Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Time And Time Again ❯ I Want Love ( Chapter 7 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Mild, so very mild citrus at the end.
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Horror / Angst | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 12.11.2006 | Pages: 4 | Words: 8.0K | Visits: 261 | Status: Completed
Mild, so very mild citrus at the end.
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Horror / Angst | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 12.11.2006 | Pages: 4 | Words: 8.0K | Visits: 261 | 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 Seven:
I Want Love
Hotstreak rubbed his shoulder, his expression clearly telling the world how pissed-off he was. Richie was following along behind him, mumbling every little while to the little robot in his arms. The pair of them were making their way through the empty sidewalks, careful of the creatures that they could hear running through the dark.
The encounter with the man in black had been strange; both of them were still puzzling over what had been said. Hours had passed since he’d knocked them both unconscious–Richie had woken first and against all instincts...had sat near the redhead’s side until he, too, woke. Both of them were looking for a place to hide for the night, and Richie knew of a place where they could stay.
Hotstreak adjusted his cargo shorts, grumbling over the dirt he’d gotten from impact and more than sore from the overall encounter. He hadn’t been battered in so long that he felt like complaining about it for a little while. Just to let the teen know just how annoyed he was with the world in general.
“Fuckin’ hurts,” he was muttering. “And for what? To have some stupid piece of fag bullshit tell me that I knew you from some other life. Who the fuck comes up with that? Dick don’t even know his business, coming up and hitting me–I didn’t deserve that fucking bullshit, and it wasn’t even me he was even focused on! Goddamn child-molesting scumbag wanted shit only from that kid, and hit me because of it! Fucking bullshit, man. The whole situation was fucking bullshit.”
“Here,” Richie said, hurrying ahead of him and moving through an open alley. Hotstreak paused on the sidewalk, watching as he lifted the lock of the metal door, Backpack opening it easily. The door protested loudly as it opened, the teen gesturing at him to follow as he slipped inside. With a heavy sigh, Hotstreak figured he’d find out what it was he was going to be shown for the lack of anything else better to do.
It was a private doctor’s office, he realized as he stepped inside. It was intensely dark–but that was solved as Richie took out a light stick from his bag, snapping that into effect while Backpack emitted its own light. The teen set the neon-green light stick on the front counter and then moved comfortably from room to room, Backpack running about on its legs and exploring everything with seemingly reassuring beeps. Hotstreak glared at the dirtied glass frames that hung on the wall; the pamphlets that advised against unsafe sex and birth control. There were comfortable arm chairs spread throughout the area, along with a magazine table, fake plants and a television set hanging from the wall. Richie came back with an armful of items, dropping them on the counter.
“Aspirin?” he asked, holding up a half emptied bottle. “Or do you need me to feed you?”
“I don’t need no damn aspirin!” Hotstreak snapped at him, snatching the bottle from him, hand flaring. Instantly plastic melted, a scorched stench wafting in the air as he tossed the torched item away from him. Richie scowled at him, then turned, holding up a couple of packets of medicinal cleaning pads.
“For your face,” he said, ripping one open. “You should let me do it. You might mistake your face for your ass.”
Hotstreak gave him an astounded expression, utterly appalled at how this teen could speak to him in such a way. Didn’t he just save the kid’s life from his demented lover? Hotstreak was starting to feel as if his effort was unappreciated, and allowed himself to miss the old Harley. He snatched the pad away from Richie, shoving the teen into the wall. Muttering under his breath, he pulled it against his face, hissing in reaction upon contact with his injuries. When he’d hit the pavement, he’d scraped his face off the surface. His shoulder was throbbing in uncomfortable pain, swelling, considerably thicker than it should be. He swore angrily, kicking one of the chairs with his frustration.
Richie picked himself up from the floor, waving Backpack off. He grabbed a couple more packets, opening them as Hotstreak tossed the used ones away.
The redhead reacted when the teen began swiping the pad down his right arm, wiping pieces of gravel off of him at the same time. “What the hell are you doing?!”
“I’m helping you,” Richie said slowly, adjusting the pad within his fingers as he gave him an annoyed look.
“I don’t need your damn help!” Hotstreak snatched the pad from him, muttering as he turned around to do it himself. The redhead then tossed the used pad at the teen. Richie removed the used pad from his face with a disgusted expression, tossing it back at the him. The pad burst into flame and hit the floor to smolder as the redhead gave him a smug look.
He then gave him an annoyed look. “Why did you give him that key?”
Richie shifted uncomfortably, but a small smile played upon his lips. Hotstreak was startled at how different that made him. It was actually quite nice. “He wanted a key. I gave him a key. Unfortunately, it’s not the one he was looking for, and the way he wanted it so badly made me want to keep it.”
“...You’re a total masochist. You know what you’re dealing with, right?”
“Actually, no. But I plan on finding out what it is that dumped this really heavy–” Richie cut himself off, wondering if he should include the man into what he and Virgil had learned. As Hotstreak waited for him to continue, Richie decided that it was really none of his business. The man was going about it as if it were really nothing; it really wasn’t top subject between them. Therefore, he would keep it that way. The key had been a tool for his inventions–he wasn’t even sure what it went to.
The heavy silence between them was thick and uncomfortable. Richie found himself staring at the redhead with thought, wondering how he’d known this man. It was the third reference to a life before he knew it, as Virgil had related to him what his mother and Maria had said. It was strange how they knew of such things.
Hotstreak was starting to grow uncomfortable with the lingering stare Richie was giving him, and promptly lost all train of thought of what had occurred. The teen looked as if he wanted to eat him whole. “Look...this is a weird situation. Full of a lot of weird shit. I’ve nothing to do with you.”
“It is a weird situation...” Richie trailed off, tilting his head as he continued to stare up at him. His eyes flitted from area to area, as if mentally documenting everything that he saw. It made Hotstreak feel so utterly self-conscious of himself. “Is that your natural hair color? How tall do you think you are?”
Hotstreak waved his hands about, grimacing. “No more questions. I’m sick of hearing them. ‘Sides, you hitting on me is weird. Cut it out.”
“‘Hitting on you’? Don’t flatter yourself!” Richie snapped at him, turning away to hide his blush. He fiddled with the lightstick with agitated actions. “You’re not my type. You’re too stupid. You wouldn’t understand half the things that I say.”
“Hey–!”
“And I prefer men with experience. You seem to react impulsively with every action and thought you have. That sort of behavior probably follows you in the bedroom.”
Hotstreak scoffed, wondering why he was sticking around the mean-mouthed blond, and a little peeved at the bedroom comment. “You’re one of those lookin’ for old balls? Saggy skin? Ew.”
“NO! Yes, I prefer age, but that’s only because they are the ones that understand and appreciate me.”
“...So, basically, you’re attracted to pedophiles...”
“NO!”
“Fuckin̵ 7; old men, huh? Is that how you worm money from them? Clothes?” Hotstreak grinned at him as turning the tables on the teen made him feel better. “Dinner at nice restaurants? Lunch money? Movie passes to the newest Disney slop? You sneaky little prostitute you...”
“People my age never got me. No one did but those...older than me. So what if they were older than my own father? My own father didn’t get me. Back then, they treated me with what I was looking for, and they respected me. They appreciated what I had to say, and what I could give them!”
“Ew.”
“I’m not interested in what you have to offer, anyway. I prefer brains to peanuts. Your dick’s probably smaller than your brain, and I’m not impressed.”
“Man, shut up! The only reason why you ain’t gettin’ any from anybody your age is because you’re so fucking snotty. Just because you got some brains don’t make you better than anybody else,” Hotstreak scoffed again, examining his nails. He sighed at their lack of perfection, lifting a hand to chew on a hangnail.
Richie scowled at him. “You never even washed your hands, you disgusting creature. Who knew where that hand’s been?”
“Not on your dick, that’s for sure,” Hotstreak replied, mimicking up and down motions over his own crotch.
“S-shut up! I don’t want your hands on me!” Richie exclaimed, flushing as he watched that motion, feeling uncomfortably hot.
“Yeah, right. And all those looks you’ve been giving me have been nothing but nice. ‘Ch.”
“I haven’t been giving you anything more but looks of disgust and pity. I feel sorry for you. You’re so incapable of doing anything on your own, and your little fairy routine is absolutely out of place in this world. It’s a wonder you made it this far.” A smirk made its way over a disgusted sneer. “Harley must have taken good care of you when he rescued you from whatever hair salon you dabbled in before the invasion took place. He must’ve made you feel like such a man, it must have been devastating when you realized he was more into kids. What a blow. You might not ever get it up again.”
Hotstreak seethed, palm itching to slap that smirk right off that baby face. Gritting his teeth, he exhaled heavily. He leaned against the counter with one elbow, looking down at the teen with a pity look of his own. “You remind me of one those little chihuahuas...snapping the air around ankles, trying to look all tough and mean...yapping all annoying. You’ve got the bug eyes for it, too. Betcha your dick’s just as big, too.”
“Hmpf. What a childish response.”
“It must be sad bein’ you. You’re so angry and mean...no wonder old guys go for you. They got the patience to deal with that shit from their fucking wives. Anybody else would knock you around.”
“Of course, when one gets extremely frustrated, they’d resort to violence like brainless morons. They can’t talk it out like civil human beings.”
“How old are you, kid?” Hotstreak asked over him.
“...Sixteen. May fifth. Not that it matters to you, right?”
Hotstreak straightened, giving him an extremely disturbed look. “You were thirteen when you started going after old guys?!”
“Like I said, if you were listening rather than scratching your dick and grunting, no one my age got me.”
“That’s so fucking sick...what the fuck fucked you up so much you let old guys pick you up?” He gave a retching noise. Then gave him a look of disgust. “You probably liked what Harley did to you, huh? Encouraged him to jump on ya when he took you down to the basement–”
He barely caught the fist before it connected with his face, pulling back but keeping a hold on his wrists when he caught the other fist aimed at his head. He stared down at the angry face that stared up at him, feeling a little unnerved at the scrutinizing eyes behind those wire-rimmed glasses.
“Just to make things clear with you, nothing happened,” Richie growled, not looking away from him. “He was more into bashing my head in with his damn flashlight than anything else! So you can refrain yourself from fantasizing about what happened right now!”
Hotstreak couldn’t really trust the teen’s words. But then again, he figured Richie was telling the truth–the teen was not showing Harley any like in any manner. He pushed his hands roughly away.
“Quit trying to touch me,” he muttered, stepping back a few steps. “You’re always looking for an excuse to touch me. You know, you could try a little harder with your pick-up lines, you puny, old-fart fuckin’ fag. Maybe if you’re lucky, I might be desperate someday. It’s kinda hard picking up guys when you’re me. They don’t like it when I beat on them for their goods.”
Richie sneered at him, but didn’t back away. “So you’re as similar as your partner? Using violence to get what you want?”
Hotstreak shook his head, rubbing at his right shoulder once more. “I ain’t like him. No way. At least I get shit out in the open rather than–than hiding it. And I ain’t so screwed up in the head that I’d go and prey on little kids. Or–or torture somebody. Shit, all the action that I got was consensual!”
“I’ll bet it was,” Richie muttered, rubbing his wrist. “Probably blind, desperate men on their deathbed, because I cannot see anybody wanting anything to do with you.”
Exasperated, Hotstreak’s hands fell sharply against his sides, giving Richie a fiercely annoyed expression. He stepped forward, shoving the teen hard enough for him to lose his footing. The blond hit the counter, unable to catch himself from the sudden movement. Backpack started forward, but stopped at a hand slashing through the air. Hotstreak looked at the robot, noting how tense it seemed. He scowled at it, then shot Richie an pitying look.
“Your personality’s so fucking shitty, you HAD to make something that HAD to deal with you, and take all your shit. That’s so fucking pathetic,” he said with a sneer.
“Once again, it was because no one else can relate to me,” Richie said, slowly straightening. Hotstreak found it so weird how the teen could stare at him so intensely, as if looking away from him would make him disappear. When had Harley looked at him like that? “And I need something rather than someone to work with me, in a way that involved no emotions or thoughts or rational morals. I have trouble relating to other humans because–”
“Man, you talk like you’re some frigging alien, or something. You’re fuckin’ human! You got red blood! You act like a bitch on a pad!”
“I think differently from others.” Richie stared at him for a few moments, still not looking away. But he narrowed his eyes, giving him a tiny smirk. “But I won’t explain it to you. It’s impossible for you to understand anything that I’m saying. Even if you had that man to help you out, you still wouldn’t get it.”
Hotstreak gave him a venomous glare. It was starting to unsettle him how the teen continued talking to him in that manner, but give him that look that, quite frankly, creeped him out. The intensity was almost overwhelming, and he felt undermined by it. He straightened his shoulders, making himself feel his height of six foot four.
He shook his head slightly, stepping in close to the teen so that he was towering over him. But the blond still didn’t look away, and Hotstreak found himself growing intrigued by the fact that his nearing presence was actually having an effect on him. He heard the quickening of his breath, the neglectful way the teen held his form in his stand against him. As if he’d let the redhead do whatever he desired to him.
He started to feel disturbed by this play; he recognized that the teen was attracted to him, but why all the insults?
He examined the teen’s face in the glow of the light stick. He could smell him and it was a familiar smell; something he couldn’t rightly place. He leaned down slightly to come face to face with him, noting that Richie still didn’t look away from him, his face darkening with some flush. He set his hands firmly on the counter, trapping him between his arms, hearing his breath catch as a nervous look was set on his nearing proximity. But the glow of the light stick told him that the teen was enjoying the nearness–it was evident in the widening of his pupils, the way he stared up at him in that needing way...
It was an ego boost. And a great tool to use.
“You can lie to yourself all you want,” he said quietly, a smug smile crossing his lips. “But you know you want me.”
Richie’s expression turned into that of disgust, and he shoved Hotstreak’s face away from his with both palms. Ducking underneath his arms as Hotstreak reacted, Richie scooped up Backpack into his arms.
“Don’t flatter yourself!” he then snapped, heading for the door as Hotstreak smirked after him.
Richie kicked the door open with a harsh action, stomping out as Hotstreak followed. It was only for the lack of anything else to do. He gave a low chuckle as he preened, a hand moving through his hair as he flexed his muscles.
“I can’t help that I’m a hot piece of ass,” he said triumphantly, following after the teen. “Every gay man and boy wants it from me. Why should you be any different, you damn nerdball hooker?”
“I’m not a hooker!” Richie shouted over his shoulder, angrily flushed as he took to the sidewalk. He was quite mortified that Hotstreak’s words rang true, and that he’d been scorned. “And you’re just a fat-headed loser with a small dick!”
“Fat head?” Hotstreak stopped in place, rolling his eyes up, as if he could see this. He touched his head with both hands, trying to measure it. But the pang in his shoulder told him he couldn’t reach high, and lowered his arms with an indignant huff. “Oh, honey, please. Don’t be trying to make yourself feel better with your little childish insults. Remember, you’re above all that.”
He laughed with heavy sarcasm, Richie throwing him a disgusted look. Hotstreak paused, then regarded him with an angry gesture. “Go on, then! Take you and your homely self and go pout or cry or sulk or whatever it is you do when you ain’t gettin’ any–!”
“I don’t pout! Or cry! Or sulk! And I wasn’t trying to get anything from you!” Richie shouted indignantly. “You have absolutely nothing to give to me, nor do I find anything of value from you! You’re nothing but scum! A dingleberry!”
“Ooh, don’t knock yourself out with those big words, you big baby!” Hotstreak mocked, following after him. “Look at you, getting all teary-eyed because I wasn’t falling for your little trap.”
“I was doing nothing of the sort!” Richie huffed, turning to face him. “I would have nothing to do with you! You’re nothing!”
“Please. Ever since you saw me, you’ve been wanting into my pants. You can’t deny it. If I weren’t me, and I saw me, I’d want into my pants, too. Hot damn, I’m a good-looking piece of meat. And I definitely know what to do with my mouth and dick, so don’t try to say otherwise. You’ll just end up sounding stupid.”
“As if!” Richie gasped, growing red as Hotstreak stopped a couple of feet away from him. “How dare you take things out of proportion!? And you try and pin me with something that hadn’t even happened! You’re all hurt over what that man did to you, and you’re trying to make yourself feel better by picking on me! If you want revenge, find him! Leave me alone!”
“‘Picking on you’?!” Hotstreak repeated, giving him an aghast gesture. “You’ve been shit talkin’ me all this fuckin’ time! Telling me I got a small dick, and a peanut for a brain, and–! And a whole lot of other shit that I didn’t bother listening to...what the fuck is that all about?”
“I’m telling it like it is, you dick for brain!” Richie snapped at him. He really couldn’t resist looking into those green eyes of his, noting how light they were getting the more riled Hotstreak got. How the pupils widened, the whites more apparent. He was emanating a different scent from him–something thick and tense, something that played haywire with his own hormones. Suddenly, all he could think about was how the other man might smell in bed. Sweaty and hot, restless and needy, and that voice of his emitting growls and long moans–
“What are you turning all red for, you fucking nerd? I got you so hot that you got to turn into a fucking tomato every time you look at me?!”
“I–I am not–! How dare you–! Fucking bastard–!”
“It’s so fucking weird how you keep fighting yourself! Living in denial must be nice, huh? Well, why don’t you leave the Goddamn Amazon to come back to reality?!”
Richie snorted, shooting him a furious look. “Your geography sounds just as awesome as your grammar. What a winner you are, you pathetic bastard.”
“...Well...damn straight.”
“God! You’re stupid! And I want nothing more to do with you!” Richie exclaimed, turning to walk once more when Backpack lifted itself upward in time to meet the incoming cleaver blade with its steel hull. The metallic sound screeched through the stillness, startling both. Richie gasped, looking to see a Ghoul struggling to pull its cleaver from his robot’s back–he started to pull back on Backpack, shocked out of his mind at the Ghoul’s proximity.
Hotstreak reacted with a start, completely thrown by the Ghoul’s appearance. He hadn’t even seen or heard the thing before it attacked. From his point, it looked as if the Ghoul had embedded its cleaver into the teen’s head–but Backpack shifted, rebar arms shooting outward to embed within the office building wall, pulling it effectively out of the Ghoul’s grip and Richie’s. The Ghoul chased after its weapon with a wild squawk, and Richie stood there like an idiot, reaching for his robot.
Hotstreak reacted quickly, heating up his hands as he focused on the Ghoul–once the creature lunged at the teen with a mad cackle, Hotstreak sent several fireballs into it. The Ghoul immediately caught flame, screaming in horrendous agony as Hotstreak then took hold of the heat and flame–amplifying the whole package so that its body melted garishly into ashes right on the sidewalk.
Both of them were still at that moment, hearts yammering in panic. Then Richie dove for Backpack, bracing himself on the wall with his feet and pulling the cleaver with all his weight and strength until it popped out of the robot’s back. He hit the sidewalk as Backpack retracted its arms, facing Hotstreak as the redhead strained his ears for anything more that might come at them. He heard the incoming approach of more feet coming their way, and he started to run–it took energy to use his powers, and he was rapidly depleting of it all the more he avoided rest and food.
He grabbed the teen’s arm, jerking him to his feet as Backpack leapt onto his back, aiming to reach for him. Shoving him forward, Hotstreak ordered him to run, Richie resisting with a hiss.
“I don’t need you to help me, or tell me what to do!” he snarled, shoving the redhead away from him.
Hotstreak regarded him with exasperation then shrugged, starting to run down the sidewalk. At the screech and wild shouts of glee coming from the other end of the street, Richie started. There were five Ghouls in all, all armed with pipes, bats and machetes. He turned and ran after Hotstreak, Backpack squealing in alarm as the Ghouls gave chase.
* - * - * - * - *
Virgil stared into the pool of water, searching for any clue of Maria. He’d returned to the pool, certain that if he voiced his troubles and worries over his inability to figure out what he had to do next, that Maria would return and give him that next step.
But nothing was happening. He pulled away from the edge, huffing as he sat back on his heels. The place was wholly silent as it normally was–but there was a touch of difference in the air that made him feel much more cautious than before. He didn’t know what it was, and he’d searched the place for anything out of the ordinary. Virgil rubbed a hand through his dreads, trying to think. He kept thinking of the key Richie had in his possession, but neither of them could come up with an explanation or situation the key would go to. His mother had mentioned that he had to look for the others; but he didn’t know where to start.
He rose from the concrete with a heavy sigh, staring down at the water with frustration. Where would the little silver key go to? What would it unlock? He frowned, rocking on his heels as his mind went over the various places they’d ever been to in Dakota. Richie had pretty much busied himself with keeping track of the other survivors’ locations and storage areas throughout the city; and he was also familiar with the labs. But Virgil was trying to think beyond all that–where would he have to go in order to find a clue for the next step? He began thinking of all the role-playing games he’d ever played before the invasion happened, and every one of them started with a clue that often had him running for another and another until the game ended.
This situation was almost similar to his games. He was given a clue; he was given a look into their world of imagined Purgatory. Everything was so deep at this point that it felt outlandish; they were dead, but how did they die when they hadn’t any memory of it at all? Why was he forced into Purgatory, when his only crime was trying to find his mother’s killers?
‘She banned all the evils in the living world into this one, along with a number of souls that were meant to destroy her...’
His mother had told him that he was the key into making things work, so he doubted that he was part of all the evils. But what number of souls was she referencing? And they had tasks just like him? What were their exact purposes?
He grimaced, reaching up to grip his head. He pulled out the phone from his backpack, opening it and then stubbornly glaring at the screen. Whenever Richie got into one of his little upsets, he chose not to speak to Virgil through any sort of contact until he was ready to. And Virgil really wasn’t in the mood to respect that sort of childishness, so he activated the phone on search mode. What he got was a small map of the city that quickly zoomed plane by plane until a tiny red dot that moved steadily up Twentieth and Goldberg caught his eye. The phones were based on bouncing off each other’s systems rather than relying on a satellite GPS system that was customary to tracking. As long as both kept their phones charged–which was relatively easy, as Virgil handled that–they would be able to find each other.
He charged his disk and leapt into the air–at that very same moment, he spotted a moving shadow on the far end of the pool. He stilled, staring at the area as he waited for more indication of movement. He swore he saw something. As he was inching higher into the air, he heard a clink of glass sliding across the concrete. Virgil, despite his awareness of the intruder, startled anyway at the sudden sound.
He started to venture forward to investigate the noise when his neck tingled with awareness. He whirled around to find himself facing a large crowd of Ghouls–their manic faces stared up at him with their wild eyes and broken bodies. All of them were carrying wooden items this time. Which disturbed him because usually...Ghouls didn’t think that way.
Nervously, he pulled himself a little higher in the air, gulping as he struggled to control his reaction to their sudden presence. He looked into bloodied and broken faces–at the sight of eyes missing, of teeth revealed, of large gapes in their bodies. Their rotten stench was awful, and he caught himself gagging as it started to permeate the air.
Then they charged, roaring as one as they raced for him. He received a knock on the head from behind, and he whirled as he rose higher in the air, seeing that two other Ghouls had managed to sneak up behind him. Getting over his initial fear of their sudden appearance, Virgil roared with his own maniacal happiness.
“Fools!” he shouted gleefully. “You just gone and fucked yourselves up! Do you know who you’re dealing with? I am da man, baby! The man that’s got a plan to save the world! An’ you’re trying to sneak up on me, what the fuck? It all useless for YOU, suckas! You can’t touch me! You can’t do shit to me! You’re in MY house now, shit-for-brains...erm...literally for you if that’s what’s in that broken head of yours...ew. ANYWAY! Prepare to fry, rejects of Hell!”
With that, still cackling madly, Virgil used his powers to charge up their clothing, flinging them into the murky waters of the pool. Once he had a significant amount, he then sent a massive charge into the water, ignoring the fact that his body was straining to do so.
-Runnin’ out of energy, he thought with annoyance, watching the Ghouls fry in the water. -Gonna need some rest and food in a bit. Can’t exert too much, or they’re gettin’ me.-
The others that missed his pick up watched as their comrades fried helplessly in the pool, unable to climb out as their bodies were rendered into blackened sacks of gruesome injury. Virgil turned and retrieved the remaining others, most of whom clawed and flung their weapons at him–except for one. This one screamed in absolute fright, eyeing the pool with terrible unease.
“Don’t throw me in there!” he shrieked. “For the love of GOD, don’t kill me! I’m NOT one of them! I’m NOT! I’M NOT! DON’T KILL ME, MAN! I was just playin’!”
Virgil dropped this bunch in complete startle. No Ghoul had ever talked to him in that fashion. None had ever begged for its life. He rose higher to avoid the weapons that were being flung his way, staring at this ‘Ghoul’ in astonished daze.
This one was halfway decent–no real injuries, no gaping wounds. He was as intact as he himself was. His clothes were extremely dirty, and he did have dried blood about himself. But he was acting totally different from the others, who were so occupied with clawing at Virgil that they didn’t bother with him.
Virgil found his voice. “You...you for real?”
The ‘Ghoul’ managed a weak smile. “Er...yeah? I mean, I think, therefore I am, right?”
One of the other Ghouls turned, registering his voice. It then charged after him, but this man deftly blocked the wooden bat with his, and easily tripped the Ghoul into the still dangerous pool. The creature began convulsing immediately, drawing the attention of others. Once they realized that one of their own wasn’t actually with them, they charged after him with their mad laughter and shouts.
Getting over his shock once he realized the non-Ghoul was fighting them off, he charged their clothes and tossed them into the pool–once again throwing a massive charge into the water to electrocute those as well.
Then...cautiously, he lowered himself so that he could better face the man and conserve some energy. Seeing that he was stepping on a thin thread, the non-Ghoul shot him a weak smile.
* - * - * - * - *
They’d found shelter. Night was approaching fast, and both of them were tired. It was one of Richie’s hideouts, and the teen pulled out a sackful of canned food he’d stolen a week earlier from the basement while Backpack searched for his tools and supplies so that he would pass the time working on him while he had it.
Passing a couple of jars over to Hotstreak, Richie sat at the dusty kitchen table and opened his bag, dumping out everything he had while Backpack patiently waited nearby. He withdrew a Maglite flashlight and turned that on, as well as propping a few glowsticks around himself.
With the lack of anything else to do, Hotstreak finished off the two jars of meat. He left the table, walking into the living room nearby, and checked the dust that had settled on the maroon couches. Satisfied that they weren’t too bad, he removed his backpack and flopped onto it. He was asleep in minutes.
Richie watched him from the kitchen table, frowning. Backpack continuously assured him that the perimeter was safe, and Richie lost himself in the repairs his invention needed. When Backpack was finished nearly four hours later, he began working on the goggle. He would still need a trip to the labs to assure himself material, but he did the best that he could with the supplies that he had stored at the house. By the time he was done, his eyelids were drooping heavily, and Backpack was growing concerned with his constant loss of connection. Backpack was ordered on security mode while Richie left the table, glancing once more at the man that took up the couch.
He felt inwardly stupid as he stared down at him, hating himself for admiring his every feature and wishing he could just reach out and...and touch him. He wanted so badly for touch and sex that his feelings shamed him. He hadn’t had this sort of reaction to another man in a long while, and even then he was guilty and sickened to have them.
‘It’s wrong!’ the counselor had insisted to him before the invasion. ‘Not on your end, not at all, but on his! He’d had no right to take advantage of you like that, and it was no fault of your own that you’d fallen for his trap! He knew exactly what he was doing, and he knew what to say to get you there!’
But Richie couldn’t see it that way. That man had given him what he’d been searching for. The man had given him all his attention and love and even supported him with money and gifts–so what if he’d used his prepubescent body upon his whim? Even with that, he’d been kind and gentle and he was never rough or abusive. The man had loved him. Had appreciated him. Had showed him so in gifts and sex and Richie had wondered what was so wrong with expressing one’s love for another in such ways when he’d felt so unloved and unappreciated before?
Still...in the events that had followed, he’d lost connection with those feelings. This was the first time in a long time he felt that way again. But the counselor’s words kept ringing in his mind every time he attributed looking at Hotstreak with his feelings. This wasn’t the same situation. He was sixteen, now. Not twelve. He knew what he was doing, and while he didn’t think that what had occurred in Omaha was wrong, everybody else did. They just didn’t understand.
His hormones were active and it was hard looking for an outlet. Richie was now questioning himself on why he felt so sexually needy when it was apparently wrong for someone his age to have them. But then again, he couldn’t be expected to not have them at this age.
He was attracted to this man; in a desperate, needy sort of way, but he couldn’t rightly show him or tell him. They’d started off so badly, and the man thought of him as such a joke. It was frustrating in that he was attracted to him so strongly. Shame...guilt...fear...everything was against him.
With a low curse, he moved away from the living room, angry with his feelings. He commanded Backpack to continue with his security watch, grabbing some tools from the kitchen. Stomping his way down into the basement, he woke the redhead up with his actions.
Hotstreak cursed under his breath at the disturbance of his sleep. Muttering to himself, he turned his back to the couch to face the kitchen, spying the open basement door. He could hear Richie moving around underneath there, and contemplated bothering him for a few moments.
Something made the entire house shudder, pipes shivering with loud metallic noises, and he started at the sound of them. He was about to lift his head to ask what was going on when Richie came back up, moving straight to the sink. Hotstreak was surprised to see him running water–it spit brownish muck before running clear, and he watched the blond turn the temperature knobs to check on their quality as well. He could smell the faint stench of gas–Backpack emitted a series of sounds, Richie muttering that he’d lit the propane tank.
When steam wafted away from the sink, the blond was satisfied. “I’m taking a shower. Don’t bother me, and stay on alert,” he ordered the robot. Then he was stomping off down the hall, and Hotstreak wondered what pissed him off when there was blessed hot water running freely through the house’s unused pipes.
Not that he wasn’t a stranger to it–Harley had used the old metal trash barrel and fire underneath trick to ensure them hot baths. But neither of them could get hot water running the way the kid did. He figured that it had been easy to do, but he couldn’t rightly figure out how or why. He curled up on the couch once more, figuring that he was going to get a piece of this action when the teen was down with his shower. He could just feel the Wailer’s slime and muck all over him, and wondered why the teen wasn’t making an cracks about shit-stink.
He laid there for a long while, then heard the sound of water running. The familiar sounds of a shower. He itched to jump up and race in there, to shove the teen aside and get at that shower himself. As he laid there wondering what sort of shampoo and soap were available to him, he started thinking. He started thinking about that night in the basement–how the darkness had obscured most of his sight, but how the teen’s body looked. Of course, he hadn’t been thinking about anything else but the betrayal Harley done to him, so he didn’t think to really pay much attention to the teen’s nakedness then.
But he thought about it now.
Uncomfortably, he allowed himself to remember long, pale limbs, gangly on a growing body. He thought of the flat stomach, the thin chest. The absence of a more manlier frame. He felt that he shouldn’t be thinking this way–it made him wholly uncomfortable. He was ten years older than the teen, and he was thinking of him in such a way that made him squirm. But he had to wonder if what he had seen had been that man’s sick fantasy of a dream come true. If that was the excitement Harley had been craving. It was so wrong on many accounts, and he felt positively evil for thinking about it.
But he couldn’t help it.
“Argh,” he growled into the couch cushion. “This is bad! This is utterly bad!”
With that, he rose from the couch. Backpack watched him walk down the hall, Hotstreak casting wary looks over his shoulder as he made his way to the back bedroom. Backpack eked out onto the edge of the table, still watching him as he opened the door quietly, walking into the darkness with a sort of guilty but utterly curious action. Maybe if he had to he would sicken himself for making himself do this.
But then again, the teen was clearly into him. And what was wrong with taking advantage of that? After all, Harley did mention this was a world without morals...
He continued to battle himself as he neared the bathroom, elated to see steam coming out from underneath the door. He steeled himself for what he was about to do. One more sight of that growing frame, and he’d have his mind fried with the image just so that he couldn’t get any more pervy thoughts in his head about him.
Absolved, he carefully turned the knob on the door, listening to the splashing activity in the shower stall. Steam left the room in blessed action, making him inhale sharply of soap scented air. The neon green light from within showed him the blond’s clothes on the floor, discarded carelessly but within reach should anything happen. He opened the door slowly and carefully, seeing that the shower was immediately to his right. He kept the door opened just slightly in case he had to shut it quickly, peering in as his eyes adjusted to the nightstick’s glow. It sat atop of the toilet, and gave him lighting to peer into the tub. There were small sounds coming from the shower, and he figured that the blond was muttering to himself over things.
But what he saw made him freeze with a sort of stunned reaction, pushing the door open a little more just to make sure that what he was seeing was actually that. His breath caught in his throat as he stared, now attributing those small noises as moans and shaky discomfort. He felt his pants grow tight, stomach clenching as he watched thin, pale fingers pump in awkward rhythm in and out of a pale ass. He watched as an uncut dick became treated to enthusiastic pumping, as breathing became a chore with all building actions.
His mind burned with the image, unable to look away from what he was seeing. He couldn’t even think to move, or even conceal the fact that he standing halfway in the bathroom to watch this. He just watched with rising discomfort as the teen brought himself to a groaning climax, leaning against the shower wall in shaky action. It couldn’t have lasted long, because he didn’t even wait to get up after hearing the shower come on.
Once watching the teen clean his hands in the spray of the shower, Hotstreak finally realized that he shouldn’t be here. Quietly and quickly, he shut the door behind him, his hands shaking. He started to feel intensely guilty for seeing what he had–it had been none of his business, and he was hitting himself for it as he hurriedly left the bedroom. Backpack continued to watch him suspiciously, and Hotstreak inwardly complained on why the thing didn’t stop him from playing voyeur to something that had the opposite effect he was looking for.
Instead of being truly disgusted...he found himself utterly intrigued.
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 Seven:
I Want Love
Hotstreak rubbed his shoulder, his expression clearly telling the world how pissed-off he was. Richie was following along behind him, mumbling every little while to the little robot in his arms. The pair of them were making their way through the empty sidewalks, careful of the creatures that they could hear running through the dark.
The encounter with the man in black had been strange; both of them were still puzzling over what had been said. Hours had passed since he’d knocked them both unconscious–Richie had woken first and against all instincts...had sat near the redhead’s side until he, too, woke. Both of them were looking for a place to hide for the night, and Richie knew of a place where they could stay.
Hotstreak adjusted his cargo shorts, grumbling over the dirt he’d gotten from impact and more than sore from the overall encounter. He hadn’t been battered in so long that he felt like complaining about it for a little while. Just to let the teen know just how annoyed he was with the world in general.
“Fuckin’ hurts,” he was muttering. “And for what? To have some stupid piece of fag bullshit tell me that I knew you from some other life. Who the fuck comes up with that? Dick don’t even know his business, coming up and hitting me–I didn’t deserve that fucking bullshit, and it wasn’t even me he was even focused on! Goddamn child-molesting scumbag wanted shit only from that kid, and hit me because of it! Fucking bullshit, man. The whole situation was fucking bullshit.”
“Here,” Richie said, hurrying ahead of him and moving through an open alley. Hotstreak paused on the sidewalk, watching as he lifted the lock of the metal door, Backpack opening it easily. The door protested loudly as it opened, the teen gesturing at him to follow as he slipped inside. With a heavy sigh, Hotstreak figured he’d find out what it was he was going to be shown for the lack of anything else better to do.
It was a private doctor’s office, he realized as he stepped inside. It was intensely dark–but that was solved as Richie took out a light stick from his bag, snapping that into effect while Backpack emitted its own light. The teen set the neon-green light stick on the front counter and then moved comfortably from room to room, Backpack running about on its legs and exploring everything with seemingly reassuring beeps. Hotstreak glared at the dirtied glass frames that hung on the wall; the pamphlets that advised against unsafe sex and birth control. There were comfortable arm chairs spread throughout the area, along with a magazine table, fake plants and a television set hanging from the wall. Richie came back with an armful of items, dropping them on the counter.
“Aspirin?” he asked, holding up a half emptied bottle. “Or do you need me to feed you?”
“I don’t need no damn aspirin!” Hotstreak snapped at him, snatching the bottle from him, hand flaring. Instantly plastic melted, a scorched stench wafting in the air as he tossed the torched item away from him. Richie scowled at him, then turned, holding up a couple of packets of medicinal cleaning pads.
“For your face,” he said, ripping one open. “You should let me do it. You might mistake your face for your ass.”
Hotstreak gave him an astounded expression, utterly appalled at how this teen could speak to him in such a way. Didn’t he just save the kid’s life from his demented lover? Hotstreak was starting to feel as if his effort was unappreciated, and allowed himself to miss the old Harley. He snatched the pad away from Richie, shoving the teen into the wall. Muttering under his breath, he pulled it against his face, hissing in reaction upon contact with his injuries. When he’d hit the pavement, he’d scraped his face off the surface. His shoulder was throbbing in uncomfortable pain, swelling, considerably thicker than it should be. He swore angrily, kicking one of the chairs with his frustration.
Richie picked himself up from the floor, waving Backpack off. He grabbed a couple more packets, opening them as Hotstreak tossed the used ones away.
The redhead reacted when the teen began swiping the pad down his right arm, wiping pieces of gravel off of him at the same time. “What the hell are you doing?!”
“I’m helping you,” Richie said slowly, adjusting the pad within his fingers as he gave him an annoyed look.
“I don’t need your damn help!” Hotstreak snatched the pad from him, muttering as he turned around to do it himself. The redhead then tossed the used pad at the teen. Richie removed the used pad from his face with a disgusted expression, tossing it back at the him. The pad burst into flame and hit the floor to smolder as the redhead gave him a smug look.
He then gave him an annoyed look. “Why did you give him that key?”
Richie shifted uncomfortably, but a small smile played upon his lips. Hotstreak was startled at how different that made him. It was actually quite nice. “He wanted a key. I gave him a key. Unfortunately, it’s not the one he was looking for, and the way he wanted it so badly made me want to keep it.”
“...You’re a total masochist. You know what you’re dealing with, right?”
“Actually, no. But I plan on finding out what it is that dumped this really heavy–” Richie cut himself off, wondering if he should include the man into what he and Virgil had learned. As Hotstreak waited for him to continue, Richie decided that it was really none of his business. The man was going about it as if it were really nothing; it really wasn’t top subject between them. Therefore, he would keep it that way. The key had been a tool for his inventions–he wasn’t even sure what it went to.
The heavy silence between them was thick and uncomfortable. Richie found himself staring at the redhead with thought, wondering how he’d known this man. It was the third reference to a life before he knew it, as Virgil had related to him what his mother and Maria had said. It was strange how they knew of such things.
Hotstreak was starting to grow uncomfortable with the lingering stare Richie was giving him, and promptly lost all train of thought of what had occurred. The teen looked as if he wanted to eat him whole. “Look...this is a weird situation. Full of a lot of weird shit. I’ve nothing to do with you.”
“It is a weird situation...” Richie trailed off, tilting his head as he continued to stare up at him. His eyes flitted from area to area, as if mentally documenting everything that he saw. It made Hotstreak feel so utterly self-conscious of himself. “Is that your natural hair color? How tall do you think you are?”
Hotstreak waved his hands about, grimacing. “No more questions. I’m sick of hearing them. ‘Sides, you hitting on me is weird. Cut it out.”
“‘Hitting on you’? Don’t flatter yourself!” Richie snapped at him, turning away to hide his blush. He fiddled with the lightstick with agitated actions. “You’re not my type. You’re too stupid. You wouldn’t understand half the things that I say.”
“Hey–!”
“And I prefer men with experience. You seem to react impulsively with every action and thought you have. That sort of behavior probably follows you in the bedroom.”
Hotstreak scoffed, wondering why he was sticking around the mean-mouthed blond, and a little peeved at the bedroom comment. “You’re one of those lookin’ for old balls? Saggy skin? Ew.”
“NO! Yes, I prefer age, but that’s only because they are the ones that understand and appreciate me.”
“...So, basically, you’re attracted to pedophiles...”
“NO!”
“Fuckin̵ 7; old men, huh? Is that how you worm money from them? Clothes?” Hotstreak grinned at him as turning the tables on the teen made him feel better. “Dinner at nice restaurants? Lunch money? Movie passes to the newest Disney slop? You sneaky little prostitute you...”
“People my age never got me. No one did but those...older than me. So what if they were older than my own father? My own father didn’t get me. Back then, they treated me with what I was looking for, and they respected me. They appreciated what I had to say, and what I could give them!”
“Ew.”
“I’m not interested in what you have to offer, anyway. I prefer brains to peanuts. Your dick’s probably smaller than your brain, and I’m not impressed.”
“Man, shut up! The only reason why you ain’t gettin’ any from anybody your age is because you’re so fucking snotty. Just because you got some brains don’t make you better than anybody else,” Hotstreak scoffed again, examining his nails. He sighed at their lack of perfection, lifting a hand to chew on a hangnail.
Richie scowled at him. “You never even washed your hands, you disgusting creature. Who knew where that hand’s been?”
“Not on your dick, that’s for sure,” Hotstreak replied, mimicking up and down motions over his own crotch.
“S-shut up! I don’t want your hands on me!” Richie exclaimed, flushing as he watched that motion, feeling uncomfortably hot.
“Yeah, right. And all those looks you’ve been giving me have been nothing but nice. ‘Ch.”
“I haven’t been giving you anything more but looks of disgust and pity. I feel sorry for you. You’re so incapable of doing anything on your own, and your little fairy routine is absolutely out of place in this world. It’s a wonder you made it this far.” A smirk made its way over a disgusted sneer. “Harley must have taken good care of you when he rescued you from whatever hair salon you dabbled in before the invasion took place. He must’ve made you feel like such a man, it must have been devastating when you realized he was more into kids. What a blow. You might not ever get it up again.”
Hotstreak seethed, palm itching to slap that smirk right off that baby face. Gritting his teeth, he exhaled heavily. He leaned against the counter with one elbow, looking down at the teen with a pity look of his own. “You remind me of one those little chihuahuas...snapping the air around ankles, trying to look all tough and mean...yapping all annoying. You’ve got the bug eyes for it, too. Betcha your dick’s just as big, too.”
“Hmpf. What a childish response.”
“It must be sad bein’ you. You’re so angry and mean...no wonder old guys go for you. They got the patience to deal with that shit from their fucking wives. Anybody else would knock you around.”
“Of course, when one gets extremely frustrated, they’d resort to violence like brainless morons. They can’t talk it out like civil human beings.”
“How old are you, kid?” Hotstreak asked over him.
“...Sixteen. May fifth. Not that it matters to you, right?”
Hotstreak straightened, giving him an extremely disturbed look. “You were thirteen when you started going after old guys?!”
“Like I said, if you were listening rather than scratching your dick and grunting, no one my age got me.”
“That’s so fucking sick...what the fuck fucked you up so much you let old guys pick you up?” He gave a retching noise. Then gave him a look of disgust. “You probably liked what Harley did to you, huh? Encouraged him to jump on ya when he took you down to the basement–”
He barely caught the fist before it connected with his face, pulling back but keeping a hold on his wrists when he caught the other fist aimed at his head. He stared down at the angry face that stared up at him, feeling a little unnerved at the scrutinizing eyes behind those wire-rimmed glasses.
“Just to make things clear with you, nothing happened,” Richie growled, not looking away from him. “He was more into bashing my head in with his damn flashlight than anything else! So you can refrain yourself from fantasizing about what happened right now!”
Hotstreak couldn’t really trust the teen’s words. But then again, he figured Richie was telling the truth–the teen was not showing Harley any like in any manner. He pushed his hands roughly away.
“Quit trying to touch me,” he muttered, stepping back a few steps. “You’re always looking for an excuse to touch me. You know, you could try a little harder with your pick-up lines, you puny, old-fart fuckin’ fag. Maybe if you’re lucky, I might be desperate someday. It’s kinda hard picking up guys when you’re me. They don’t like it when I beat on them for their goods.”
Richie sneered at him, but didn’t back away. “So you’re as similar as your partner? Using violence to get what you want?”
Hotstreak shook his head, rubbing at his right shoulder once more. “I ain’t like him. No way. At least I get shit out in the open rather than–than hiding it. And I ain’t so screwed up in the head that I’d go and prey on little kids. Or–or torture somebody. Shit, all the action that I got was consensual!”
“I’ll bet it was,” Richie muttered, rubbing his wrist. “Probably blind, desperate men on their deathbed, because I cannot see anybody wanting anything to do with you.”
Exasperated, Hotstreak’s hands fell sharply against his sides, giving Richie a fiercely annoyed expression. He stepped forward, shoving the teen hard enough for him to lose his footing. The blond hit the counter, unable to catch himself from the sudden movement. Backpack started forward, but stopped at a hand slashing through the air. Hotstreak looked at the robot, noting how tense it seemed. He scowled at it, then shot Richie an pitying look.
“Your personality’s so fucking shitty, you HAD to make something that HAD to deal with you, and take all your shit. That’s so fucking pathetic,” he said with a sneer.
“Once again, it was because no one else can relate to me,” Richie said, slowly straightening. Hotstreak found it so weird how the teen could stare at him so intensely, as if looking away from him would make him disappear. When had Harley looked at him like that? “And I need something rather than someone to work with me, in a way that involved no emotions or thoughts or rational morals. I have trouble relating to other humans because–”
“Man, you talk like you’re some frigging alien, or something. You’re fuckin’ human! You got red blood! You act like a bitch on a pad!”
“I think differently from others.” Richie stared at him for a few moments, still not looking away. But he narrowed his eyes, giving him a tiny smirk. “But I won’t explain it to you. It’s impossible for you to understand anything that I’m saying. Even if you had that man to help you out, you still wouldn’t get it.”
Hotstreak gave him a venomous glare. It was starting to unsettle him how the teen continued talking to him in that manner, but give him that look that, quite frankly, creeped him out. The intensity was almost overwhelming, and he felt undermined by it. He straightened his shoulders, making himself feel his height of six foot four.
He shook his head slightly, stepping in close to the teen so that he was towering over him. But the blond still didn’t look away, and Hotstreak found himself growing intrigued by the fact that his nearing presence was actually having an effect on him. He heard the quickening of his breath, the neglectful way the teen held his form in his stand against him. As if he’d let the redhead do whatever he desired to him.
He started to feel disturbed by this play; he recognized that the teen was attracted to him, but why all the insults?
He examined the teen’s face in the glow of the light stick. He could smell him and it was a familiar smell; something he couldn’t rightly place. He leaned down slightly to come face to face with him, noting that Richie still didn’t look away from him, his face darkening with some flush. He set his hands firmly on the counter, trapping him between his arms, hearing his breath catch as a nervous look was set on his nearing proximity. But the glow of the light stick told him that the teen was enjoying the nearness–it was evident in the widening of his pupils, the way he stared up at him in that needing way...
It was an ego boost. And a great tool to use.
“You can lie to yourself all you want,” he said quietly, a smug smile crossing his lips. “But you know you want me.”
Richie’s expression turned into that of disgust, and he shoved Hotstreak’s face away from his with both palms. Ducking underneath his arms as Hotstreak reacted, Richie scooped up Backpack into his arms.
“Don’t flatter yourself!” he then snapped, heading for the door as Hotstreak smirked after him.
Richie kicked the door open with a harsh action, stomping out as Hotstreak followed. It was only for the lack of anything else to do. He gave a low chuckle as he preened, a hand moving through his hair as he flexed his muscles.
“I can’t help that I’m a hot piece of ass,” he said triumphantly, following after the teen. “Every gay man and boy wants it from me. Why should you be any different, you damn nerdball hooker?”
“I’m not a hooker!” Richie shouted over his shoulder, angrily flushed as he took to the sidewalk. He was quite mortified that Hotstreak’s words rang true, and that he’d been scorned. “And you’re just a fat-headed loser with a small dick!”
“Fat head?” Hotstreak stopped in place, rolling his eyes up, as if he could see this. He touched his head with both hands, trying to measure it. But the pang in his shoulder told him he couldn’t reach high, and lowered his arms with an indignant huff. “Oh, honey, please. Don’t be trying to make yourself feel better with your little childish insults. Remember, you’re above all that.”
He laughed with heavy sarcasm, Richie throwing him a disgusted look. Hotstreak paused, then regarded him with an angry gesture. “Go on, then! Take you and your homely self and go pout or cry or sulk or whatever it is you do when you ain’t gettin’ any–!”
“I don’t pout! Or cry! Or sulk! And I wasn’t trying to get anything from you!” Richie shouted indignantly. “You have absolutely nothing to give to me, nor do I find anything of value from you! You’re nothing but scum! A dingleberry!”
“Ooh, don’t knock yourself out with those big words, you big baby!” Hotstreak mocked, following after him. “Look at you, getting all teary-eyed because I wasn’t falling for your little trap.”
“I was doing nothing of the sort!” Richie huffed, turning to face him. “I would have nothing to do with you! You’re nothing!”
“Please. Ever since you saw me, you’ve been wanting into my pants. You can’t deny it. If I weren’t me, and I saw me, I’d want into my pants, too. Hot damn, I’m a good-looking piece of meat. And I definitely know what to do with my mouth and dick, so don’t try to say otherwise. You’ll just end up sounding stupid.”
“As if!” Richie gasped, growing red as Hotstreak stopped a couple of feet away from him. “How dare you take things out of proportion!? And you try and pin me with something that hadn’t even happened! You’re all hurt over what that man did to you, and you’re trying to make yourself feel better by picking on me! If you want revenge, find him! Leave me alone!”
“‘Picking on you’?!” Hotstreak repeated, giving him an aghast gesture. “You’ve been shit talkin’ me all this fuckin’ time! Telling me I got a small dick, and a peanut for a brain, and–! And a whole lot of other shit that I didn’t bother listening to...what the fuck is that all about?”
“I’m telling it like it is, you dick for brain!” Richie snapped at him. He really couldn’t resist looking into those green eyes of his, noting how light they were getting the more riled Hotstreak got. How the pupils widened, the whites more apparent. He was emanating a different scent from him–something thick and tense, something that played haywire with his own hormones. Suddenly, all he could think about was how the other man might smell in bed. Sweaty and hot, restless and needy, and that voice of his emitting growls and long moans–
“What are you turning all red for, you fucking nerd? I got you so hot that you got to turn into a fucking tomato every time you look at me?!”
“I–I am not–! How dare you–! Fucking bastard–!”
“It’s so fucking weird how you keep fighting yourself! Living in denial must be nice, huh? Well, why don’t you leave the Goddamn Amazon to come back to reality?!”
Richie snorted, shooting him a furious look. “Your geography sounds just as awesome as your grammar. What a winner you are, you pathetic bastard.”
“...Well...damn straight.”
“God! You’re stupid! And I want nothing more to do with you!” Richie exclaimed, turning to walk once more when Backpack lifted itself upward in time to meet the incoming cleaver blade with its steel hull. The metallic sound screeched through the stillness, startling both. Richie gasped, looking to see a Ghoul struggling to pull its cleaver from his robot’s back–he started to pull back on Backpack, shocked out of his mind at the Ghoul’s proximity.
Hotstreak reacted with a start, completely thrown by the Ghoul’s appearance. He hadn’t even seen or heard the thing before it attacked. From his point, it looked as if the Ghoul had embedded its cleaver into the teen’s head–but Backpack shifted, rebar arms shooting outward to embed within the office building wall, pulling it effectively out of the Ghoul’s grip and Richie’s. The Ghoul chased after its weapon with a wild squawk, and Richie stood there like an idiot, reaching for his robot.
Hotstreak reacted quickly, heating up his hands as he focused on the Ghoul–once the creature lunged at the teen with a mad cackle, Hotstreak sent several fireballs into it. The Ghoul immediately caught flame, screaming in horrendous agony as Hotstreak then took hold of the heat and flame–amplifying the whole package so that its body melted garishly into ashes right on the sidewalk.
Both of them were still at that moment, hearts yammering in panic. Then Richie dove for Backpack, bracing himself on the wall with his feet and pulling the cleaver with all his weight and strength until it popped out of the robot’s back. He hit the sidewalk as Backpack retracted its arms, facing Hotstreak as the redhead strained his ears for anything more that might come at them. He heard the incoming approach of more feet coming their way, and he started to run–it took energy to use his powers, and he was rapidly depleting of it all the more he avoided rest and food.
He grabbed the teen’s arm, jerking him to his feet as Backpack leapt onto his back, aiming to reach for him. Shoving him forward, Hotstreak ordered him to run, Richie resisting with a hiss.
“I don’t need you to help me, or tell me what to do!” he snarled, shoving the redhead away from him.
Hotstreak regarded him with exasperation then shrugged, starting to run down the sidewalk. At the screech and wild shouts of glee coming from the other end of the street, Richie started. There were five Ghouls in all, all armed with pipes, bats and machetes. He turned and ran after Hotstreak, Backpack squealing in alarm as the Ghouls gave chase.
* - * - * - * - *
Virgil stared into the pool of water, searching for any clue of Maria. He’d returned to the pool, certain that if he voiced his troubles and worries over his inability to figure out what he had to do next, that Maria would return and give him that next step.
But nothing was happening. He pulled away from the edge, huffing as he sat back on his heels. The place was wholly silent as it normally was–but there was a touch of difference in the air that made him feel much more cautious than before. He didn’t know what it was, and he’d searched the place for anything out of the ordinary. Virgil rubbed a hand through his dreads, trying to think. He kept thinking of the key Richie had in his possession, but neither of them could come up with an explanation or situation the key would go to. His mother had mentioned that he had to look for the others; but he didn’t know where to start.
He rose from the concrete with a heavy sigh, staring down at the water with frustration. Where would the little silver key go to? What would it unlock? He frowned, rocking on his heels as his mind went over the various places they’d ever been to in Dakota. Richie had pretty much busied himself with keeping track of the other survivors’ locations and storage areas throughout the city; and he was also familiar with the labs. But Virgil was trying to think beyond all that–where would he have to go in order to find a clue for the next step? He began thinking of all the role-playing games he’d ever played before the invasion happened, and every one of them started with a clue that often had him running for another and another until the game ended.
This situation was almost similar to his games. He was given a clue; he was given a look into their world of imagined Purgatory. Everything was so deep at this point that it felt outlandish; they were dead, but how did they die when they hadn’t any memory of it at all? Why was he forced into Purgatory, when his only crime was trying to find his mother’s killers?
‘She banned all the evils in the living world into this one, along with a number of souls that were meant to destroy her...’
His mother had told him that he was the key into making things work, so he doubted that he was part of all the evils. But what number of souls was she referencing? And they had tasks just like him? What were their exact purposes?
He grimaced, reaching up to grip his head. He pulled out the phone from his backpack, opening it and then stubbornly glaring at the screen. Whenever Richie got into one of his little upsets, he chose not to speak to Virgil through any sort of contact until he was ready to. And Virgil really wasn’t in the mood to respect that sort of childishness, so he activated the phone on search mode. What he got was a small map of the city that quickly zoomed plane by plane until a tiny red dot that moved steadily up Twentieth and Goldberg caught his eye. The phones were based on bouncing off each other’s systems rather than relying on a satellite GPS system that was customary to tracking. As long as both kept their phones charged–which was relatively easy, as Virgil handled that–they would be able to find each other.
He charged his disk and leapt into the air–at that very same moment, he spotted a moving shadow on the far end of the pool. He stilled, staring at the area as he waited for more indication of movement. He swore he saw something. As he was inching higher into the air, he heard a clink of glass sliding across the concrete. Virgil, despite his awareness of the intruder, startled anyway at the sudden sound.
He started to venture forward to investigate the noise when his neck tingled with awareness. He whirled around to find himself facing a large crowd of Ghouls–their manic faces stared up at him with their wild eyes and broken bodies. All of them were carrying wooden items this time. Which disturbed him because usually...Ghouls didn’t think that way.
Nervously, he pulled himself a little higher in the air, gulping as he struggled to control his reaction to their sudden presence. He looked into bloodied and broken faces–at the sight of eyes missing, of teeth revealed, of large gapes in their bodies. Their rotten stench was awful, and he caught himself gagging as it started to permeate the air.
Then they charged, roaring as one as they raced for him. He received a knock on the head from behind, and he whirled as he rose higher in the air, seeing that two other Ghouls had managed to sneak up behind him. Getting over his initial fear of their sudden appearance, Virgil roared with his own maniacal happiness.
“Fools!” he shouted gleefully. “You just gone and fucked yourselves up! Do you know who you’re dealing with? I am da man, baby! The man that’s got a plan to save the world! An’ you’re trying to sneak up on me, what the fuck? It all useless for YOU, suckas! You can’t touch me! You can’t do shit to me! You’re in MY house now, shit-for-brains...erm...literally for you if that’s what’s in that broken head of yours...ew. ANYWAY! Prepare to fry, rejects of Hell!”
With that, still cackling madly, Virgil used his powers to charge up their clothing, flinging them into the murky waters of the pool. Once he had a significant amount, he then sent a massive charge into the water, ignoring the fact that his body was straining to do so.
-Runnin’ out of energy, he thought with annoyance, watching the Ghouls fry in the water. -Gonna need some rest and food in a bit. Can’t exert too much, or they’re gettin’ me.-
The others that missed his pick up watched as their comrades fried helplessly in the pool, unable to climb out as their bodies were rendered into blackened sacks of gruesome injury. Virgil turned and retrieved the remaining others, most of whom clawed and flung their weapons at him–except for one. This one screamed in absolute fright, eyeing the pool with terrible unease.
“Don’t throw me in there!” he shrieked. “For the love of GOD, don’t kill me! I’m NOT one of them! I’m NOT! I’M NOT! DON’T KILL ME, MAN! I was just playin’!”
Virgil dropped this bunch in complete startle. No Ghoul had ever talked to him in that fashion. None had ever begged for its life. He rose higher to avoid the weapons that were being flung his way, staring at this ‘Ghoul’ in astonished daze.
This one was halfway decent–no real injuries, no gaping wounds. He was as intact as he himself was. His clothes were extremely dirty, and he did have dried blood about himself. But he was acting totally different from the others, who were so occupied with clawing at Virgil that they didn’t bother with him.
Virgil found his voice. “You...you for real?”
The ‘Ghoul’ managed a weak smile. “Er...yeah? I mean, I think, therefore I am, right?”
One of the other Ghouls turned, registering his voice. It then charged after him, but this man deftly blocked the wooden bat with his, and easily tripped the Ghoul into the still dangerous pool. The creature began convulsing immediately, drawing the attention of others. Once they realized that one of their own wasn’t actually with them, they charged after him with their mad laughter and shouts.
Getting over his shock once he realized the non-Ghoul was fighting them off, he charged their clothes and tossed them into the pool–once again throwing a massive charge into the water to electrocute those as well.
Then...cautiously, he lowered himself so that he could better face the man and conserve some energy. Seeing that he was stepping on a thin thread, the non-Ghoul shot him a weak smile.
* - * - * - * - *
They’d found shelter. Night was approaching fast, and both of them were tired. It was one of Richie’s hideouts, and the teen pulled out a sackful of canned food he’d stolen a week earlier from the basement while Backpack searched for his tools and supplies so that he would pass the time working on him while he had it.
Passing a couple of jars over to Hotstreak, Richie sat at the dusty kitchen table and opened his bag, dumping out everything he had while Backpack patiently waited nearby. He withdrew a Maglite flashlight and turned that on, as well as propping a few glowsticks around himself.
With the lack of anything else to do, Hotstreak finished off the two jars of meat. He left the table, walking into the living room nearby, and checked the dust that had settled on the maroon couches. Satisfied that they weren’t too bad, he removed his backpack and flopped onto it. He was asleep in minutes.
Richie watched him from the kitchen table, frowning. Backpack continuously assured him that the perimeter was safe, and Richie lost himself in the repairs his invention needed. When Backpack was finished nearly four hours later, he began working on the goggle. He would still need a trip to the labs to assure himself material, but he did the best that he could with the supplies that he had stored at the house. By the time he was done, his eyelids were drooping heavily, and Backpack was growing concerned with his constant loss of connection. Backpack was ordered on security mode while Richie left the table, glancing once more at the man that took up the couch.
He felt inwardly stupid as he stared down at him, hating himself for admiring his every feature and wishing he could just reach out and...and touch him. He wanted so badly for touch and sex that his feelings shamed him. He hadn’t had this sort of reaction to another man in a long while, and even then he was guilty and sickened to have them.
‘It’s wrong!’ the counselor had insisted to him before the invasion. ‘Not on your end, not at all, but on his! He’d had no right to take advantage of you like that, and it was no fault of your own that you’d fallen for his trap! He knew exactly what he was doing, and he knew what to say to get you there!’
But Richie couldn’t see it that way. That man had given him what he’d been searching for. The man had given him all his attention and love and even supported him with money and gifts–so what if he’d used his prepubescent body upon his whim? Even with that, he’d been kind and gentle and he was never rough or abusive. The man had loved him. Had appreciated him. Had showed him so in gifts and sex and Richie had wondered what was so wrong with expressing one’s love for another in such ways when he’d felt so unloved and unappreciated before?
Still...in the events that had followed, he’d lost connection with those feelings. This was the first time in a long time he felt that way again. But the counselor’s words kept ringing in his mind every time he attributed looking at Hotstreak with his feelings. This wasn’t the same situation. He was sixteen, now. Not twelve. He knew what he was doing, and while he didn’t think that what had occurred in Omaha was wrong, everybody else did. They just didn’t understand.
His hormones were active and it was hard looking for an outlet. Richie was now questioning himself on why he felt so sexually needy when it was apparently wrong for someone his age to have them. But then again, he couldn’t be expected to not have them at this age.
He was attracted to this man; in a desperate, needy sort of way, but he couldn’t rightly show him or tell him. They’d started off so badly, and the man thought of him as such a joke. It was frustrating in that he was attracted to him so strongly. Shame...guilt...fear...everything was against him.
With a low curse, he moved away from the living room, angry with his feelings. He commanded Backpack to continue with his security watch, grabbing some tools from the kitchen. Stomping his way down into the basement, he woke the redhead up with his actions.
Hotstreak cursed under his breath at the disturbance of his sleep. Muttering to himself, he turned his back to the couch to face the kitchen, spying the open basement door. He could hear Richie moving around underneath there, and contemplated bothering him for a few moments.
Something made the entire house shudder, pipes shivering with loud metallic noises, and he started at the sound of them. He was about to lift his head to ask what was going on when Richie came back up, moving straight to the sink. Hotstreak was surprised to see him running water–it spit brownish muck before running clear, and he watched the blond turn the temperature knobs to check on their quality as well. He could smell the faint stench of gas–Backpack emitted a series of sounds, Richie muttering that he’d lit the propane tank.
When steam wafted away from the sink, the blond was satisfied. “I’m taking a shower. Don’t bother me, and stay on alert,” he ordered the robot. Then he was stomping off down the hall, and Hotstreak wondered what pissed him off when there was blessed hot water running freely through the house’s unused pipes.
Not that he wasn’t a stranger to it–Harley had used the old metal trash barrel and fire underneath trick to ensure them hot baths. But neither of them could get hot water running the way the kid did. He figured that it had been easy to do, but he couldn’t rightly figure out how or why. He curled up on the couch once more, figuring that he was going to get a piece of this action when the teen was down with his shower. He could just feel the Wailer’s slime and muck all over him, and wondered why the teen wasn’t making an cracks about shit-stink.
He laid there for a long while, then heard the sound of water running. The familiar sounds of a shower. He itched to jump up and race in there, to shove the teen aside and get at that shower himself. As he laid there wondering what sort of shampoo and soap were available to him, he started thinking. He started thinking about that night in the basement–how the darkness had obscured most of his sight, but how the teen’s body looked. Of course, he hadn’t been thinking about anything else but the betrayal Harley done to him, so he didn’t think to really pay much attention to the teen’s nakedness then.
But he thought about it now.
Uncomfortably, he allowed himself to remember long, pale limbs, gangly on a growing body. He thought of the flat stomach, the thin chest. The absence of a more manlier frame. He felt that he shouldn’t be thinking this way–it made him wholly uncomfortable. He was ten years older than the teen, and he was thinking of him in such a way that made him squirm. But he had to wonder if what he had seen had been that man’s sick fantasy of a dream come true. If that was the excitement Harley had been craving. It was so wrong on many accounts, and he felt positively evil for thinking about it.
But he couldn’t help it.
“Argh,” he growled into the couch cushion. “This is bad! This is utterly bad!”
With that, he rose from the couch. Backpack watched him walk down the hall, Hotstreak casting wary looks over his shoulder as he made his way to the back bedroom. Backpack eked out onto the edge of the table, still watching him as he opened the door quietly, walking into the darkness with a sort of guilty but utterly curious action. Maybe if he had to he would sicken himself for making himself do this.
But then again, the teen was clearly into him. And what was wrong with taking advantage of that? After all, Harley did mention this was a world without morals...
He continued to battle himself as he neared the bathroom, elated to see steam coming out from underneath the door. He steeled himself for what he was about to do. One more sight of that growing frame, and he’d have his mind fried with the image just so that he couldn’t get any more pervy thoughts in his head about him.
Absolved, he carefully turned the knob on the door, listening to the splashing activity in the shower stall. Steam left the room in blessed action, making him inhale sharply of soap scented air. The neon green light from within showed him the blond’s clothes on the floor, discarded carelessly but within reach should anything happen. He opened the door slowly and carefully, seeing that the shower was immediately to his right. He kept the door opened just slightly in case he had to shut it quickly, peering in as his eyes adjusted to the nightstick’s glow. It sat atop of the toilet, and gave him lighting to peer into the tub. There were small sounds coming from the shower, and he figured that the blond was muttering to himself over things.
But what he saw made him freeze with a sort of stunned reaction, pushing the door open a little more just to make sure that what he was seeing was actually that. His breath caught in his throat as he stared, now attributing those small noises as moans and shaky discomfort. He felt his pants grow tight, stomach clenching as he watched thin, pale fingers pump in awkward rhythm in and out of a pale ass. He watched as an uncut dick became treated to enthusiastic pumping, as breathing became a chore with all building actions.
His mind burned with the image, unable to look away from what he was seeing. He couldn’t even think to move, or even conceal the fact that he standing halfway in the bathroom to watch this. He just watched with rising discomfort as the teen brought himself to a groaning climax, leaning against the shower wall in shaky action. It couldn’t have lasted long, because he didn’t even wait to get up after hearing the shower come on.
Once watching the teen clean his hands in the spray of the shower, Hotstreak finally realized that he shouldn’t be here. Quietly and quickly, he shut the door behind him, his hands shaking. He started to feel intensely guilty for seeing what he had–it had been none of his business, and he was hitting himself for it as he hurriedly left the bedroom. Backpack continued to watch him suspiciously, and Hotstreak inwardly complained on why the thing didn’t stop him from playing voyeur to something that had the opposite effect he was looking for.
Instead of being truly disgusted...he found himself utterly intrigued.