Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Time And Time Again ❯ Betrayal ( Chapter 4 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
What lurks in an elementary school?
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Horror / Angst | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 12.01.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 8.5K | Visits: 263 | Status: Completed
What lurks in an elementary school?
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Horror / Angst | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 12.01.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 8.5K | Visits: 263 | Status: Completed
AU, OOC, violence...supernatural themes, violence...slash, gore
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
This is based off Silent Hill, of which I do not own but worship. ^_^ Chapter titles are borrowed from the titles of SH2 and SH3 soundtracks...both of which I RECOMMEND if you’re into that sort of music, and both of which I do not OWN in any way.
Chapter Four:
Betrayal
The footprints stopped before a gate that entered into a byway. Virgil frowned at the darkness within, straining his ears to hear anything out of the ordinary. The key in his jacket pocket felt heavy all of a sudden, reminding him of his given task. He swallowed hard, sliding a hand into that pocket to briefly hold the key. Opening the gate with his other, he winced at the loud screeching sound of rusted hinges. The sound pierced through the silence of the stillness of the neighborhood.
As in reply, something barked. Virgil quickly closed the gate behind him, withdrawing his flashlight once more. Turning, he flicked it on, scanning the dirt for footprints. He frowned at the sight of various prints leading through the trash-littered ground of the byway. He followed them anyway, hearing the incoming sound of scuffling.
Knowing what the sound belonged to, he flicked the flashlight off at the same instant. The darkness yielded him some light to see–from his position in the shadows, he had a clear view into the street he’d left. The scuffling noises grew closer, Virgil’s lips tightening with apprehension as he waited.
Movement on the sidewalk drew his eyes downward, catching sight of malformed limbs. The scuffling noise was that of the creature drawing its heavy body forward with the strength of its arms. Bulbous and deformed, the thing with a sideways mouth up one side of its body seemed to hesitate outside the gate. Virgil could hear the Wiggler’s labored breathing as it felt along the gate. Misshapened fingers touched the iron bars, searching for a handle. Virgil fought the urge to start running, not wanting to attract the Wiggler’s attention as it investigated the gate. The sideways mouth opened, revealing two rows of teeth–as well as another set of mouth. One limb stretched out to find purchase on the sidewalk to continue pulling it parallel against the gate, revealing its grotesque form to Virgil
Virgil stepped back slightly, the Wiggler stiffening. Virgil went still as well, hoping that the thing would just move on. Even with his powers, the creature was strong; it required a lot of effort to defeat, and time. Time of which he felt he didn’t have.
The Wiggler’s second mouth opened, barking incessantly as its arms examined the gate fruitlessly. It finally determined that it was too much trouble, and began to pull itself away from the sidewalk. Its bulbous body, a disastrous lump of muscle, skin and bone, glistened with wetness as it pulled itself onto the street. The first mouth opened into a mechanical shrieking that made Virgil crouch, covering his ears awkwardly to escape the noise. The shrieking brought forth answers from around the area. The malformed creature pulled itself onto the sidewalk opposite of the gate, and began pulling into a broken doorway.
Virgil released the pent-up breath he’d held and turned, cautiously flicking on his flashlight once more. Finding the set of prints he’d recognized from the ash, he followed those through the byway. At one point, he noted that a scuffle had occurred–there were muddy footprints on the surrounding walls. Further investigation yielded him a small clue that he was moving in the right direction; a tube of cherry flavored chapstick that he knew Richie used constantly. With a sort of delighted smile, he picked up the tube, pocketing it as he continued forward.
He left the byway, entering into a garage area of residential houses. Here, he hesitated. He wasn’t sure which direction he was to take.
He scanned one way with his flashlight, then the other. Uncertainty filled Virgil as he scanned the darkness for some sort of a clue. As he took a few steps forward to his left, his flashlight flitted over another object; rushing to it, he found that it was a bloodied piece of tissue. Blood spots decorated the sidewalk, giving him the impression that someone had been hurt.
He followed those until they disappeared at the corner of the block. Along the way, he’d found many discarded tissue and papers soaked in blood. As he looked up, he saw smoke curling away from a house–three blocks away.
“Bingo,” he murmured, in awe of his tracking skills.
He turned the flashlight off and pocketed it, keeping a keen eye and ear out for anymore creatures. It was just before reaching the main block when he heard the sound of footfalls coming his way. Virgil quickly leapt over a white-washed picket fence and ducked behind some rosebushes, hastily positioning himself so that he could face the sidewalk. The footfalls reached a crescendo–then he was watching the limbs of a small boy flit through the picket fence. Virgil looked up to see the thin child run through the streets as if in a panic. For a moment he was about to call out; but the noise of incoming footfalls caused him to take cover once more.
Frightened, Virgil peered through the picket fence to see three sets of human bodies shoot past him. The gurgling noises, combined with the uncoordinated way they ran told him they were zombies. Virgil listened for other noises, then quickly pulled himself out from the rosebush. He could handle zombies.
He saw the undead creatures racing after the smaller boy, of whom was crying out with terror upon their closeness. Virgil leapt over the picket fence, spying something shift from the corner of his eye. Whirling, he cast a look into the shadows lining the streets, sure that he’d saw something. But the cries of the boy drew his attention once more.
He looked over to seeing him trip and fall, the zombies intensifying their speed. Snarls scratched the air, and broken limbs rose in victory. Virgil continued running, gritting his teeth. It was easy to pick up one abandoned vehicle, the lurching noise of moving metal catching the attention of all. The three zombies stopped running to gape at the incoming car Virgil slammed into them. The vehicle uttered a protesting screech of violence as it slammed into the trio, scraping across pavement and rolling with heavy fashion into a yard.
The boy screamed, and before Virgil could do anything, he was up and disappearing into the shadows of another yard.
Virgil stared into the shadows helplessly, feeling the weight of the key in his pocket pressing on him. With reluctance, he turned to make sure the zombies were out of commission before locating the house he’d seen earlier. As he began jogging back into that direction, he remembered the movement in the shadows. Uncertainty filled him once more, taking controlled breaths as he moved, steering clear of anything that could trap him in place for an enemy.
Standing before the house, Virgil stared up at the smoke that curled away from the chimney. He hoped that it was the right place; what he was looking for. With a grim expression, he cast a cautious look around himself before stepping into the trashed yard. Nothing was unusual about the two story building; but he did note that while the windows and door were boarded over, there were obvious signs of the living here.
The porch reflected this with footprints in the dust–the fact that barbwire was strung dangerously around the edges of the stairway. Thin wires zigzagged around the porch floor. There were traps here. He took out the disk from his bag, tossing it to the ground while simultaneously charging it. Alighting into the air, he cast off to the side of the house, looking for a way to peek in.
He couldn’t find a credible entrance into the house. Everything was just too secure in its bindings. He alighted onto the back yard, searching for any clues that would allow entrance into the house. Seeing nothing, he took to the air in frustration. Once again floating in front of the house, Virgil stared at the porch. There weren’t any visible door lines outside of the main door. But he thought of the door at the fire station, remembering how Richie had opened it despite the appearance of boards and chains. As he started forward, he heard a sharp snap behind him, signaling a presence.
He whirled, scanning the shadows with wariness. As he started to return his attention to the house, movement caught his eye. He saw several forms crouching motionless within the shadows of the neighboring house. Instinct had him reacting, throwing his hands up, revealing them within the light he cast.
The men reacted, but not to his command. His power seemed to sizzle right over their forms. They began to fire at him, Virgil gasping in disbelief as his powers refused to react to their ammunition as well. Fierce and sharp pain hit him multiple times over his body, dropping him out of the air. Rubber bullets continued to hit him as he curled into a ball, crying out with fright and pain. He heard shouted commands, but he feared what they were going to do to him if they caught a hold of him.
Quickly, despite the pain, he shot to his feet and retrieved his disk, running away from the house and the chasing men. He shoved his disk back into the bag’s slot, piercing pain shooting throughout his body in a fierce stinging sensation that was painful to endure. He waved his arms about in the air in an effort to block more shots. Hearing the men give continued chase, Virgil pulled his disk out, spreading it to hold as a shield between himself and their bullets. He ran through the neighborhood, natural fright taking over common sense. Every spot of impact seemed to swell and bruise painfully, muscles rendered sore and strained.
Too panicked to think clearly, Virgil leapt over a small fence line, heading into the backgrounds of an elementary school. Racing for the building, Virgil pulled his disk out to jump on top, soaring through the air. He felt a more piercing sensation in his right hamstring, sending an utterly striking pain throughout his entire body. With a violent jolt, he was slamming forward with a loud cry, breaking with painful impact into one of the windows of the second floor. He rolled painfully onto the dirty floor of a classroom, knocking aside various empty desks that screeched in protest. Glass glittered around him, the entire school still and silent.
Virgil groaned, registering all pains on his body. Fear and shock over the sudden assault left him confused and lost, aching for some sort of grounding sensation against the violence. Once registering his surroundings, Virgil rose painfully from the floor, rubbing painfully at his hamstring. He looked down, examining his hand when he pulled it away. The obviousness of blood made him start.
Alarmed, he quickly pulled and unbuckled his belt, lowering his jeans to twist and see part of a very thin pipe-like object still hanging from his leg. He cursed in pained fashion, pulling it from his skin. Blood immediately welled, the area turning incredibly sore and stiff. Whirling around, pulling his pants up and buckling his belt, he spotted the rest of the syringe amid the glass. Cursing again, he felt panic well up inside himself. Tossing the piece aside, he tried to calm himself. Question after question hit him, mind whirling with bewilderment and confusion.
The still and dark halls of the school rang with noises, Virgil identifying them as those belonging to the group of men. He sought the darkness of the classroom for his disk, aiming for easy escape through the window. But the world began to grow gray around the edges, vision darkening. His body grew heavy, mind buzzing suddenly. He stilled, closing his eyes as intense nausea hit him hard. He slowly sank to the floor, afraid to move lest he vomited.
The door burst open, uniformed men crowding in with muffled commands. Virgil startled, his world hazy and filled with nausea–he watched them spread out around him, weapons pointed at him. His vision grew blurry–all the symptoms of his upset intensified at that moment, sound blurring into a cacophony of noise. Every limb was rendered paralyzed–but inside Virgil’s mind, he saw the uniformed police officers that had surrounded him a day after his attempted murder. He felt the white hot flash of fury at knowing how close he’d been to his mother’s killers; the frustration in knowing he’d been so close–
Somehow, that angered strength overcome his induced weaknesses. Gritting his teeth, Virgil focused on the many empty desks within the room. Far away, he heard men shout in alarm, desks rising from the floor to fly at every uniform around him. The room swirled with activity, and through it all, Virgil struggled to remain conscious.
Men shouted as metal filing cabinets, chairs and rolling metal storage cases joined the desks in air. Weapons and men hit the floor, Virgil opening an eye to see their plastic guns–their rubber uniforms. He growled, bothered by their craftiness. Rising, his limbs feeling weak and intensely shaky, Virgil poured all his energy into the attack. Glass shattered as a couple of unfortunate men fell out from the windows, aided by the heavy metal cabinets that Virgil used to bash into them.
He hadn’t killed anyone, before–but in his panicked and sickened mind, death was his safety. He focused on stripping the metal legs from chairs, various pairs losing contact with plastic. He hesitated for a moment, staring at the sharpened edges of the legs–then, as a couple of men moved for their weapons, he attacked first. Metal slammed easily through flesh and bone, others reacting with stunned fear as they watched their comrades die. He began to kill in this fashion, slamming chair legs through anything that moved.
Virgil directed his attention to the others, metal legs flying through the air, slamming into chests with a crunch of sound. The sound of flesh and bone broken under impact made him sick. He leaned over to vomit, everything falling to the floor at the loss of concentration. A man slipped away to safety, leaving his weapons behind. Another struggled with a metal chair leg that protruded from his throat. Others struggled with their injuries, choking noises audible, shrieks of pain filling the room.
Virgil wiped his mouth, spying two other men struggling for safety outside the classroom. With some hesitation, he pulled the cabinets from the windows, overturning each. Once aligned with the men, he dropped them directly over their heads. The resulting noise of impact was gruesome. He turned to vomit again, turning to avoid watching bodies convulse.
The man with metal protruding from his neck finally collapsed. The sounds of silence was sickening.
Virgil felt the urge to faint once more, surrounded by what he’d done. The eerie silence was too much–the loss of life at his own hands rendered him deep inside.
Even as his limbs trembled from the chemical injection, Virgil crawled into the farthest corner of the room, struggling not to look at the motionless forms around him. Overwhelming guilt and horror hit him–he curled up in himself, shaking violently as he covered his face with his hands.
Things were so different from the video games he’d played. From the things he’d seen in movies. The stillness and silence rang accusingly, increasing his agitation. He hid his face once more, drawing in a choked breath–determined to see nothing. The tranquilizer’s effect finally took over–much too late.
* - * - * - * - *
The warmth of the house, combined with the fight from earlier had left Richie exhausted. He’d struggled to fight the urge to sleep with no success. Once more handcuffed to the same chair he had been sitting in earlier, Richie fell asleep with his head on the table while Hotstreak pondered the newfound horror of the basement. With the heavy silence, he, too, fell prey to sleep.
Wood in the fireplace popped as its fuel depleted. The house, aged as it was, gave its normal creaks and groans as the early morning continued on. Outside, the wind blew softly against the boarded windows, bringing with it a sharp chill that signaled incoming snow. Ice formed hazardly atop of pavement, black as the shadows it was shrouded in.
In the midst of memories in form of a dream, Richie found himself awakening at the shiver of knowing something was wrong. But caught in between the dreamworld and reality, he was slow to register that shriek of survival instinct. Movement at the corner of his eye had him lifting his head–with his neck shrieking in pain over the awkward position he’d lain in–sluggishly straightening in the uncomfortable dining room chair.
He had only a moment to register the frightening visage that drifted against him when his body felt the sharp shock of ice penetrating his veins. It stiffened his body, snapping every limb into heavy paralyzation. He started to draw breath to give an alarmed shout when it felt as if his brain were suddenly hit with ice. Every sensation, every emotion gave away to cold–as fast as he’d registered the danger, the danger hit before he could complete his distress.
He became aware of nothing else as his body slumped heavily from the chair and landed painfully against the hard floor. The heavy thud of impact startled Hotstreak out of his doze, sluggishly blinking away sleep as his mind registered the sound.
At a soft tapping sound, as if a pillow were hitting a couch on repetitive movement, he realized that it was a sound out of place. The darkness of the kitchen had him confused for a few moments, registering that the fire had died down to embers; then movement caught the corner of his eye. He looked over, and reacted with alarm upon seeing the directionless Spectre bumping repeatedly against the chair the teen had been sitting in earlier.
As always, the fright a Spectre gave made him react with horror. It floated, carried mysteriously aloft only by its shoulders, all limbs hanging uselessly from its seemingly boneless structure. Instead of a normal human face, it held wide, sunken eyes etched in black, and a mouth that never closed. Wide with boneless action, its mouth looked as if it were permanently screaming–but Spectres never made a sound. Its frightening visage was another weapon; unnatural and demonic, seen even when eyes closed of their own violation.
Spectres floated aimlessly–sometimes through hard surfaces, sometimes disappearing completely, sometimes popping up from no where like some demented Jack in a Box. Once a living human, the Spectre was nothing but a cold entity that struck its victims with the strength of its own freezing essence. Some lived; some didn’t. It all mattered on how quick their victims gained heat.
He realized then that Richie was laying awkwardly on the floor, arm twisted in unnatural form as handcuffs held it in place. Spectres were driven away by heat–he looked back at the dying fire, glowing embers casting a devilish glow in the kitchen, shadows touching everything. The Spectre continued to bump against Richie’s chair, silently screaming face watching Hotstreak with every movement through the rungs of the chair.
The chair scratched along the floor and table with the Spectre’s movements, casting a sort of ominous repetitive sound that eked along his nerves. Hotstreak managed to compose himself, driving the uneasy fear away from him as he forced his body to expand heat. The Spectre pulled sharply away from the chair, drifting backward along the floor with all its limbs scraping against the hard wood. Its facial expression never changed as he poured on the heat, moving forward in an effort to chase the thing away.
The Spectre sank through the dining room wall, drifting aimlessly through the area before disappearing. Hotstreak waited for a few moments, making sure that it didn’t pop back up. Quickly, he fed more wood into the fireplace, stirring up the embers. Once he was sure the fire caught, he hurried around the table. He fumbled with the keys to the handcuffs, careful of the twisted arm. It wasn’t broken–it had just been the appearance and position that the teen laid on the floor with that made it seem as if it were.
He unlocked the handcuffs, wincing at the feeling of ice-cold limbs that remained inert with all his movements. He heard the soft scrape of the hidden door in the den opening, recognizing Harley’s entrance as he awkwardly pulled the teen into his arms. Carefully, he started to emit heat from his own body as Harley walked into the kitchen, giving the scene a confused glance.
“Spectre,” Hotstreak muttered, struggling to roll the dead-weight in his arms to a more comfortable position in which he could lift the teen. Harley watched in silence, looking wholly irritated as Hotstreak managed to accomplish his task.
Upon the man’s return, Hotstreak felt those feelings of intense disgust and uncomfortable shame fill through him. But he didn’t know what to do with them; he didn’t know what to do now that he was facing the man. He focused on getting Richie close to the fire, helping the process of warming him with his own unnatural body heat. With a sort of awkward action, he rubbed ice-cold limbs with his hands, darting Harley suspicious looks.
Harley crossed his arms and leant against the doorframe. “I didn’t have to go far,” he muttered, as if raising his voice would waken the teen. “They were right outside. Tracking the other kid.”
“...Kid?”
“Some other super. I didn’t know we...there were other supers in this city. But I saw what he could do. I think he was looking for him.” Harley gestured at the teen with his chin.
Hotstreak looked away from him, too uncomfortable with looking at the man in another light after what he’d seen in the basement. This man shamed and disgusted him. But they had years of...of everything. In a world full of sins, of people fighting each other tooth and claw for survival...would it have been okay to view it in a different light?
“What’s wrong?” Harley asked sharply, tensing.
“Nothing.” Hotstreak focused on warming the teen, noting that he was starting to feel a little more pliant in his arms. In an awkward motion, he pulled the blond against him, wincing at the feel of ice against his neck. He continued to use his hands to rub over the teen’s back and arms, feeling Harley’s eyes baring into him with each passing second.
“They don’t have the bounty,” Harley said quietly. “They lied. They lied to my face. I didn’t mention that we had the kid. Would be kinda a shame if they never did find the kid, huh? Payback for their shit?”
Hotstreak stilled, thinking of the preteen that had been chained in the basement. He felt his own chills racing up and down his spine at the thought of hearing this boy recite Dr. Seuss books while alone. He could imagine hearing his voice carry in the ventilation system while they were in their room. Sometimes...when Harley thought he was asleep...those screams would echo right through the system, jerking him out of a dead sleep.
He swallowed hard, feeling the faint beat of Richie’s heart against his chest. He could feel breath against his neck. It was starting to grow harder and harder to hold the teen against him as limbs warmed significantly with his body heat and the heat of the fire. He saw Harley moving out of the corner of his eye, the other man moving over to the table to sit slowly in the chair he’d sat in earlier.
“Yeah,” he answered in a croak, in reply to his earlier question.
Harley began to disarm himself. The settling of his various belts and weaponry on the kitchen table made a loud thudding noise that was disruptive to the quiet already in place. Hotstreak felt the teen jerk in response to the noise, and he quickly pressed the blond’s face against his neck, trying for a desperate signal to keep him quiet. When the teen started to move, he wrapped his arm around his back, trying to convey the signal to him in that cradle hold, trying to tell him without words and without drawing attention to Harley to stay still and quiet.
And through some miracle...the teen heard that message and stilled. Hotstreak could feel the pick up of speed in his heart beat.
Harley watched Hotstreak with a wary look, clasping his hands together atop of the table. Richie remained still, sensing the tension in Hotstreak’s body and in the air. The uneasiness he sensed in the redhead convinced him that abiding to his silent command was the best choice. As his limbs warmed significantly with the fireplace’s heat and the unnatural warmth from Hotstreak, his pliancy became more obvious. He was starting to grow scared with what was happening around him, quite aware of the tension emanating from Harley. It was unnerving to know one man was uncertain of another.
Harley shifted in his chair. “Doesn’t take that long to warm up a Spectre’s touch.”
Hotstreak stilled for a moment, Richie tensing once more. Then Hotstreak shifted, Richie’s fingers curling into his shirt, out of Harley’s view. Hotstreak stilled once more, seemingly at odds at what to do or say.
“I guess since I’m not getting that bounty, we don’t have a need for the kid,” Harley continued. “And I sure as hell don’t want them to have him after all the trouble I went through. I think I’ll get rid of him and leave him where they can find him.”
It was said so casually–so easily. As if he were talking about taking out the trash. Richie tensed, thinking of the basement, of the kid they’d released. His fingers tightened around the material of Hotstreak’s shirt, feeling somewhat desperate for any sign of safety in the man. Hotstreak stopped rubbing his back, contemplating Harley’s words.
“What are you going to do with him?” he asked quietly, watching wood shift within the fireplace. He felt Richie hold his breath, his heart beating faster.
“...Throw him in the basement. I’ll deal with him.” Harley rose from his chair, setting it right. “I’m going to change. You should too. You got his blood all over you.”
Hotstreak looked down at his shirt, seeing where Richie’s bloodied face had, upon warming, rubbed off on the material. Richie kept himself still, utterly aware of that precarious moment, Harley’s words hanging in the air. Harley waited, eyeing Hotstreak impatiently.
“I’ll be up in a sec,” he muttered, shifting. Richie felt his insides clench as Hotstreak moved to comply with Harley’s demand.
Harley watched and Richie shut his eyes to appear unconscious. But fear left him stiff, mind working furiously for a plan to escape. He did not want to be in that basement with Harley. Hotstreak grunted as he effortlessly tossed Richie over one shoulder. At that moment, Richie caught sight of Harley’s abandoned weapons on the table. Desperate, he lunged for the closest one, Hotstreak reacting to his movement with a startled stumble. Harley cursed, seeing Richie straightening with his 9 mm semiautomatic. He snarled, shoving the table into the back of Hotstreak’s legs, knocking over the redhead. Both Hotstreak and Richie fell to the floor, Harley racing over in that moment of confusion to dive onto both.
Amidst the struggle, Hotstreak tried to straighten, Richie’s knees digging into his back as he fought with Harley over the weapon. Richie realized that Harley was much stronger than he, and used the former Marine’s momentum to fall backward, using his legs to push Harley up and over his head. It helped that Hotstreak used that moment to rise, effecting the move.
As soon as Harley landed on the floor, he was rolling onto his feet. Richie whirled to gauge his distance as he struggled to run. The explosion of the 9 mm rang out loudly, Hotstreak ducking with a curse as Richie hit the floor with a wail of pain and fear. Harley fired twice more before Hotstreak intercepted, shoving the gun upward. Both men paused as the teen curled in on himself, using his legs to push along the floor in a frenzied action of panic.
Harley shoved Hotstreak away, both men rising to see what damage had been done. When Harley lifted the gun to fire again, Hotstreak shoved his arm back. Harley allowed him to take the weapon away, venturing forward with a satisfied expression. He stood over the teen with an expression of malevolence. Hotstreak stood still, horrified at what had happened. Then Harley barked with laughter. He snatched his knife from the table, Hotstreak watching with uncertainty as Harley began tearing at Richie’s hooded sweater. Upon seeing the bulletproof vest, with two burst holes in the torso, Hotstreak gave a sound of astonishment.
Even if the vest prevented death, the impacts were ruthless. Richie curled inward once more with pain, Harley laughing in harsh delight, giving Hotstreak an amused smile.
“Kid’s great,” he commented, as if a joke was shared between them all. “Just full of surprises.”
Hotstreak said nothing, watching Richie writhe in pain. Harley jerked the teen to his feet, Hotstreak taking in the sight of pained tears and deathly pale features. Something struck him at that moment, watching Harley drag Richie past him. The basement door creaked open, hinges protesting violently as both males disappeared into the darkness. The door slammed shut behind them and Hotstreak listened to the silence that lingered afterward.
* - * - * - * - *
Virgil’s eyes snapped open at the soft sound of movement. The soft noises of childish wonder hit him, awareness alerting him to slurping and crunching noises. He slowly pulled his fingers from his eyes to see dark forms over those of the fallen men. Virgil held his breath in horror, recognizing the dark demon children that moved fitfully over their finds. Darker than the shadows that occupied the room, they were distinguished by the shapes of their small bodies, the shapes of toddlers with overly large hands. Screeching noises of satisfaction, glee and wonder broke the silence in moments of broken symphony. To Virgil, it was almost as if he were listening to birds chirp noisily to each other.
Their toddler forms moved around in clumsy action, claw-like fingers scraping against the floor. Teeth, broken and decayed, flashed with their gleeful smiles. Their eyes, dark caverns of nothingness, were frightening as they focused on him from time to time.
One, breathing heavily in a sickened manner, scurried over to him. Virgil felt its icy cold fingers touch his dreads, drifting down to follow the shape of his ears. He held his breath as it leaned close, pressing its head against his forehead to listen for breath. The feel of its mottled skin and nub of an ear made his skin crawl. He had to suppress the terrible urge to shudder. It smelled of decay and death–its skin seemed to catch on his hair. Its breathing was disturbed by a rattling sound in its deformed chest, bubbles catching as it breathed.
Virgil struggled to think of far away thoughts–keeping his body as rigid and still as possible to keep from alerting it to his living. It was hard to suppress, the drive to shove it away from him strong. It listened to him, pressing its head harder against his, as if tempting him to move. The feel of its mottled skin sent goosepimples up and down his arms–he fought with himself to suppress another shudder of revulsion. His lungs were starting to protest its held action.
It then moved away to follow the others, joining two others that were snarling at each other as they tugged at one body. Virgil was paralyzed with fright. The creatures, in significant number, were a stubborn lot. He didn’t feel in control of his powers, his body weak and significantly fragile with shaky anxiety due to the unknown chemical he’d been injected with. His stomach felt raw–his mind dazed. He wasn’t ready to fight just yet. Each demon had the strength of four men–quick and ruthless, they could dismember a man in seconds.
Virgil watched them scurry about–they were curious over the mess of the classroom. Their tilting chirps were more audible as they examined upended desks and broken shards of glass. Suddenly, they all stilled in unison. Virgil stilled as well, straining to hear what they did. They were then snarling in doglike manner as they all trampled out of the room in a clumsy moving group. Their frightening snarls rang throughout the halls, moving feet accompanying their hurried movements.
Virgil quickly moved to his feet, swaying at the action. His head spun–his stomach lurched. He braced himself against the wall for support, feeling entirely spent. As he moved to the nearest broken window, something caught his eye–the Motel Six key. He reached for it, alarmed at its near loss. As he was picking it up, he spotted a blood stained paper sticking out from a man’s pants pocket. On impulse, he reached for it. Opening it, emitting light from his free hand, he saw with much bewilderment that it was his juvenile record summary. A sort of horror and confusion gripped him, dazed over this information. His father had held the very same piece of paper years earlier.
Stunned, Virgil read over his personal information at age thirteen–five feet even, ninety pounds, black, brown 5/18/XX–and wondered why it was in their hands. He glanced at his mug shot, a far cry from what he looked today. He read over his offences, and the judgement of a child psychologist. The eventual sentence to Juvenile Detention, followed by time spent at Alva’s Juvenile Ranch.
Upon hearing the movement of demons herding their way back to the classroom, Virgil retrieved his disk. Very unsteady, he forced himself to the window, aiming to fly away. His powers faltered once he steadied himself on his disk, losing altitude in an uncontrolled manner and hitting the ground with a heavy impact that rendered pain throughout every bone and muscle. The snarls and cries of the demons above him caused him to look up, seeing their dark heads peering at him from the windows above.
Wincing with pain, Virgil rose from the dirt. He spotted a form close by–one of the men he’d knocked out earlier with one of the metal cabinets. He was laying stiffly, head at an angle–the other man was gone. Cautiously, Virgil shoved both key and paper into his jeans pocket, picking up his disk with his other hand. He started forward, more determined than ever to get to Richie.
* - * - * - * - *
He tried not to smirk–but the faces of those that had been skeptic were too miserable to refrain from making judgement. They had just reported what had happened with Virgil in the elementary school, having barely escaped with their lives. The fact that the teenager had fought to kill while cornered was a sad note to remember.
“Well, I hate to say ‘I told you so’,” he said with a shrug. The man in black rubbed his chin, frowning at the darkness around them. Their current hiding place was an abandoned office in the Human Services Building, military enforced with heavy ordinance against creatures and survivors. He thought that they were basically a sitting target, announcing to the rest of the world their bounties. It made him uneasy.
To his men, he asked, “Any report of the other kid?”
“One of the hunters approached us earlier,” one reported. “Asking about the bounty. He seemed suspicious of our actually having it in our possession.”
“Did he, now? Which hunter?”
“The Marine.”
“Any idea where he and his partner are staying?”
“No.”
“Any sighting of the kid?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s too bad. These kids are smart. And they’re resourceful. They know how to throw us off.” The man in black stared at the two photographs before him. Both of them were very recent, taken digitally and printed with a portable printer. “Must of learned a few things in juvie...”
“Sir?”
He turned in his chair to look at the man that approached him. He frowned at the apprehension in the young officer’s face.
“He’s back, sir.”
The man sighed heavily with weariness.
* - * - * - * - *
Hotstreak looked up when the door to the bedroom opened, Harley walking in with a heavy sense of accusation. Seated at the edge of the king-sized bed they shared, Hotstreak noted the bloodied shirt, the blood soaked skin of Harley’s face and arms. Horror struck him. Harley stared at him in accusing silence, posture stiff.
“That’s fucking disgusting,” Hotstreak spoke. His expression was clearly stricken. “I didn’t know you were fucking kids!”
Harley’s lips thinned, wiping his face with one dirty hand. He walked slowly toward the bathroom, muscles flexing with tension. “That area’s supposed to be off-limits to you.”
“Why the fuck are you talking to me that way? Don’t talk to me like that. I’ll go any damn where I wanna go, so fuck you.”
“We agreed that you’d never go down there,” Harley said evenly, walking into the bathroom. Water ran as he started to clean himself, glaring at his reflection in the mirror.
In disgust, Hotstreak rose, striding over to the bathroom to stare at Harley as he calmly washed himself. The dirtied shirt he’d changed out of earlier was kicked out of the way. “There wasn’t no agreement! I just–didn’t go near the place when you brought over the first one! I chose not to pay attention to what the fuck you were doing. You didn’t say shit!”
“My room, my business.” Harley dried himself, then stripped off his shirt, revealing new scratches over his chest and shoulders. “It went unsaid.”
Hotstreak stared at him in stunned silence as Harley examined a new set of teethmarks on his left forearm. He couldn’t imagine what had happened down there. But he was starting to see Harley as a stranger. After years of living with him, surviving with him, Harley was slipping out of his grasp of understanding. He didn’t know what to do.
“When–” he cut himself off, feeling sick upon remembering the boy. His throat felt tight. Harley brushed past him, giving him nary a glance as he busied himself with redressing into another t-shirt.
“Besides, the kid belonged to nobody,” Harley said a toneless voice, focused on his task. “And there is nothing here to say that its wrong. No law...no morals...just survival of the fittest. You know?”
An icy fist hit Hotstreak’s gut. “No morals? No law? Yeah, there ain’t no law. But you were raised by morals. It’s like...instinct.”
“In this world and time, it’s either you get or give. I choose to get. Morals went out the window when the whole world fell to shit. Besides, what are you getting all worked up about? You said nothing with the others!”
“Yeah, but that’s different!” Hotstreak protested. His insides were clenching. “They were–adults! They got that rule, survival of the fittest! Kids–kids don’t–!”
“It’s eat or be eaten!” Harley snapped, looking over at him. “The kid had nobody. No one will miss him.”
“But it’s sick. It’s fucking sick!”
Harley studied him, eyes turning dark. It felt, to Hotstreak, that the temperature dropped; that the air thickened.
“Why are you making a big deal out of it?” he snapped, muscles flexing angrily. “You never had a problem with shit before. Now you do?”
Hotstreak sputtered, feeling reduced to something less. A child. A dummy. It was not a good feeling and he felt himself grow angry. “Not a problem with people–MEN–that can fight back and give you trouble! I–I shouldn’t be feeling that way, anyhow, but with shit–it’s just–kids. They can’t fight back–!”
“I need stitches from this one!” Harley held out his forearm.
“That was a boy! Young–he–it was SICK! To know he was down there all this time, and–it’s WRONG!” Hotstreak roared furiously. “You don’t do shit to kids! It just ain’t RIGHT!”
“Just as it wasn’t right for you to be locked up your entire life, to be studied and dissected like you were nothing!”
Hotstreak thought of those years of the labs–held under various machinery, asked unending questions. Involuntarily giving his body to those that were curious about his ability to produce fire.
“That was different,” he muttered.
“There was law then,” Harley pointed out. “But what’d the law do then?”
“...This ain’t about me. This ain’t about me at all!”
“What I did, what I do, is all my business. I was...curious. I wanted to know what the thrill was. I found out.”
Disgust made Hotstreak tremble. His stomach curled. He thought of the boy, helpless and scared, being subject to Harley’s disgusting ‘curiosity’. He felt bile in his throat, and had to clear it noisily.
Harley gave him a look of pity. “C’mon, man. C’mon, it’s not like...it’s not wrong in a world like this. Not when we can do what we want. No boundaries, no order. Every day should be lived as if it were the last. And if I got curiosity, I want to satisfy it. Nothing can hold me back!”
Hotstreak shook his head, pulling toward the door. Harley watched him with an expression of exasperation. He then turned away to untie his boots.
Hotstreak watched in numb silence as Harley changed into sweats and a sweater shirt. He couldn’t speak. Harley straightened, tossing him a frown.
“Just let it go,” he muttered. “It’s not like you’re invited. I’m not pressuring you to join in.”
“I have to live with you. I touch you. We–we share things. We fuck, for fuck’s sake! You think I can keep doin’ that stuff knowing what you do down there?!”
Harley hurled a boot at him. “It’s not like I’m treating you any different! It’s my life! I do what I want! I wanna fuck kids, that’s my business!”
Hotstreak thought he was going to vomit, struggling to refrain from doing so. He couldn’t take Harley’s attitude or view anymore. He turned, stalking out the door. He heard Harley come after him, and violently shoved him when the man tried to hug him from behind.
“Don’t you fucking touch me!” he snarled, Harley shooting him a look of distress.
“Hey man...c’mon. Francis. Stop. Don’t freak out on me, man. C’mon...”
Both of them stared at each other, Hotstreak shaking with his mental distress. Struggling with it, he turned away from Harley, unable to look at him any more.
Harley frowned darkly. “What’s with you? You’re changing on me, man. We used to be cool–!”
“‘I’ve’ changed?! You’re the one that turned all freaky psychopath on me!” Hotstreak bellowed in disbelief.
“I’ve always had an edge on me!”
“Not like this! Not like–!”
“You knew that! You knew I was fucked up in the head, and you accepted me anyway!” Harley bellowed back, face reddening. “That’s what I loved about you! You were cool with things, and once you found out that I–!”
“Oh, God, it was never like this. Never with fucking kids! Everything else–fine! But with this, this is a fucking HELL NO! That’s something sacred, something you just don’t DO!”
“I just had to try it! Just once–just once to see–I was curious. It was just one time and I–look. I won’t go it no more. Huh? That okay? Just chalk this up to one time and forget it...”
Hotstreak stared at him in continued stunned silence. It was all wrong for him. Entirely wrong. He just couldn’t see Harley in the same light. He shook his head.
“No,” he said quietly. “Uh uh. It’s wrong. Other shit was freaky–I just–it’s all too fucked up for me, man.”
Harley stared at him. His facial features seemed to change–growing tight and red as Hotstreak spoke. A wild look came to his eyes, and he seemed to tighten his entire body at Hotstreak’s words. The tension grew, and Hotstreak felt an ugly blackness start to creep around him. Uncomfortably, he looked away, presenting his back to Harley as he descended the stairs. He felt Harley’s eyes on his back, skin prickling with mortal awareness. He cast a cautious look at Harley before walking his way to the basement. Passing the kitchen table, he noticed Harley’s previous weaponry was gone. He hesitated as he stared at the emptiness.
Then, he opened the door to the basement. The darkness and utter silence made his insides clench.
He made his way down, carefully negotiating the darkness, ducking the low ceiling. With a snap of his fingers, he lit the candles, scanning the enclosed area. Skeletons had fallen victim to a violent fight. Pictures lay everywhere. He saw the ruined bulletproof vest laying against the wall, along with the rest of the teen’s clothes. He tripped over a boot. He looked over at the bed as he straightened, dreading what he was going to see.
He gave a small start as he realized the teen was watching him, an expression of hardened awareness on his face. His face was masked in blood. There was a grotesque injury above his right eyebrow, the knot hardened and colored, skin broken. It was the source of all that blood, but how he’d gotten it was something he didn’t question.
The teen clearly didn’t trust him, and Hotstreak wouldn’t blame him. His frail body was shaking as the redhead drew near, tripping over a Maglite flashlight that crashed against the wall with impact. The light flickered on, illuminating various Polaroids of death and sexual depictions.
Hotstreak ripped material from the bed, pressing it against the wound. The teen kept watching him, but was silent the entire time. Hotstreak searched for his clothes, utterly sickened by what he could see. He heard sniffling, looking over with aching guilt to see the teen shedding silent tears, face averted into the other direction.
Hotstreak felt intense misery hit him, ice clenching his insides. He found that the teen’s clothes was soaked with blood–there was so much–and finally turned, jerking off his own shirt. He assisted the teen with pulling it on, the blond moving compliantly with his every action.
“Your friend’s looking for you,” Hotstreak muttered, helping him to his feet, wincing at the feel of ice cold skin. He didn’t want to think of what had happened. “Let’s get you clothes. You can go after that.”
The teen remained silent, a whole different change from earlier. Hotstreak felt violent shame hit him, closing his eyes briefly as he turned to lead the way out of the basement.
Both of them stilled at the sight of Harley standing silently atop of the first landing, the top half of his upper torso hidden by the low ceiling. The sight was eerie, his body only visible by the faint candlelight that illuminated the room. Hotstreak felt an uncanny sense of foreboding sweep through his frame, immediately spotting the MP5 dangling from one of Harley’s hands.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
This is based off Silent Hill, of which I do not own but worship. ^_^ Chapter titles are borrowed from the titles of SH2 and SH3 soundtracks...both of which I RECOMMEND if you’re into that sort of music, and both of which I do not OWN in any way.
Chapter Four:
Betrayal
The footprints stopped before a gate that entered into a byway. Virgil frowned at the darkness within, straining his ears to hear anything out of the ordinary. The key in his jacket pocket felt heavy all of a sudden, reminding him of his given task. He swallowed hard, sliding a hand into that pocket to briefly hold the key. Opening the gate with his other, he winced at the loud screeching sound of rusted hinges. The sound pierced through the silence of the stillness of the neighborhood.
As in reply, something barked. Virgil quickly closed the gate behind him, withdrawing his flashlight once more. Turning, he flicked it on, scanning the dirt for footprints. He frowned at the sight of various prints leading through the trash-littered ground of the byway. He followed them anyway, hearing the incoming sound of scuffling.
Knowing what the sound belonged to, he flicked the flashlight off at the same instant. The darkness yielded him some light to see–from his position in the shadows, he had a clear view into the street he’d left. The scuffling noises grew closer, Virgil’s lips tightening with apprehension as he waited.
Movement on the sidewalk drew his eyes downward, catching sight of malformed limbs. The scuffling noise was that of the creature drawing its heavy body forward with the strength of its arms. Bulbous and deformed, the thing with a sideways mouth up one side of its body seemed to hesitate outside the gate. Virgil could hear the Wiggler’s labored breathing as it felt along the gate. Misshapened fingers touched the iron bars, searching for a handle. Virgil fought the urge to start running, not wanting to attract the Wiggler’s attention as it investigated the gate. The sideways mouth opened, revealing two rows of teeth–as well as another set of mouth. One limb stretched out to find purchase on the sidewalk to continue pulling it parallel against the gate, revealing its grotesque form to Virgil
Virgil stepped back slightly, the Wiggler stiffening. Virgil went still as well, hoping that the thing would just move on. Even with his powers, the creature was strong; it required a lot of effort to defeat, and time. Time of which he felt he didn’t have.
The Wiggler’s second mouth opened, barking incessantly as its arms examined the gate fruitlessly. It finally determined that it was too much trouble, and began to pull itself away from the sidewalk. Its bulbous body, a disastrous lump of muscle, skin and bone, glistened with wetness as it pulled itself onto the street. The first mouth opened into a mechanical shrieking that made Virgil crouch, covering his ears awkwardly to escape the noise. The shrieking brought forth answers from around the area. The malformed creature pulled itself onto the sidewalk opposite of the gate, and began pulling into a broken doorway.
Virgil released the pent-up breath he’d held and turned, cautiously flicking on his flashlight once more. Finding the set of prints he’d recognized from the ash, he followed those through the byway. At one point, he noted that a scuffle had occurred–there were muddy footprints on the surrounding walls. Further investigation yielded him a small clue that he was moving in the right direction; a tube of cherry flavored chapstick that he knew Richie used constantly. With a sort of delighted smile, he picked up the tube, pocketing it as he continued forward.
He left the byway, entering into a garage area of residential houses. Here, he hesitated. He wasn’t sure which direction he was to take.
He scanned one way with his flashlight, then the other. Uncertainty filled Virgil as he scanned the darkness for some sort of a clue. As he took a few steps forward to his left, his flashlight flitted over another object; rushing to it, he found that it was a bloodied piece of tissue. Blood spots decorated the sidewalk, giving him the impression that someone had been hurt.
He followed those until they disappeared at the corner of the block. Along the way, he’d found many discarded tissue and papers soaked in blood. As he looked up, he saw smoke curling away from a house–three blocks away.
“Bingo,” he murmured, in awe of his tracking skills.
He turned the flashlight off and pocketed it, keeping a keen eye and ear out for anymore creatures. It was just before reaching the main block when he heard the sound of footfalls coming his way. Virgil quickly leapt over a white-washed picket fence and ducked behind some rosebushes, hastily positioning himself so that he could face the sidewalk. The footfalls reached a crescendo–then he was watching the limbs of a small boy flit through the picket fence. Virgil looked up to see the thin child run through the streets as if in a panic. For a moment he was about to call out; but the noise of incoming footfalls caused him to take cover once more.
Frightened, Virgil peered through the picket fence to see three sets of human bodies shoot past him. The gurgling noises, combined with the uncoordinated way they ran told him they were zombies. Virgil listened for other noises, then quickly pulled himself out from the rosebush. He could handle zombies.
He saw the undead creatures racing after the smaller boy, of whom was crying out with terror upon their closeness. Virgil leapt over the picket fence, spying something shift from the corner of his eye. Whirling, he cast a look into the shadows lining the streets, sure that he’d saw something. But the cries of the boy drew his attention once more.
He looked over to seeing him trip and fall, the zombies intensifying their speed. Snarls scratched the air, and broken limbs rose in victory. Virgil continued running, gritting his teeth. It was easy to pick up one abandoned vehicle, the lurching noise of moving metal catching the attention of all. The three zombies stopped running to gape at the incoming car Virgil slammed into them. The vehicle uttered a protesting screech of violence as it slammed into the trio, scraping across pavement and rolling with heavy fashion into a yard.
The boy screamed, and before Virgil could do anything, he was up and disappearing into the shadows of another yard.
Virgil stared into the shadows helplessly, feeling the weight of the key in his pocket pressing on him. With reluctance, he turned to make sure the zombies were out of commission before locating the house he’d seen earlier. As he began jogging back into that direction, he remembered the movement in the shadows. Uncertainty filled him once more, taking controlled breaths as he moved, steering clear of anything that could trap him in place for an enemy.
Standing before the house, Virgil stared up at the smoke that curled away from the chimney. He hoped that it was the right place; what he was looking for. With a grim expression, he cast a cautious look around himself before stepping into the trashed yard. Nothing was unusual about the two story building; but he did note that while the windows and door were boarded over, there were obvious signs of the living here.
The porch reflected this with footprints in the dust–the fact that barbwire was strung dangerously around the edges of the stairway. Thin wires zigzagged around the porch floor. There were traps here. He took out the disk from his bag, tossing it to the ground while simultaneously charging it. Alighting into the air, he cast off to the side of the house, looking for a way to peek in.
He couldn’t find a credible entrance into the house. Everything was just too secure in its bindings. He alighted onto the back yard, searching for any clues that would allow entrance into the house. Seeing nothing, he took to the air in frustration. Once again floating in front of the house, Virgil stared at the porch. There weren’t any visible door lines outside of the main door. But he thought of the door at the fire station, remembering how Richie had opened it despite the appearance of boards and chains. As he started forward, he heard a sharp snap behind him, signaling a presence.
He whirled, scanning the shadows with wariness. As he started to return his attention to the house, movement caught his eye. He saw several forms crouching motionless within the shadows of the neighboring house. Instinct had him reacting, throwing his hands up, revealing them within the light he cast.
The men reacted, but not to his command. His power seemed to sizzle right over their forms. They began to fire at him, Virgil gasping in disbelief as his powers refused to react to their ammunition as well. Fierce and sharp pain hit him multiple times over his body, dropping him out of the air. Rubber bullets continued to hit him as he curled into a ball, crying out with fright and pain. He heard shouted commands, but he feared what they were going to do to him if they caught a hold of him.
Quickly, despite the pain, he shot to his feet and retrieved his disk, running away from the house and the chasing men. He shoved his disk back into the bag’s slot, piercing pain shooting throughout his body in a fierce stinging sensation that was painful to endure. He waved his arms about in the air in an effort to block more shots. Hearing the men give continued chase, Virgil pulled his disk out, spreading it to hold as a shield between himself and their bullets. He ran through the neighborhood, natural fright taking over common sense. Every spot of impact seemed to swell and bruise painfully, muscles rendered sore and strained.
Too panicked to think clearly, Virgil leapt over a small fence line, heading into the backgrounds of an elementary school. Racing for the building, Virgil pulled his disk out to jump on top, soaring through the air. He felt a more piercing sensation in his right hamstring, sending an utterly striking pain throughout his entire body. With a violent jolt, he was slamming forward with a loud cry, breaking with painful impact into one of the windows of the second floor. He rolled painfully onto the dirty floor of a classroom, knocking aside various empty desks that screeched in protest. Glass glittered around him, the entire school still and silent.
Virgil groaned, registering all pains on his body. Fear and shock over the sudden assault left him confused and lost, aching for some sort of grounding sensation against the violence. Once registering his surroundings, Virgil rose painfully from the floor, rubbing painfully at his hamstring. He looked down, examining his hand when he pulled it away. The obviousness of blood made him start.
Alarmed, he quickly pulled and unbuckled his belt, lowering his jeans to twist and see part of a very thin pipe-like object still hanging from his leg. He cursed in pained fashion, pulling it from his skin. Blood immediately welled, the area turning incredibly sore and stiff. Whirling around, pulling his pants up and buckling his belt, he spotted the rest of the syringe amid the glass. Cursing again, he felt panic well up inside himself. Tossing the piece aside, he tried to calm himself. Question after question hit him, mind whirling with bewilderment and confusion.
The still and dark halls of the school rang with noises, Virgil identifying them as those belonging to the group of men. He sought the darkness of the classroom for his disk, aiming for easy escape through the window. But the world began to grow gray around the edges, vision darkening. His body grew heavy, mind buzzing suddenly. He stilled, closing his eyes as intense nausea hit him hard. He slowly sank to the floor, afraid to move lest he vomited.
The door burst open, uniformed men crowding in with muffled commands. Virgil startled, his world hazy and filled with nausea–he watched them spread out around him, weapons pointed at him. His vision grew blurry–all the symptoms of his upset intensified at that moment, sound blurring into a cacophony of noise. Every limb was rendered paralyzed–but inside Virgil’s mind, he saw the uniformed police officers that had surrounded him a day after his attempted murder. He felt the white hot flash of fury at knowing how close he’d been to his mother’s killers; the frustration in knowing he’d been so close–
Somehow, that angered strength overcome his induced weaknesses. Gritting his teeth, Virgil focused on the many empty desks within the room. Far away, he heard men shout in alarm, desks rising from the floor to fly at every uniform around him. The room swirled with activity, and through it all, Virgil struggled to remain conscious.
Men shouted as metal filing cabinets, chairs and rolling metal storage cases joined the desks in air. Weapons and men hit the floor, Virgil opening an eye to see their plastic guns–their rubber uniforms. He growled, bothered by their craftiness. Rising, his limbs feeling weak and intensely shaky, Virgil poured all his energy into the attack. Glass shattered as a couple of unfortunate men fell out from the windows, aided by the heavy metal cabinets that Virgil used to bash into them.
He hadn’t killed anyone, before–but in his panicked and sickened mind, death was his safety. He focused on stripping the metal legs from chairs, various pairs losing contact with plastic. He hesitated for a moment, staring at the sharpened edges of the legs–then, as a couple of men moved for their weapons, he attacked first. Metal slammed easily through flesh and bone, others reacting with stunned fear as they watched their comrades die. He began to kill in this fashion, slamming chair legs through anything that moved.
Virgil directed his attention to the others, metal legs flying through the air, slamming into chests with a crunch of sound. The sound of flesh and bone broken under impact made him sick. He leaned over to vomit, everything falling to the floor at the loss of concentration. A man slipped away to safety, leaving his weapons behind. Another struggled with a metal chair leg that protruded from his throat. Others struggled with their injuries, choking noises audible, shrieks of pain filling the room.
Virgil wiped his mouth, spying two other men struggling for safety outside the classroom. With some hesitation, he pulled the cabinets from the windows, overturning each. Once aligned with the men, he dropped them directly over their heads. The resulting noise of impact was gruesome. He turned to vomit again, turning to avoid watching bodies convulse.
The man with metal protruding from his neck finally collapsed. The sounds of silence was sickening.
Virgil felt the urge to faint once more, surrounded by what he’d done. The eerie silence was too much–the loss of life at his own hands rendered him deep inside.
Even as his limbs trembled from the chemical injection, Virgil crawled into the farthest corner of the room, struggling not to look at the motionless forms around him. Overwhelming guilt and horror hit him–he curled up in himself, shaking violently as he covered his face with his hands.
Things were so different from the video games he’d played. From the things he’d seen in movies. The stillness and silence rang accusingly, increasing his agitation. He hid his face once more, drawing in a choked breath–determined to see nothing. The tranquilizer’s effect finally took over–much too late.
* - * - * - * - *
The warmth of the house, combined with the fight from earlier had left Richie exhausted. He’d struggled to fight the urge to sleep with no success. Once more handcuffed to the same chair he had been sitting in earlier, Richie fell asleep with his head on the table while Hotstreak pondered the newfound horror of the basement. With the heavy silence, he, too, fell prey to sleep.
Wood in the fireplace popped as its fuel depleted. The house, aged as it was, gave its normal creaks and groans as the early morning continued on. Outside, the wind blew softly against the boarded windows, bringing with it a sharp chill that signaled incoming snow. Ice formed hazardly atop of pavement, black as the shadows it was shrouded in.
In the midst of memories in form of a dream, Richie found himself awakening at the shiver of knowing something was wrong. But caught in between the dreamworld and reality, he was slow to register that shriek of survival instinct. Movement at the corner of his eye had him lifting his head–with his neck shrieking in pain over the awkward position he’d lain in–sluggishly straightening in the uncomfortable dining room chair.
He had only a moment to register the frightening visage that drifted against him when his body felt the sharp shock of ice penetrating his veins. It stiffened his body, snapping every limb into heavy paralyzation. He started to draw breath to give an alarmed shout when it felt as if his brain were suddenly hit with ice. Every sensation, every emotion gave away to cold–as fast as he’d registered the danger, the danger hit before he could complete his distress.
He became aware of nothing else as his body slumped heavily from the chair and landed painfully against the hard floor. The heavy thud of impact startled Hotstreak out of his doze, sluggishly blinking away sleep as his mind registered the sound.
At a soft tapping sound, as if a pillow were hitting a couch on repetitive movement, he realized that it was a sound out of place. The darkness of the kitchen had him confused for a few moments, registering that the fire had died down to embers; then movement caught the corner of his eye. He looked over, and reacted with alarm upon seeing the directionless Spectre bumping repeatedly against the chair the teen had been sitting in earlier.
As always, the fright a Spectre gave made him react with horror. It floated, carried mysteriously aloft only by its shoulders, all limbs hanging uselessly from its seemingly boneless structure. Instead of a normal human face, it held wide, sunken eyes etched in black, and a mouth that never closed. Wide with boneless action, its mouth looked as if it were permanently screaming–but Spectres never made a sound. Its frightening visage was another weapon; unnatural and demonic, seen even when eyes closed of their own violation.
Spectres floated aimlessly–sometimes through hard surfaces, sometimes disappearing completely, sometimes popping up from no where like some demented Jack in a Box. Once a living human, the Spectre was nothing but a cold entity that struck its victims with the strength of its own freezing essence. Some lived; some didn’t. It all mattered on how quick their victims gained heat.
He realized then that Richie was laying awkwardly on the floor, arm twisted in unnatural form as handcuffs held it in place. Spectres were driven away by heat–he looked back at the dying fire, glowing embers casting a devilish glow in the kitchen, shadows touching everything. The Spectre continued to bump against Richie’s chair, silently screaming face watching Hotstreak with every movement through the rungs of the chair.
The chair scratched along the floor and table with the Spectre’s movements, casting a sort of ominous repetitive sound that eked along his nerves. Hotstreak managed to compose himself, driving the uneasy fear away from him as he forced his body to expand heat. The Spectre pulled sharply away from the chair, drifting backward along the floor with all its limbs scraping against the hard wood. Its facial expression never changed as he poured on the heat, moving forward in an effort to chase the thing away.
The Spectre sank through the dining room wall, drifting aimlessly through the area before disappearing. Hotstreak waited for a few moments, making sure that it didn’t pop back up. Quickly, he fed more wood into the fireplace, stirring up the embers. Once he was sure the fire caught, he hurried around the table. He fumbled with the keys to the handcuffs, careful of the twisted arm. It wasn’t broken–it had just been the appearance and position that the teen laid on the floor with that made it seem as if it were.
He unlocked the handcuffs, wincing at the feeling of ice-cold limbs that remained inert with all his movements. He heard the soft scrape of the hidden door in the den opening, recognizing Harley’s entrance as he awkwardly pulled the teen into his arms. Carefully, he started to emit heat from his own body as Harley walked into the kitchen, giving the scene a confused glance.
“Spectre,” Hotstreak muttered, struggling to roll the dead-weight in his arms to a more comfortable position in which he could lift the teen. Harley watched in silence, looking wholly irritated as Hotstreak managed to accomplish his task.
Upon the man’s return, Hotstreak felt those feelings of intense disgust and uncomfortable shame fill through him. But he didn’t know what to do with them; he didn’t know what to do now that he was facing the man. He focused on getting Richie close to the fire, helping the process of warming him with his own unnatural body heat. With a sort of awkward action, he rubbed ice-cold limbs with his hands, darting Harley suspicious looks.
Harley crossed his arms and leant against the doorframe. “I didn’t have to go far,” he muttered, as if raising his voice would waken the teen. “They were right outside. Tracking the other kid.”
“...Kid?”
“Some other super. I didn’t know we...there were other supers in this city. But I saw what he could do. I think he was looking for him.” Harley gestured at the teen with his chin.
Hotstreak looked away from him, too uncomfortable with looking at the man in another light after what he’d seen in the basement. This man shamed and disgusted him. But they had years of...of everything. In a world full of sins, of people fighting each other tooth and claw for survival...would it have been okay to view it in a different light?
“What’s wrong?” Harley asked sharply, tensing.
“Nothing.” Hotstreak focused on warming the teen, noting that he was starting to feel a little more pliant in his arms. In an awkward motion, he pulled the blond against him, wincing at the feel of ice against his neck. He continued to use his hands to rub over the teen’s back and arms, feeling Harley’s eyes baring into him with each passing second.
“They don’t have the bounty,” Harley said quietly. “They lied. They lied to my face. I didn’t mention that we had the kid. Would be kinda a shame if they never did find the kid, huh? Payback for their shit?”
Hotstreak stilled, thinking of the preteen that had been chained in the basement. He felt his own chills racing up and down his spine at the thought of hearing this boy recite Dr. Seuss books while alone. He could imagine hearing his voice carry in the ventilation system while they were in their room. Sometimes...when Harley thought he was asleep...those screams would echo right through the system, jerking him out of a dead sleep.
He swallowed hard, feeling the faint beat of Richie’s heart against his chest. He could feel breath against his neck. It was starting to grow harder and harder to hold the teen against him as limbs warmed significantly with his body heat and the heat of the fire. He saw Harley moving out of the corner of his eye, the other man moving over to the table to sit slowly in the chair he’d sat in earlier.
“Yeah,” he answered in a croak, in reply to his earlier question.
Harley began to disarm himself. The settling of his various belts and weaponry on the kitchen table made a loud thudding noise that was disruptive to the quiet already in place. Hotstreak felt the teen jerk in response to the noise, and he quickly pressed the blond’s face against his neck, trying for a desperate signal to keep him quiet. When the teen started to move, he wrapped his arm around his back, trying to convey the signal to him in that cradle hold, trying to tell him without words and without drawing attention to Harley to stay still and quiet.
And through some miracle...the teen heard that message and stilled. Hotstreak could feel the pick up of speed in his heart beat.
Harley watched Hotstreak with a wary look, clasping his hands together atop of the table. Richie remained still, sensing the tension in Hotstreak’s body and in the air. The uneasiness he sensed in the redhead convinced him that abiding to his silent command was the best choice. As his limbs warmed significantly with the fireplace’s heat and the unnatural warmth from Hotstreak, his pliancy became more obvious. He was starting to grow scared with what was happening around him, quite aware of the tension emanating from Harley. It was unnerving to know one man was uncertain of another.
Harley shifted in his chair. “Doesn’t take that long to warm up a Spectre’s touch.”
Hotstreak stilled for a moment, Richie tensing once more. Then Hotstreak shifted, Richie’s fingers curling into his shirt, out of Harley’s view. Hotstreak stilled once more, seemingly at odds at what to do or say.
“I guess since I’m not getting that bounty, we don’t have a need for the kid,” Harley continued. “And I sure as hell don’t want them to have him after all the trouble I went through. I think I’ll get rid of him and leave him where they can find him.”
It was said so casually–so easily. As if he were talking about taking out the trash. Richie tensed, thinking of the basement, of the kid they’d released. His fingers tightened around the material of Hotstreak’s shirt, feeling somewhat desperate for any sign of safety in the man. Hotstreak stopped rubbing his back, contemplating Harley’s words.
“What are you going to do with him?” he asked quietly, watching wood shift within the fireplace. He felt Richie hold his breath, his heart beating faster.
“...Throw him in the basement. I’ll deal with him.” Harley rose from his chair, setting it right. “I’m going to change. You should too. You got his blood all over you.”
Hotstreak looked down at his shirt, seeing where Richie’s bloodied face had, upon warming, rubbed off on the material. Richie kept himself still, utterly aware of that precarious moment, Harley’s words hanging in the air. Harley waited, eyeing Hotstreak impatiently.
“I’ll be up in a sec,” he muttered, shifting. Richie felt his insides clench as Hotstreak moved to comply with Harley’s demand.
Harley watched and Richie shut his eyes to appear unconscious. But fear left him stiff, mind working furiously for a plan to escape. He did not want to be in that basement with Harley. Hotstreak grunted as he effortlessly tossed Richie over one shoulder. At that moment, Richie caught sight of Harley’s abandoned weapons on the table. Desperate, he lunged for the closest one, Hotstreak reacting to his movement with a startled stumble. Harley cursed, seeing Richie straightening with his 9 mm semiautomatic. He snarled, shoving the table into the back of Hotstreak’s legs, knocking over the redhead. Both Hotstreak and Richie fell to the floor, Harley racing over in that moment of confusion to dive onto both.
Amidst the struggle, Hotstreak tried to straighten, Richie’s knees digging into his back as he fought with Harley over the weapon. Richie realized that Harley was much stronger than he, and used the former Marine’s momentum to fall backward, using his legs to push Harley up and over his head. It helped that Hotstreak used that moment to rise, effecting the move.
As soon as Harley landed on the floor, he was rolling onto his feet. Richie whirled to gauge his distance as he struggled to run. The explosion of the 9 mm rang out loudly, Hotstreak ducking with a curse as Richie hit the floor with a wail of pain and fear. Harley fired twice more before Hotstreak intercepted, shoving the gun upward. Both men paused as the teen curled in on himself, using his legs to push along the floor in a frenzied action of panic.
Harley shoved Hotstreak away, both men rising to see what damage had been done. When Harley lifted the gun to fire again, Hotstreak shoved his arm back. Harley allowed him to take the weapon away, venturing forward with a satisfied expression. He stood over the teen with an expression of malevolence. Hotstreak stood still, horrified at what had happened. Then Harley barked with laughter. He snatched his knife from the table, Hotstreak watching with uncertainty as Harley began tearing at Richie’s hooded sweater. Upon seeing the bulletproof vest, with two burst holes in the torso, Hotstreak gave a sound of astonishment.
Even if the vest prevented death, the impacts were ruthless. Richie curled inward once more with pain, Harley laughing in harsh delight, giving Hotstreak an amused smile.
“Kid’s great,” he commented, as if a joke was shared between them all. “Just full of surprises.”
Hotstreak said nothing, watching Richie writhe in pain. Harley jerked the teen to his feet, Hotstreak taking in the sight of pained tears and deathly pale features. Something struck him at that moment, watching Harley drag Richie past him. The basement door creaked open, hinges protesting violently as both males disappeared into the darkness. The door slammed shut behind them and Hotstreak listened to the silence that lingered afterward.
* - * - * - * - *
Virgil’s eyes snapped open at the soft sound of movement. The soft noises of childish wonder hit him, awareness alerting him to slurping and crunching noises. He slowly pulled his fingers from his eyes to see dark forms over those of the fallen men. Virgil held his breath in horror, recognizing the dark demon children that moved fitfully over their finds. Darker than the shadows that occupied the room, they were distinguished by the shapes of their small bodies, the shapes of toddlers with overly large hands. Screeching noises of satisfaction, glee and wonder broke the silence in moments of broken symphony. To Virgil, it was almost as if he were listening to birds chirp noisily to each other.
Their toddler forms moved around in clumsy action, claw-like fingers scraping against the floor. Teeth, broken and decayed, flashed with their gleeful smiles. Their eyes, dark caverns of nothingness, were frightening as they focused on him from time to time.
One, breathing heavily in a sickened manner, scurried over to him. Virgil felt its icy cold fingers touch his dreads, drifting down to follow the shape of his ears. He held his breath as it leaned close, pressing its head against his forehead to listen for breath. The feel of its mottled skin and nub of an ear made his skin crawl. He had to suppress the terrible urge to shudder. It smelled of decay and death–its skin seemed to catch on his hair. Its breathing was disturbed by a rattling sound in its deformed chest, bubbles catching as it breathed.
Virgil struggled to think of far away thoughts–keeping his body as rigid and still as possible to keep from alerting it to his living. It was hard to suppress, the drive to shove it away from him strong. It listened to him, pressing its head harder against his, as if tempting him to move. The feel of its mottled skin sent goosepimples up and down his arms–he fought with himself to suppress another shudder of revulsion. His lungs were starting to protest its held action.
It then moved away to follow the others, joining two others that were snarling at each other as they tugged at one body. Virgil was paralyzed with fright. The creatures, in significant number, were a stubborn lot. He didn’t feel in control of his powers, his body weak and significantly fragile with shaky anxiety due to the unknown chemical he’d been injected with. His stomach felt raw–his mind dazed. He wasn’t ready to fight just yet. Each demon had the strength of four men–quick and ruthless, they could dismember a man in seconds.
Virgil watched them scurry about–they were curious over the mess of the classroom. Their tilting chirps were more audible as they examined upended desks and broken shards of glass. Suddenly, they all stilled in unison. Virgil stilled as well, straining to hear what they did. They were then snarling in doglike manner as they all trampled out of the room in a clumsy moving group. Their frightening snarls rang throughout the halls, moving feet accompanying their hurried movements.
Virgil quickly moved to his feet, swaying at the action. His head spun–his stomach lurched. He braced himself against the wall for support, feeling entirely spent. As he moved to the nearest broken window, something caught his eye–the Motel Six key. He reached for it, alarmed at its near loss. As he was picking it up, he spotted a blood stained paper sticking out from a man’s pants pocket. On impulse, he reached for it. Opening it, emitting light from his free hand, he saw with much bewilderment that it was his juvenile record summary. A sort of horror and confusion gripped him, dazed over this information. His father had held the very same piece of paper years earlier.
Stunned, Virgil read over his personal information at age thirteen–five feet even, ninety pounds, black, brown 5/18/XX–and wondered why it was in their hands. He glanced at his mug shot, a far cry from what he looked today. He read over his offences, and the judgement of a child psychologist. The eventual sentence to Juvenile Detention, followed by time spent at Alva’s Juvenile Ranch.
Upon hearing the movement of demons herding their way back to the classroom, Virgil retrieved his disk. Very unsteady, he forced himself to the window, aiming to fly away. His powers faltered once he steadied himself on his disk, losing altitude in an uncontrolled manner and hitting the ground with a heavy impact that rendered pain throughout every bone and muscle. The snarls and cries of the demons above him caused him to look up, seeing their dark heads peering at him from the windows above.
Wincing with pain, Virgil rose from the dirt. He spotted a form close by–one of the men he’d knocked out earlier with one of the metal cabinets. He was laying stiffly, head at an angle–the other man was gone. Cautiously, Virgil shoved both key and paper into his jeans pocket, picking up his disk with his other hand. He started forward, more determined than ever to get to Richie.
* - * - * - * - *
He tried not to smirk–but the faces of those that had been skeptic were too miserable to refrain from making judgement. They had just reported what had happened with Virgil in the elementary school, having barely escaped with their lives. The fact that the teenager had fought to kill while cornered was a sad note to remember.
“Well, I hate to say ‘I told you so’,” he said with a shrug. The man in black rubbed his chin, frowning at the darkness around them. Their current hiding place was an abandoned office in the Human Services Building, military enforced with heavy ordinance against creatures and survivors. He thought that they were basically a sitting target, announcing to the rest of the world their bounties. It made him uneasy.
To his men, he asked, “Any report of the other kid?”
“One of the hunters approached us earlier,” one reported. “Asking about the bounty. He seemed suspicious of our actually having it in our possession.”
“Did he, now? Which hunter?”
“The Marine.”
“Any idea where he and his partner are staying?”
“No.”
“Any sighting of the kid?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s too bad. These kids are smart. And they’re resourceful. They know how to throw us off.” The man in black stared at the two photographs before him. Both of them were very recent, taken digitally and printed with a portable printer. “Must of learned a few things in juvie...”
“Sir?”
He turned in his chair to look at the man that approached him. He frowned at the apprehension in the young officer’s face.
“He’s back, sir.”
The man sighed heavily with weariness.
* - * - * - * - *
Hotstreak looked up when the door to the bedroom opened, Harley walking in with a heavy sense of accusation. Seated at the edge of the king-sized bed they shared, Hotstreak noted the bloodied shirt, the blood soaked skin of Harley’s face and arms. Horror struck him. Harley stared at him in accusing silence, posture stiff.
“That’s fucking disgusting,” Hotstreak spoke. His expression was clearly stricken. “I didn’t know you were fucking kids!”
Harley’s lips thinned, wiping his face with one dirty hand. He walked slowly toward the bathroom, muscles flexing with tension. “That area’s supposed to be off-limits to you.”
“Why the fuck are you talking to me that way? Don’t talk to me like that. I’ll go any damn where I wanna go, so fuck you.”
“We agreed that you’d never go down there,” Harley said evenly, walking into the bathroom. Water ran as he started to clean himself, glaring at his reflection in the mirror.
In disgust, Hotstreak rose, striding over to the bathroom to stare at Harley as he calmly washed himself. The dirtied shirt he’d changed out of earlier was kicked out of the way. “There wasn’t no agreement! I just–didn’t go near the place when you brought over the first one! I chose not to pay attention to what the fuck you were doing. You didn’t say shit!”
“My room, my business.” Harley dried himself, then stripped off his shirt, revealing new scratches over his chest and shoulders. “It went unsaid.”
Hotstreak stared at him in stunned silence as Harley examined a new set of teethmarks on his left forearm. He couldn’t imagine what had happened down there. But he was starting to see Harley as a stranger. After years of living with him, surviving with him, Harley was slipping out of his grasp of understanding. He didn’t know what to do.
“When–” he cut himself off, feeling sick upon remembering the boy. His throat felt tight. Harley brushed past him, giving him nary a glance as he busied himself with redressing into another t-shirt.
“Besides, the kid belonged to nobody,” Harley said a toneless voice, focused on his task. “And there is nothing here to say that its wrong. No law...no morals...just survival of the fittest. You know?”
An icy fist hit Hotstreak’s gut. “No morals? No law? Yeah, there ain’t no law. But you were raised by morals. It’s like...instinct.”
“In this world and time, it’s either you get or give. I choose to get. Morals went out the window when the whole world fell to shit. Besides, what are you getting all worked up about? You said nothing with the others!”
“Yeah, but that’s different!” Hotstreak protested. His insides were clenching. “They were–adults! They got that rule, survival of the fittest! Kids–kids don’t–!”
“It’s eat or be eaten!” Harley snapped, looking over at him. “The kid had nobody. No one will miss him.”
“But it’s sick. It’s fucking sick!”
Harley studied him, eyes turning dark. It felt, to Hotstreak, that the temperature dropped; that the air thickened.
“Why are you making a big deal out of it?” he snapped, muscles flexing angrily. “You never had a problem with shit before. Now you do?”
Hotstreak sputtered, feeling reduced to something less. A child. A dummy. It was not a good feeling and he felt himself grow angry. “Not a problem with people–MEN–that can fight back and give you trouble! I–I shouldn’t be feeling that way, anyhow, but with shit–it’s just–kids. They can’t fight back–!”
“I need stitches from this one!” Harley held out his forearm.
“That was a boy! Young–he–it was SICK! To know he was down there all this time, and–it’s WRONG!” Hotstreak roared furiously. “You don’t do shit to kids! It just ain’t RIGHT!”
“Just as it wasn’t right for you to be locked up your entire life, to be studied and dissected like you were nothing!”
Hotstreak thought of those years of the labs–held under various machinery, asked unending questions. Involuntarily giving his body to those that were curious about his ability to produce fire.
“That was different,” he muttered.
“There was law then,” Harley pointed out. “But what’d the law do then?”
“...This ain’t about me. This ain’t about me at all!”
“What I did, what I do, is all my business. I was...curious. I wanted to know what the thrill was. I found out.”
Disgust made Hotstreak tremble. His stomach curled. He thought of the boy, helpless and scared, being subject to Harley’s disgusting ‘curiosity’. He felt bile in his throat, and had to clear it noisily.
Harley gave him a look of pity. “C’mon, man. C’mon, it’s not like...it’s not wrong in a world like this. Not when we can do what we want. No boundaries, no order. Every day should be lived as if it were the last. And if I got curiosity, I want to satisfy it. Nothing can hold me back!”
Hotstreak shook his head, pulling toward the door. Harley watched him with an expression of exasperation. He then turned away to untie his boots.
Hotstreak watched in numb silence as Harley changed into sweats and a sweater shirt. He couldn’t speak. Harley straightened, tossing him a frown.
“Just let it go,” he muttered. “It’s not like you’re invited. I’m not pressuring you to join in.”
“I have to live with you. I touch you. We–we share things. We fuck, for fuck’s sake! You think I can keep doin’ that stuff knowing what you do down there?!”
Harley hurled a boot at him. “It’s not like I’m treating you any different! It’s my life! I do what I want! I wanna fuck kids, that’s my business!”
Hotstreak thought he was going to vomit, struggling to refrain from doing so. He couldn’t take Harley’s attitude or view anymore. He turned, stalking out the door. He heard Harley come after him, and violently shoved him when the man tried to hug him from behind.
“Don’t you fucking touch me!” he snarled, Harley shooting him a look of distress.
“Hey man...c’mon. Francis. Stop. Don’t freak out on me, man. C’mon...”
Both of them stared at each other, Hotstreak shaking with his mental distress. Struggling with it, he turned away from Harley, unable to look at him any more.
Harley frowned darkly. “What’s with you? You’re changing on me, man. We used to be cool–!”
“‘I’ve’ changed?! You’re the one that turned all freaky psychopath on me!” Hotstreak bellowed in disbelief.
“I’ve always had an edge on me!”
“Not like this! Not like–!”
“You knew that! You knew I was fucked up in the head, and you accepted me anyway!” Harley bellowed back, face reddening. “That’s what I loved about you! You were cool with things, and once you found out that I–!”
“Oh, God, it was never like this. Never with fucking kids! Everything else–fine! But with this, this is a fucking HELL NO! That’s something sacred, something you just don’t DO!”
“I just had to try it! Just once–just once to see–I was curious. It was just one time and I–look. I won’t go it no more. Huh? That okay? Just chalk this up to one time and forget it...”
Hotstreak stared at him in continued stunned silence. It was all wrong for him. Entirely wrong. He just couldn’t see Harley in the same light. He shook his head.
“No,” he said quietly. “Uh uh. It’s wrong. Other shit was freaky–I just–it’s all too fucked up for me, man.”
Harley stared at him. His facial features seemed to change–growing tight and red as Hotstreak spoke. A wild look came to his eyes, and he seemed to tighten his entire body at Hotstreak’s words. The tension grew, and Hotstreak felt an ugly blackness start to creep around him. Uncomfortably, he looked away, presenting his back to Harley as he descended the stairs. He felt Harley’s eyes on his back, skin prickling with mortal awareness. He cast a cautious look at Harley before walking his way to the basement. Passing the kitchen table, he noticed Harley’s previous weaponry was gone. He hesitated as he stared at the emptiness.
Then, he opened the door to the basement. The darkness and utter silence made his insides clench.
He made his way down, carefully negotiating the darkness, ducking the low ceiling. With a snap of his fingers, he lit the candles, scanning the enclosed area. Skeletons had fallen victim to a violent fight. Pictures lay everywhere. He saw the ruined bulletproof vest laying against the wall, along with the rest of the teen’s clothes. He tripped over a boot. He looked over at the bed as he straightened, dreading what he was going to see.
He gave a small start as he realized the teen was watching him, an expression of hardened awareness on his face. His face was masked in blood. There was a grotesque injury above his right eyebrow, the knot hardened and colored, skin broken. It was the source of all that blood, but how he’d gotten it was something he didn’t question.
The teen clearly didn’t trust him, and Hotstreak wouldn’t blame him. His frail body was shaking as the redhead drew near, tripping over a Maglite flashlight that crashed against the wall with impact. The light flickered on, illuminating various Polaroids of death and sexual depictions.
Hotstreak ripped material from the bed, pressing it against the wound. The teen kept watching him, but was silent the entire time. Hotstreak searched for his clothes, utterly sickened by what he could see. He heard sniffling, looking over with aching guilt to see the teen shedding silent tears, face averted into the other direction.
Hotstreak felt intense misery hit him, ice clenching his insides. He found that the teen’s clothes was soaked with blood–there was so much–and finally turned, jerking off his own shirt. He assisted the teen with pulling it on, the blond moving compliantly with his every action.
“Your friend’s looking for you,” Hotstreak muttered, helping him to his feet, wincing at the feel of ice cold skin. He didn’t want to think of what had happened. “Let’s get you clothes. You can go after that.”
The teen remained silent, a whole different change from earlier. Hotstreak felt violent shame hit him, closing his eyes briefly as he turned to lead the way out of the basement.
Both of them stilled at the sight of Harley standing silently atop of the first landing, the top half of his upper torso hidden by the low ceiling. The sight was eerie, his body only visible by the faint candlelight that illuminated the room. Hotstreak felt an uncanny sense of foreboding sweep through his frame, immediately spotting the MP5 dangling from one of Harley’s hands.