ladies, I’m tellin’ ya. They all want a brooding jerk to mess around with.”
“Heh. Yeah. They all dumb that way. Whatcha doin’ up here?”
“...Dunno. Just...just thinkin’, I guess.”
Adam nodded, moving away from the gravesite.
“It’s almost a year, man. A year. An’...shit, everything’s still being cleared away.”
“Yeah...Sharon’s been collectin’ EVERYTHING about that shit. She’s been trying to get involved on the therapy case for Richie, but she can’t seem to get transferred out that way.”
“Yeah, well...they don’t allow visitors out there. And I don’t believe the shit they write in those things. I wish I knew how he was doin’...but if he’s still there, then he’s there for a reason.”
“Papers been sayin’ he had a breakdown, or somethin’.”
“...Yeah.” Virgil shifted. “I was kinda wonderin’ somethin’.”
“Shoot.”
“I got a letter the other day. From...from him. Hotstreak.”
Adam looked at him sharply, pausing in picking at his cuticles. He narrowed his eyes, and the pair of them began walking away from Ivan’s grave site. Virgil glanced at it from over his shoulder, and tried to imagine what his would look like once everyone found out he was Static.
“He still around?” Adam growled, shaking his head. “Why don’t that fool give himself up? Fuck.”
“Yeah...he...he’s still around. Wondering if I talked to Richie.”
“...Fuckin’ punk-ass. Bitch should just give himself up. Makin’ him take all the rap...fuckin’ bullshit. Ain’t got any respect for that bitch. Never have, but that’s just fuckin’ cold, man.”
“Yeah...’s what I think, too. But...should I tell him that Rich no longer wants anythin’ to do wit’ him? I want to fuckin’ tell him off. He made a promise, and he didn’t fuckin’ follow through with it. So...I dunno.”
“When you last talk with him? Rich?”
“...about six, seven months ago.”
“That long...?”
“Yeah. It’s been that long.” Virgil looked away, staring off at the city of Dakota, quietly reflecting on the past. “It sucks. I can’t do anything for him. Just...I dunno. I think, in a way, I would want to know. What happened to my...er, significant other. But...would it just upset him?”
“Just keep it on the low, Virg. He don’t need to know. Both of them don’t. If that bitch wants to know, he could turn himself in. Don’t make your bro feel even more fucked when he finds out that dick’s been talkin’ to you rather than him.”
“Yeah...thanks. I was just...thinking about it, an’ was havin’ trouble trying to figure out what to do.”
“No prob. You hungry?”
“Nah...”
“C’mon, sucka. I’m hungry. You payin’.”
“Oh, fuck that...you all rich an’ shit, you should be payin’ on me!”
Adam laughed lightly, reaching out to sling his arm over his shoulders. He gave Virgil a companionable squeeze. “In the end, it’ll all work out, man. You did what you could. Just...just live, all right? Just move on. When the time comes, an’ things have to be addressed, do it then. But there’s nothin’ you can do now. He’d want you to move on. Live. Y’know?”
“Yeah...thanks, man.”
“Ain’t no thang, Virg. Ain’t no thang...”
That night, Virgil sat down at his desk, and stared at the blank, lined paper in front of him. His pen poised over it, he listened to the silence of his room. It had long since been renovated; all traces of his childhood were gone. The walls were painted white, plain, the carpet a dull gray with a Indian inspired room rug thrown within the center. His desk had been replaced with a simple computer table, a laptop humming nearby.
He looked anxiously at the letter that he’d received a month earlier, and could see in his mind’s eye the five paragraphs, the messy handwriting. The circled dots over i’s, the curls in the y’s, p’s, q’s, g’s, and j’s. He could hear Hotstreak talking as he read over the letter; could somehow hear the sadness in his questions about Richie.
Upon that thought, he put pen to paper, and proceeded to write out all that he ever felt for this man; he wrote out all his hatred, his dislike, his distrust. What he’d felt upon seeing them together that last night, what he’d felt when his best friend chose him over their decade long friendship. He wrote down all that he felt, and wound up staring at over ten pages of words. None of them were the things Hotstreak had wanted to hear, but Virgil felt satisfied. Not because he knew it would accomplish something pertaining to the metahuman, but because he felt as if a weight had been lifted.
He mailed the letter the next day, and never heard from the man again.
As the days passed by, and he continued to go on, Virgil found himself meeting up with Shenice Vale upon a chance visit. One mistake right after another ensued, and nearly five months after his talk with Adam, Virgil was exchanging vows with the former superheroine. He wished that Richie had been there; wished that this moment had been a more happier one. But as he looked into his new wife’s eyes and promised to love her throughout the good and the bad, in health and in sickness, he realized that moving on would continue to benefit him. He no longer felt the pressure to resume his work as Static.
He went back to college and worked for his bachelor’s degree in social work. He wrote a letter to Richie, but it was returned, unopened, stating that ‘this patient had been moved to another facility’. He would continue to wait for his best friend, and was preparing himself for the turmoil that would occur when Richie was finally released.
But in the meantime...Virgil Hawkins finally had to live his own life and be his own person. And that was something that made him feel good.
OooooooooooO
Svenson and Swark were up to something. The two orderlies had been giving him secretive looks and whispers. Richie kept hearing snatches of ‘money’, and ‘it was all handled’. He had a fleeting thought that it was a desperate plot meant to get rid of him, and he fully embraced it. Living in one mental healthy facility after another, realizing that he’d never feel the same again, Richie had lost the will to live. He’d long ago lost the sense of wanting to be free, of being clear-headed. He’d lost that part of him that had made him unique and likeable; he was no longer Richie Foley, the excitable geek that made Virgil laugh or the others to cheer him on for some school related event.
No, he was Richard Foley, patient number 44zA29. The one with disassociative traits. The one that hated the dark and threw fits whenever someone covered his eyes. He was the one the new staff whispered about, the former superhero with Bang Baby abilities that had made the world of science overwrite its history in the stretches of genius capabilities. He no longer had those abilities. He was left in a drug-hazed void, and sometimes woke up screaming whenever he did sleep.
He couldn’t recognize himself, anymore. Not even when he looked into a mirror, or heard himself speak coherently. He’d long ago lost the sense to connect with his friends outside the facility. As suppressed memories came back to life through therapy, and the reality of his sense of abandonment continued, he found himself curling in on himself. He had never imagined himself in this predicament, in this situation. Had always joked on being taken to a mental institution as his powers drove him up the wall sometimes...but how ironic that he found himself here, actually embracing the dark reality just to escape from his pain.
This new facility was minimally guarded–the threat on his life had long since been down-leveled due to the length of time between his coming out as Gear and as the city worked itself into an accepting manner of his actions. But it was still a new facility; it had been in the throes of construction over a year ago. It was open and more revealing than the one in Gotham, and there was a sense of comfort in that he was back in Dakota.
The orderlies were scheduled to leave after their work shift ended, but they were lingering around Richie to make the blond suspicious. Even more so when he noticed that his usual medication was halved.
But he didn’t mind. If they were working with bad intentions toward him, then so be it. He didn’t care, anymore. He’d wanted to escape.
It was after dinner when Swark told him that his therapist needed to see him. Without any regard, Richie followed him. He didn’t care when Svenson pulled him into a supply closet and jam a needle into his upper right arm; and he certainly didn’t care when he fell unconscious moments later. As long as the pain went away, things were fine. So be it if someone still had ill intentions toward him.
Ah well. Thanks to all that read and read and reviewed this story and all the others! Sorry if I disappointed you; hooray for all the entertainment you felt upon reading this! Thanks so much for setting aside your time to read my stuff. (Squeals) It’s worth all the knowledge in knowing that somewhere, someone is reading my stuff and liking/hating/laughing/making fun of/oohing and awhing/nitpicking/hamming over with a fellow author person/feeling superior over/feeling inadequate over/ and all that jazz...I have done my job as a fanfiction author in entertaining people...and feel satisfied. (Beams) (frowns) ...somewhat...
Ahem. Thanks to Jigsaw231 and I'm_Alive for their reviews...I love you both. You were with this story from the beginning, and all the way to the end, giving me the support that ya'll were still reading this crap...boyoboy. Jigsaw231---thanks for the very kind words, and the effort you took in locating my new hotspot. Hooray for now, you find out what happens! I'm_Alive---I guess it's okay...but I could see Hs vowing that kinda thing. He always seemed a little off in that aspect, and i wanted to play with it. As for the 'baby' thing---yeah, it makes me blush just writing it. It's so...sappy... (grimaces) And, as always---Tri, for continually letting me snot all over you with my complaints and whines and aspirations and demented ideas that never get posted...
ANYWHO! THANKS TO ALL THAT READ THIS! And, yes...the next chapt's the very ending. I PROMISE.
Right Here
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Programs like CSI led the public to believe that things would be solved immediately; that one clue led to the next, ensuring sure capture of the foes and securing justice for the victims. That everything, despite it all, would be okay.
It didn’t work that way.
It took over six months to round up at least half the details of what had happened in that single night. For stories to be straightened into facts–but even then, without proper witnesses or accounts from those that were actually alive to tell what had happened, there were still missing parts. Due to the damage performed with all known scenes, it had been difficult to lift any secure evidence to perform a conclusive finish in the investigation.
It took months to figure out why the Foleys were involved–a search of the house had turned up what seemed like a random burglary: missing vehicle, burglarized items, hacking into Sean’s meager bank account; this was all discounted upon the recovery of their bodies, further pressing a more intensive search into why this particular family was targeted. The Foleys shouldn’t have been involved–their murders had been a mystery–one would have guessed that they were a random homicide, had not the involvement of their son that night persisted to be solved.
Jerome Williams was tested–his DNA didn’t match Ivan’s. At the seemingly cinematic event in that Ivan had been replaced by the lookalike, the public grew awed at the entire story. As Jerome was transferred out, taken back to California for proper parole in his own damning mistakes, the investigation continued to pry into the events that led up to the chaos of that night.
The numerous funerals for all the gangbangers that had died had led to several gang fights at the cemetery, forcing the police to interfere. At the desecration of Ivan’s grave, at the solid surge of hatred and cries of satisfaction in his death, the public finally relaxed in that his reign of terror was over. But his villainous life continued to shock and horrify even after his death.
Lucille was an unknown with no real identification–her body was kept within Dakota, awaiting claiming–when none showed, she was given a small ceremony and laid to rest within a children’s cemetery. The effects of the high potent cyanide pill had been effective in killing off any remaining information she might have had in her involvement.
Richie Foley had died–continuous emergency procedures upon the medical flight to the hospital had fixed that. Numerous operations within the hospital had secured his life. Luck, miracles, fortune– all of it had been on his side–an incredible amount of it. Countless surgeries to fix his ruptured spleen, deflation of his right lung and removal of a third of his liver due to damage sustained in both car accidents had been taxing; damage done to his wrists had been extensive, but surgery had repaired what could. Brain swelling had been troublesome; a medically induced coma kept the teen unresponsive for days. By the time he was declared medically okay to speak to an officer, it was nearly four weeks after that horrid night–and he remembered nothing.
A great majority of this lack of remembrance was due to the traumatic events that he’d experienced–a specialist suggested that he’d developed disassociative traits in order for his mind to protect itself from the shock of the massacre that he’d apparently witnessed. It was common for victims to experience this trait in especially horrifying incidents.
The frustration in this dead end was apparent in Lewis and those investigating–Richie was the only known survivor within the chaos, and he had the knowledge they needed to complete their confusing puzzle.
As time passed, and he worked with a specialized therapist to recover his memories, pieces of the story began emerging; as did his involvement with Hotstreak. He didn’t confirm or deny their relationship–but the obvious implications were made as he was forced to reveal what he remembered before that night, detailing why Hotstreak had been involved.
Once it was realized who Richard Foley was, why he fell into Ivan Evans’ plans, the city went ballistic. At the identification of one of Dakota’s superheroes, a sort of numbed disbelief shot through the community. The columnists went wild with their opinions and their outrages; as well as their condolences and their gratitude. The mixed message was chaotic at most–but even as that pressing issue began to settle, the investigation continued, and facts were beginning to turn clear. Realizing that Ivan had been looking for the cure to his cure, part of the puzzle began to fit into other pieces.
After determining that he was telling the truth in that he had no memory of that night, Lewis ordered him into a mental health facility that would help him recover from his wounds and for the cure to be administered immediately; despite his other role as Gear, he was still a bang baby that needed to be cured. It was also to protect him from those wanting to retaliate against him–there were still others that wanted to hurt him, for either some previous appropriation as Gear or out of revenge for Ivan and the others.
Richie communicated with Virgil through letters that were screened before delivery; he wrote about how he felt, about how he regretted following his emotions rather than listening to logic; he apologized and he asked for forgiveness for never listening to him in the first place. Virgil’s replies were filled with encouragement and support; sorrow for never being there and pushing him away–with their fragile emotional states, the two began relying on each other for the comfort needed in this highly stressing time.
But when Richie began turning uncooperative due to his overwhelming stress, the letters to Virgil stopped. Not because he had nothing to say–but because he was ordered to stop communication, to prevent giving away what information was needed for the investigation.
As details leaked from what investigators could gather from him, the public began enjoying the streams of information that was revealed. Dakota was treated to a sympathetic columnist that ran his school picture and Hotstreak’s most recent mug shot together, the article detailing a forbidden love that had ultimately put them both in their positions today. With Hotstreak still eluding authorities and Richie in recovery in a holding facility, this column elicited mixtures of reactions from Dakota’s residents. Hate, pride, support; everyone had an opinion to express over Dakota’s bad boy falling in love with one of their former protectors.
The temperamental redhead continued to elude the authorities; it seemed as if he’d dropped right out of the city when matters began to become revealed. Former friends, chased out from the woodwork due to the rising rumors of his love affair with Richie and for the fact that Hotstreak was now being tracked down by the FBI, came forward to turn themselves in or to turn in information about his whereabouts. With the turnabout taken by his former associates, Hotstreak simply disappeared. He didn’t contact any of his trusted friends, and those that were faithful and supportive of him never heard from him again.
Though there was an occasional sighting of him, it began to feel as if the bang baby had skipped out of Dakota. Upon learning this, Richie had felt an overwhelming sense of sadness and depression; knowing that he was taking Hotstreak’s place had left him feeling bitter and sullen; his emotional state turned unstable. He began appreciating the sedatives that he was ordered to take when his mood swings turned violent. Anything to keep himself from feeling the unforgiving pain of heartbreak.
As time passed, the assailment of physical trauma from that night, the build-up of confusion and stress from what he could remember, and his heartbreak over Hotstreak had grown into a mass of unforgiving force–he had a mental breakdown.
The public loved drama–and loved it even more when someone was in turmoil. He was transferred out of Dakota, then–to an high security mental institution in Gotham City, a level below Arkham. He was still needed for information–and his current instability needed the security only for his own safety. There were still others vindictive enough to want to strike out at him while he was down, and Lewis was pulling strings to keep him out of harm’s way.
While this was occurring, it had taken over a year for those investigating to sort out the names and numbers Timmy had in his wallet–but even then, Shiv had come through with providing the information they needed to pierce together the players in Ivan’s crimes. For the information in Timmy’s wallet held enough clues to send investigators throughout Dakota to round up those in close accomplice to Ivan’s networks; providing a foothold into delving into D and V’s much more complicated drug ring throughout the world.
And while the DEA began delving into this world, bringing to light those that had been involved with both Ivan Evans and D and V, the overwhelming factors in that Dakota had merely been a pit stop in their grand scheme involving various countries within their ring put the Mid-Western town on the map. D and V were ‘ghosts’–mere ants compared to their more powerful elders that had prompted them to recruit Ivan. The case involving the two were taken out of Dakota’s hands and placed into the furthest reaches up in the hierarchy, the DEA taking over on that aspect.
True to his word, Static never returned.
Virgil Hawkins had officially retired from his position, and it was met with a mixture of shock, relief and disappointment. While he knew that there were some people out there that had appreciated what he’d done for Dakota over the last four years, he knew that there were others that celebrated this. To punctuate this, crime seemed to spike–for only for a small period of time. Nothing compared to Ivan’s bout of ‘terror’, and even as crime seemed to rise to an all time high–it also dipped and evened out.
He experienced a high level of guilt and anger during this period–feeling as if he were doing a truly horrible thing in thinking only for his own comfort, his own self. But as time passed, and he began focusing on his day-to-day efforts, he realized that he’d made the right choice.
He missed Richie terribly; he couldn’t deny that. He felt extreme guilt in not being able to help him, nor being the support that he knew Richie needed. He felt helplessness in knowing that he couldn’t–and didn’t–want to use his Static influences with the investigation.
As life proceeded to move on, he found that his, despite the turmoil, had turned around in an unsettling mess. He managed to graduate from high school; kept his opinions to himself when it was revealed who Richie Foley was. As many eyes turned on him, looking at him with many expressions of wonder, curiosity and excited shock, he knew he’d have to confess to his part, soon. Lewis kept on him; as Virgil Hawkins, Richie’s best friend, Virgil had to have known something about Richie’s involvement.
As his friend’s name was bashed about by his classmates and former teachers, speculation arising over his involvement with Hotstreak and as Gear, Virgil had to grit his teeth and take it. He began having problems with concentrating at school, with his previous relationships with his friends. He and Daisy broke up because his stress and agitation had made it too difficult for her to bear.
There were days where it just felt as if everyone were trying to keep him pressed against the ground. For all the pressure to smother him; for all the overwhelming anxieties to keep his eyes from shutting tight at night.
He was encouraged to take part in therapy as well. With his sister’s and father’s advice, he was heading to counseling sessions nearly three times a week.
Months seemed to pass too slowly; college started without the same flair of excitement and giddiness that he’d previously felt when starting a new school year. As they had in high school, speculations and doubts followed him. His classmates constantly hounded him about his involvement with Richie; about Static; about how he felt now that the entire city knew the real truth of that night.
The letters from Richie stopped; Daisy wanted to reconcile.
He dropped out from his first year of college with the threat of a mental breakdown. Virgil had felt he made the right choice as discontinuing as Static; even as things were hard, even as it became a struggle for him to continue on as Virgil Hawkins, he knew he made the right decision.
It was nearing the one year anniversary of Ivan Evans’ death when he received a letter from an unexpected source.
Before Richie had stopped writing, he’d declared his hate for Francis Stone; hate for abandoning him, for staying with him, for all those choices he made when he shouldn’t have. Virgil had assumed that it was only because he’d been headed for a mental breakdown that Richie had wrote this. He hadn’t taken it seriously. But, he had to admit to himself, that his own hate for the metahuman had grown at his abandonment. Hotstreak had made a promise, that night; well, Richie had survived, he was in a mental healthy facility. So why hadn’t the metahuman turned himself in, like he said he would?
The letter was short; wanting to know how Richie was doing, wanting to know if he was coming out, soon. There was no mention of the metahuman’s own activities; Virgil had known that the police were looking for him; that Francis was possibly out on the run outside the state. But the letter was postmarked from within Dakota.
The address was something he didn’t recognize. He had considered ripping the letter up, to let Francis go.
But the more he stared at the crummy handwriting, the way stiff apologies were rendered and excuses were made, he thought of his friend in the institution in Gotham and wondered if he would like to know what had happened to his so-called ‘love’. It was this that kept him from making a decision in writing, in sharing. He set the letter aside and lost himself in his thoughts.
He decided to talk with Adam. Adam always seemed to know what to say or do in times like these, and ever since Ivan’s death, the two had seemed to grow closer to each other.
OooooooooooO
He found Adam at the cemetery nearly a month later–he’d been working almost nonstop since the death of his brother, avoiding the ‘bad press’ that followed him. Sharon had complained about never having any time with him.
Walking up to the remaining Evans brother, Virgil felt his shoulders slump. The marker was a plain, type-written account on cheap plastic. The grass had been torn up; someone had defecated near the marker. But Adam continued to stare down at his brother’s grave, and Virgil waited for him to acknowledge him before making a move.
Silence passed, and Virgil listened to the wind passing through the trees. Looking up at the afternoon sky, he watched the wispy white clouds drift on by, and heard the low whine of a single engine plane as it coasted over the lake.
“He was all fucked up, wasn’t he?” Adam asked, his voice breaking through the silence. Virgil nearly jumped. He looked over at Adam, and nodded. “Just...had no conscience. Didn’t think of consequences. He knew what he was doin’, Virg. He knew what he was doin’ when he was sellin’, and gunnin’ down people. Knew what he was doin’ when he got all involved with them drug dealers down west. I don’t feel anythin’ for this monster. Don’t feel...like...I should be mournin’. Just...sometimes, when I’m doin’ somethin’? I just think back when we were kids. How he took care of me.”
Adam stared down at the marker for a few moments, then reached up to wipe his lips. “Just seems kinda weird. That this creature lyin’ underfoot is the same person that used to tie my shoes an’ make sure that I was wearing color coordinated sets when I was four. I should be feelin’ sad for the loss of that person. But...whenever I do...I think about the way Richie used to look at me after what Ivan did to him, or what shit I read in the papers that Ivan done. It don’t seem right, Virgil.”
Virgil felt his dreads being caressed by the afternoon breeze; lowered his head to stare blankly at the torn grass. Somehow, a monster laid beneath those torn mounds, and yet...he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for that person Adam had described in their youth.
Adam shifted away from the grave site, shaking his head. “One less monster to stress about, really. But...I should be feelin’ something other than satisfaction, I guess. But...in a way, I think I got done mournin’ the Ivan that had taken care of me a long time ago. And this person here...this sick bastard isn’t that person. I can differentiate that, and things would seem easier. I dunno...I just...”
Adam shrugged. Looked at Virgil with a studious expression.
“You look like shit,” he then said bluntly.
Virgil managed a smirk. “Yeah...but it works wonders with the ladies, I’m tellin’ ya. They all want a brooding jerk to mess around with.”
“Heh. Yeah. They all dumb that way. Whatcha doin’ up here?”
“...Dunno. Just...just thinkin’, I guess.”
Adam nodded, moving away from the gravesite.
“It’s almost a year, man. A year. An’...shit, everything’s still being cleared away.”
“Yeah...Sharon’s been collectin’ EVERYTHING about that shit. She’s been trying to get involved on the therapy case for Richie, but she can’t seem to get transferred out that way.”
“Yeah, well...they don’t allow visitors out there. And I don’t believe the shit they write in those things. I wish I knew how he was doin’...but if he’s still there, then he’s there for a reason.”
“Papers been sayin’ he had a breakdown, or somethin’.”
“...Yeah.” Virgil shifted. “I was kinda wonderin’ somethin’.”
“Shoot.”
“I got a letter the other day. From...from him. Hotstreak.”
Adam looked at him sharply, pausing in picking at his cuticles. He narrowed his eyes, and the pair of them began walking away from Ivan’s grave site. Virgil glanced at it from over his shoulder, and tried to imagine what his would look like once everyone found out he was Static.
“He still around?” Adam growled, shaking his head. “Why don’t that fool give himself up? Fuck.”
“Yeah...he...he’s still around. Wondering if I talked to Richie.”
“...Fuckin’ punk-ass. Bitch should just give himself up. Makin’ him take all the rap...fuckin’ bullshit. Ain’t got any respect for that bitch. Never have, but that’s just fuckin’ cold, man.”
“Yeah...’s what I think, too. But...should I tell him that Rich no longer wants anythin’ to do wit’ him? I want to fuckin’ tell him off. He made a promise, and he didn’t fuckin’ follow through with it. So...I dunno.”
“When you last talk with him? Rich?”
“...about six, seven months ago.”
“That long...?”
“Yeah. It’s been that long.” Virgil looked away, staring off at the city of Dakota, quietly reflecting on the past. “It sucks. I can’t do anything for him. Just...I dunno. I think, in a way, I would want to know. What happened to my...er, significant other. But...would it just upset him?”
“Just keep it on the low, Virg. He don’t need to know. Both of them don’t. If that bitch wants to know, he could turn himself in. Don’t make your bro feel even more fucked when he finds out that dick’s been talkin’ to you rather than him.”
“Yeah...thanks. I was just...thinking about it, an’ was havin’ trouble trying to figure out what to do.”
“No prob. You hungry?”
“Nah...”
“C’mon, sucka. I’m hungry. You payin’.”
“Oh, fuck that...you all rich an’ shit, you should be payin’ on me!”
Adam laughed lightly, reaching out to sling his arm over his shoulders. He gave Virgil a companionable squeeze. “In the end, it’ll all work out, man. You did what you could. Just...just live, all right? Just move on. When the time comes, an’ things have to be addressed, do it then. But there’s nothin’ you can do now. He’d want you to move on. Live. Y’know?”
“Yeah...thanks, man.”
“Ain’t no thang, Virg. Ain’t no thang...”
That night, Virgil sat down at his desk, and stared at the blank, lined paper in front of him. His pen poised over it, he listened to the silence of his room. It had long since been renovated; all traces of his childhood were gone. The walls were painted white, plain, the carpet a dull gray with a Indian inspired room rug thrown within the center. His desk had been replaced with a simple computer table, a laptop humming nearby.
He looked anxiously at the letter that he’d received a month earlier, and could see in his mind’s eye the five paragraphs, the messy handwriting. The circled dots over i’s, the curls in the y’s, p’s, q’s, g’s, and j’s. He could hear Hotstreak talking as he read over the letter; could somehow hear the sadness in his questions about Richie.
Upon that thought, he put pen to paper, and proceeded to write out all that he ever felt for this man; he wrote out all his hatred, his dislike, his distrust. What he’d felt upon seeing them together that last night, what he’d felt when his best friend chose him over their decade long friendship. He wrote down all that he felt, and wound up staring at over ten pages of words. None of them were the things Hotstreak had wanted to hear, but Virgil felt satisfied. Not because he knew it would accomplish something pertaining to the metahuman, but because he felt as if a weight had been lifted.
He mailed the letter the next day, and never heard from the man again.
As the days passed by, and he continued to go on, Virgil found himself meeting up with Shenice Vale upon a chance visit. One mistake right after another ensued, and nearly five months after his talk with Adam, Virgil was exchanging vows with the former superheroine. He wished that Richie had been there; wished that this moment had been a more happier one. But as he looked into his new wife’s eyes and promised to love her throughout the good and the bad, in health and in sickness, he realized that moving on would continue to benefit him. He no longer felt the pressure to resume his work as Static.
He went back to college and worked for his bachelor’s degree in social work. He wrote a letter to Richie, but it was returned, unopened, stating that ‘this patient had been moved to another facility’. He would continue to wait for his best friend, and was preparing himself for the turmoil that would occur when Richie was finally released.
But in the meantime...Virgil Hawkins finally had to live his own life and be his own person. And that was something that made him feel good.
OooooooooooO
Svenson and Swark were up to something. The two orderlies had been giving him secretive looks and whispers. Richie kept hearing snatches of ‘money’, and ‘it was all handled’. He had a fleeting thought that it was a desperate plot meant to get rid of him, and he fully embraced it. Living in one mental healthy facility after another, realizing that he’d never feel the same again, Richie had lost the will to live. He’d long ago lost the sense of wanting to be free, of being clear-headed. He’d lost that part of him that had made him unique and likeable; he was no longer Richie Foley, the excitable geek that made Virgil laugh or the others to cheer him on for some school related event.
No, he was Richard Foley, patient number 44zA29. The one with disassociative traits. The one that hated the dark and threw fits whenever someone covered his eyes. He was the one the new staff whispered about, the former superhero with Bang Baby abilities that had made the world of science overwrite its history in the stretches of genius capabilities. He no longer had those abilities. He was left in a drug-hazed void, and sometimes woke up screaming whenever he did sleep.
He couldn’t recognize himself, anymore. Not even when he looked into a mirror, or heard himself speak coherently. He’d long ago lost the sense to connect with his friends outside the facility. As suppressed memories came back to life through therapy, and the reality of his sense of abandonment continued, he found himself curling in on himself. He had never imagined himself in this predicament, in this situation. Had always joked on being taken to a mental institution as his powers drove him up the wall sometimes...but how ironic that he found himself here, actually embracing the dark reality just to escape from his pain.
This new facility was minimally guarded–the threat on his life had long since been down-leveled due to the length of time between his coming out as Gear and as the city worked itself into an accepting manner of his actions. But it was still a new facility; it had been in the throes of construction over a year ago. It was open and more revealing than the one in Gotham, and there was a sense of comfort in that he was back in Dakota.
The orderlies were scheduled to leave after their work shift ended, but they were lingering around Richie to make the blond suspicious. Even more so when he noticed that his usual medication was halved.
But he didn’t mind. If they were working with bad intentions toward him, then so be it. He didn’t care, anymore. He’d wanted to escape.
It was after dinner when Swark told him that his therapist needed to see him. Without any regard, Richie followed him. He didn’t care when Svenson pulled him into a supply closet and jam a needle into his upper right arm; and he certainly didn’t care when he fell unconscious moments later. As long as the pain went away, things were fine. So be it if someone still had ill intentions toward him.