Hello dears,

Well, you may have noticed we have a new 'R' rating on this sucker. Not so much for, shall we say, amorous encounters (well after the one here), but because things are going to be getting very unpleasant for our boys, soon. (ignores Richie in the background, screaming 'What was it before? A picnic?')

Thanks to Amaranthia and Summerstarr, without whom I'd likely still be paralyzed in revision after revision, never brave enough to post.

Special thanks to Cypher, who I am officially naming a co-author of this 'fic. He's spent so many hours helping me tweak this, helping me brainstorm, and he actually wrote some of the scenes for this chapter. So yeah, dear, I couldn't have done it without you!

Disclaimer: nope, not mine, never will be. no money, please don't sue?


A week.

He had been there a week days. A week in which Virgil had done his level best to act like the year and a half since the Bang had never happened, like they were still in high school together and Richie had just come over to spend a few nights. A week in which Virgil had plied him with their old favorite videos and games, with all night talk-fests and pizza on his living room floor.

Virgil had set him up in a 'guest' bedroom off his own set of rooms—a rather spacious space that had probably once been an adjoining office. Virgil provided all their meals, usually insisting that Richie eat with him on his living room couch. Richie had his own bathroom, his own TV and video library…Virgil had even found some new sets of clothes for him. Richie could barely remember how long it had been since he'd had more than one spare set of clothing.

It had been a week and Richie had realized within the first five minutes that whatever Virgil said, he was very much a prisoner here.

He only had access to his room and Virgil's. None of the other doors would open for him. Virgil wouldn't even let him out into the halls…his entire world for the past week had consisted of this suite. Virgil neatly dodged any request to see more of the building (made out of boredom and a desire to stretch his legs more than anything else), muttering vague things about not wanting Richie to accidentally be hurt by one of his 'people'. Richie didn't buy it for an instant. He knew a mind game and a play for control when he saw one.

At one time, he might even have fallen into it.

Not now, though, and not for a long time…something Virgil couldn't know. Richie knew he was playing a dangerous game here. If Virgil suspected that he had been with Sharon all this time, if he found out that Richie wasn't exactly as normal as he'd been the last time they had seen each other... He just couldn't find out; that was all.

It helped that Virgil was often gone for hours at a time, leaving Richie to his own devices. If only Virgil knew how very foolish that actually was. Richie used those hours well.

The first thing to go had been the security cameras. Whoever had owned the office space Virgil now used as living quarters—they had either been very paranoid or had a god complex. The entire security system was routed through servers behind the walls of the 'living room'. It had been the work of minutes for Richie to hack into them, and minutes more to have the cameras show whatever he told them to. He'd crafted loop after loop of video, feeding them into the security cameras, which in turn fed into the bank of screens Virgil had set up on one wall. By the second day, he'd had complete freedom to do whatever he wanted in these rooms, with the certainty that Virgil would never know. That problem solved, he moved on to the next step.

He had been there for a week...a week in which he knew Sharon had to be going crazy with worry. She had to be thinking he was dead.

He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the panel that held the security system servers. The wallplate was lying on the floor beside him, and he was staring intently at the guts of the servers. He glanced up at the bank of monitors every few moments, to make sure the hallways outside the room were still clear. The last thing he needed was for Virgil to return and find him thus…he didn't think he'd be able to explain it.

He glanced down at the small device balanced carefully on one bent thigh. He wasn't even certain he could do what he wanted to do with the equipment he had available. He couldn't make it obvious that someone had been messing with the security systems. Virgil may have skipped more classes than he attended in those last years, but the other teen certainly wasn't stupid.

Richie was smarter, though.

He tilted his head and regarded the circuit boards in front of him critically, before finally selecting one. It was part of the backup system in the camera network, so hopefully there wouldn't be any shorts in the system anytime soon. It was a risk he would have to take though. The circuit popped free with minimal resistance and he quickly picked the wallplate up and shoved it back into place.

He scooped the circuit board and the small box that had been balanced on his leg up and rose, moving over to sit on the couch. He glanced up at the screens again, assuring himself that Virgil had not arrived back, yet, and then went to work. Thank whoever Virgil hadn't thought to search him.

The comm. box didn't have much of a range, ordinarily. Its primary purpose was to allow Sharon and Adam to stay in touch with him when he was in one of the more isolated tunnels, working. He'd tested it to a little over three quarters of a mile. It would have to be juiced up considerably if it was going to be any use to him, here. Hence, the parts he'd scavenged from the security system, here. Richie was good at scavenging these days.

He pulled the back of the casing off and loosened the old circuit board from its wirings. It was the work of seconds to fit the scavenged one in place, and Richie was gratified to see a small green light twinkle to life within the wiring. All systems were go.

Still nothing on the monitors.

He sent a silent prayer winging upwards and thumbed the broadcast.

"Foley to base. Foley to base, come in. Sharon? Adam? Can anyone hear me? It's Richie." He listened for a moment, but there was nothing but the hiss of static. He bit his lip, leaned down to rest his forehead on the knuckles of the hand clutching the comm. box. "Sharon…someone, pick up." Silence. "Please, pick up." His voice trembled, just a little. Unconsciously, he reached up with one hand to rub at his shoulder, right over the spot where hand-shaped bruises were finally fading to yellow. "Please…"

"F-Foley?" The voice was barely audible, the broadcast thick with static and interference, but it was unmistakable. Richie sat bolt upright, and his eyes widened. He stabbed his thumb into the broadcast button again.

"Hotstreak!" Richie cried, a wave of relief that left him weak sweeping through him. "Man, you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice!"

"(Foley…Jesus Christ, is that you?)"

"We don't exactly give this number out, now do we?" Richie said, his eyes glued to the monitors.

"(Foley...man, we thought you were…we thought-)"

"I'm okay, Francis," Richie interrupted, gently. He heard a bark of laughter, edged with something more than humor.

"(I told you not to call me that. What happened to you? When you didn't come back… Sharon's been going nuts…we've had patrols out looking for you all week.)"

Richie was silent a moment, swallowing heavily. Then he sighed, softly. "I…uh…tell, tell Sharon I'm sorry—"

"(Richie.)" Hotstreak rarely called him by his first name. It was part of their odd friendship. "(Richie—where are you?)" There was a leaden dread to Hotstreak's voice, as if he already knew, but needed confirmation. Then again, of course he had to know…what else could have happened?

"Give you three guesses and the first two don't count," Richie muttered. He heard Hotstreak swear violently, scream for someone to find Sharon.

"(Did he hurt you? Did that sonuvabitch hurt you?)" Richie almost smiled at the anger dancing in the other bang baby's tone. They liked to pretend to fight like cats and dogs, but Hotstreak had been a good friend to him.

"No. It wasn't like that…I went with him on my own."

"What?)"

"He…he caught me right before I was supposed to meet up with Adam. We were barely a dozen yards away from the tunnel entrance. He heard the group. He heard them, and he was gonna attack them…unless I went with him. Adam had some of the kids out with him…I had to go." Richie heard Hotstreak growl to himself.

"(We're coming for you, man.)" Hotstreak's voice was tight, angry, and more than a little worried. "(Just sit tight. Sharon's on her way…we'll get you out of there.)"

It was so, so tempting. It could be done, too. Richie could take out the security system…he could tell them when the place was lightly guarded. He could let his friends ride to his rescue, and he'd be safe. For one moment, he almost agreed, almost told Hotstreak to go ahead, and that he would help with any plans. He couldn't, though. He couldn't.

He closed his eyes and shook his head, even though Hotstreak couldn't see it. "No," he said quietly.

"(What? Foley, are you nuts?)"

"I said no, Francis. You can't…we can't…damn it, we won't get another chance like this!"

"(What are you talking about?)"

Richie breathed deeply, trying to ignore how much it hurt to follow this thought to its conclusion. "If I play this right…Francis, I can do some real damage here. We might even be able to take him down, permanently."

"(Rich…Richie, no. It's not worth it, man.)"

"It has to be done," Richie said grimly. "We have to stop him."

"(Not if it means leaving you there! Dude, you know Sharon won't go for this.)"

"Francis, please…trust me. I can handle this. This has to end; we can't go on like this."

"(Why do you have to stay there?)" Hotstreak's voice was quiet, reluctant…but Richie could tell he had won. Hotstreak couldn't argue with his logic, as much as the other youth might have wanted to.

Richie swallowed hard, and unbidden, an image of Virgil, the Virgil he had once known, rose in his mind. The sullen kid who had nonetheless taken Richie under his wing in sixth grade, proving to be a loyal friend no matter what anyone said. The rough and tumble teenager who had only ever relaxed, only ever smiled around Richie. And finally, the twisted, nightmarish creature who only knew hurt and hate, however much he might try to pretend otherwise.

"He needs to be taken down." Like a rabid animal, a dog that was too vicious to ever be trusted. And yet— "But he was my friend, Francis. He was my best friend. It has to be me. I owe him that much." He closed his eyes and drew his knees up close to his chest, curling up tightly on the couch. "I owe him that."

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then, finally, Hotstreak's heavy voice came again. "(I—all right, Rich. All right. I'll convince Sharon. We'll play it your way.)"

"Thanks, man. Listen…don't tell Adam and Sharon why I went with him. Adam would never forgive himself. It wasn't his fault."

"(I understand. You got it, man.)"

Richie sighed in relief. Adam really didn't need something like this on his conscience. He looked up again at the monitors and gasped softly. The elevator at the end of the hallway leading to Virgil's rooms had opened, revealing Virgil himself. "Shit…he's back. I gotta go. I'll call you again, as soon as it's safe!"

"(Foley...damn it, stay safe.)" There was a new edge to Hotstreak's voice, a sharper worry, and despite the imminent danger of the situation, Richie was touched at his friend's concern. Hotstreak didn't often act as though Richie were anything but an annoyance, although everyone knew it was just that—an act.

"I will, Francis. You too." He let go of the broadcast button, and leaped off the couch, racing into his room to shove the comm. box into its hiding place underneath the mattress of his bed. He then threw himself on the bed, back to the door, and mussed the covers around as much as he could, trying to make it look as though he had been taking an afternoon nap, just as he heard the main door of Virgil's rooms hiss open.

He heard Virgil enter, walk across the room to stop at his door, and feigned sleep as best he could. He forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly, not giving into the desire to turn over and see what Virgil was doing. He heard Virgil enter the room, walk across it to stand by the bed. The other teen said nothing, made no noise, but Richie could feel him at his back, just staring down at him. It was through sheer force of will that he remained still. At last, he heard Virgil turn away, retreat back into his main rooms.

He lay quiet for a few moments more, before hesitantly rolling over as he heard the shower in the other room start. He sighed in relief and flopped back down against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

Strange-he had managed to get in touch with his friends, had let them know that he was alive, and all right for now. It should have been a comfort, to know that they were only the touch of a button away. He should have felt better for talking to Hotstreak, for knowing that his friends had his back, no matter what.

Yet…all he felt was alone.


Richie knew someone watching him even before he came into full consciousness. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and a primal prickle of awareness was shivering up and down his spine. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out, but he didn't think he wanted to go back into the real world yet. Not even fully awake, the burning on his upper body was enough to convince him full awareness would bring even more pain.

Somewhere there was the dim memory of it…of fire racing across his chest, accompanied by the acrid stench of disinfectant. Hands—some rough, some surprisingly gentle and feather-soft, holding him down, poking, prodding. Further back in his mind, there was a sensation of something worse, something that hurt too much to even think about. He didn't want to think about it. He desperately wanted to stay here, safe, in the twilight between dreaming and awake.

He couldn't ignore that damned feeling of someone watching him, though. So, against his better judgment, his eyes opened ever so slightly. The bright light blinded him for a moment, and he was proud of himself not wincing. He didn't want to alert whoever was watching him that he was awake…yet. Once his eyes adjusted, he carefully turned his head to the side, to see who the watcher was.

His eyes snapped open of their own volition and cold fear gripped him as he found himself staring into the flaming eyes of Deimos's ghost-dog. For a moment, he was catapulted back into the dark room below, the memory of icy terror and burning pain surging forth. His body reacted reflexively, heart pounding faster, and he struggled to pull himself up from his prone position on the bed.

"Phobos, heel."

The creature turned away at the command, and Richie tried to calm his nerves, casting his eyes toward the ceiling, the walls of his 'room', anything but the hellish gaze of the dog. Despite himself, a shudder wracked through him at the memory of the terror the dog had caused in him. Silently, he praised whatever luck had kept them from encountering this particular metahuman in their own world, else he and Virgil might have been in some serious trouble.

Not that he wasn't in serious trouble right now.

Richie sucked in a deep calming breath and automatically began taking stock of himself. His cheek and jaw ached fiercely where Static had struck him, and he didn't have to look to know there would be an ugly bruise within a matter of hours. The sting of a split lip made itself known, as did the dull, vaguely sick pain in his stomach from Static's punch. There was a spider-web of throbbing heat across his chest and sides and he closed his eyes even as he forced himself to run one hand over the gauze that had been wrapped around his torso. The…the cuts felt like they went from his waist to his collar bone. He'd have to look for himself, but there was no seepage on the bandages that he could feel…the cuts were long, but shallow. More painful than dangerous, which was, of course, the point. Static didn't want him dead.

So…there was hardly an inch of him that didn't hurt in some way, he'd kill for an aspirin, and he was still a hostage of a certifiably insane version of his best friend. To top it all off, with focused awareness on the condition of his body came the realization that he really needed the bathroom. He glanced over at the door leading to the half-bath, nearly wilting at the thought of stumbling the mere dozen feet that separated him from it. Damn it, he hurt.

Abruptly, there was movement to his left, and the next thing he knew he was being pulled to his feet. His wounds protested, and he tried to curl up, but the hold was firm. "Let me-"

"You'd rather piss yourself?" It wasn't really a question, and Richie stubbornly remained silent. Still, when Deimos helped him to the bathroom, he didn't resist or protest. Besides, he was supposed to be cowed, defeated. They had to think they had broken him. He had to keep up the act if he was going to make it out of here alive.

Still, he had some pride.

Fortunately, Deimos recognized that and released him at the restroom's threshold. He turned to give Richie privacy, and while Richie was tempted to try to do something to the man, the fresh wounds reminded him he couldn't…yet. Besides, he really had to pee. So, hoping the blue-haired man wouldn't peek, he did his business. By the time he finished, Deimos was out of the doorway. Richie took the moment alone to look in the mirror.

"It's not Virgil, it's not Virgil…damn it, this isn't Virgil!" he chanted in his head, feeling dizzy for a moment. There was no 'matter of hours' about it…an angry, reddish-purple discoloration had risen on his cheekbone. Blood had crusted in a line down the center of his lip and he gingerly touched the scab with his tongue, hissing at the smart. Worst of all, though, was what he knew was beneath the gauze that swathed his chest.

He didn't want to know, he didn't want to see. Still, he found himself pulling at the bandages, awkwardly unwinding them. They fell away, sticking slightly to the antibiotic cream that had been smeared on them, and with each inch of his own skin that was revealed, Richie found his hands shaking, felt himself clenching his teeth. "Not Virgil, not Virgil, never Virgil. Never Virgil."

Angry, red slashes decorated his torso, slightly shiny with the antibiotic. Blood had crusted over most of them, forming a bizarre, geometric pattern over his chest and stomach. He clenched his jaw harder, remembering the malicious glint in Static's eyes as the knife had swept over his skin again and again. His breath hissed out of his clenched teeth, and one hand reached up, almost, but not quite touching the large slash across his stomach. His hand trembled harder, before abruptly reaching down to grip the loose end of the bandage. With grim efficiency, he re-wound the strips of gauze, tying it off with expertise borne of three years of patching up himself and Virgil after patrol.

He leaned over to grip the edges of the sink for a moment, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror. He could do this…he could. The worst part was over. It had to be.

He was far more unsteady walking out from the bathroom than walking in, and it had nothing to do with his wounds this time. He collapsed on the edge of the bed, unnerved that the mist dog was still there, lying on the floor and seemingly asleep. Its master was leaning on the wall next to it, watching him. Now that he was 'defeated,' he let the tremors he felt show. This Static had to think even the mere sight of the dog would unnerve him.

And truth was, it almost did. Almost.

"Uh, thanks…" he murmured, keeping his voice low and quiet. Deimos simply raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm guessing you've dealt with that before."

"A few times." Deimos eyed him over, and Richie ducked his head, ignoring the self-consciousness of being dressed only in his boxers. He really hoped Static hadn't taken part of that exercise. "Still in pain?"

His hand automatically went to his stomach, feeling the thin bandage there. "Yeah…"

Deimos nodded and pushed away from the wall. He squatted to rub the mist animal behind the ears, then went to the door and left Richie alone. The dog didn't disappear when Deimos left the room.

Richie swallowed, but thus far, the hound was 'asleep.' He dared not do anything while it was around. Damn it, damn it, damn it. He had to know if his signal had managed to reach Backpack…if the little robot had made it here, yet. He really didn't have words for how much he wanted his prized invention right now. With Backpack, he would have an advantage…with Backpack he would have some protection. Backpack would be tracking him down if it had made it to the building. He couldn't look for it, though…not with the ghost-dog still here. Instead, he looked around the room. Resting by the bathroom door was a pair of sweats.

"Better than sitting here naked." He stood, gritting his teeth as his injuries again protested the movement, and started to go over, but once again the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. He froze in place, and knew the beast was looking at him. He hesitated, even feinted resisting the urge to look over his shoulder, before slowly continuing towards the clothes. He very deliberately dressed himself as if it were a daunting task, and made a self-conscious effort to avoid looking at the other side of the room.

If Static was watching, and Richie just knew he was, he was going to see a broken teen, a teen that jumped at the chance to avoid the fear and pain again, a teen that would do his bidding. It was a front, but one he had to play up. Not too much, but enough. The dog certainly helped, as he was actually afraid of it. "He called it Phobos." He tried not to laugh-mainly because that would aggravate his injuries-but it was pretty amusing. "Deimos and Phobos." It was also appropriate…apparitions of fear and panic.

The sweatshirt settled over him, warm and comfortable, and he lightly touched a hand to his chest again. It wasn't Virgil that had caused this. Not his Virgil. No matter how terrible it was to see the face of his best friend when he thought of his tormentor, he had to remember that. Virgil was out there…somewhere…trying to find a way to get him. He wasn't going to dwell on the chance that this Static had brought more backup than just Deimos and Talon to the junkyard, and that Virgil had faced them alone…

No, Virgil was alive and well, and doing everything in his power to find a way to take this Static down.

For lack of anywhere else to sit, he hitched himself back over to the bed, sinking down on it with a sigh. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Phobos lay his…her…its head back down on its paws. Slowly, he let himself fall back down onto the mattress, curling up on his side. And it was only because he was lying at such an angle that one of the heating ducts in the room was directly in his line of sight. So, when the faint, shadowy movement behind the grating became visible, he noticed it immediately.

This time, his heart speeding up had nothing to do with fear. It was just barely visible, a curve of silver, a gleam of a red sensor eye. The light blinked once, twice, and Richie casually reached up one hand, as though he were going to tuck it beneath his chin, crooked a finger in a slight wave. The light blinked again and died down, his signal acknowledged. Backpack knew that he knew it was here. It would wait for him to call it. He turned his face into the pillow, and had Static been there, he would have known that Richie was wounded, hurting, and yes, afraid.

But he was far from broken.


Static didn't normally leave his rooms in darkness. Even when he was sleeping, he always left a few televisions on so that his room was bright enough to see, but not bright enough that it kept him awake. It wasn't that he was afraid of the dark. He was Static, he wasn't afraid of anything. But ever since the…incident, he couldn't bring himself to sleep in the dark. The incident had happened in the dark, and he had been the only source of light. It wasn't guilt, it wasn't superstition. He just…didn't like the dark. It was a fact, and if anyone wanted to challenge him on it, he was more than willing to put them in their place.

So, his current situation was rather odd. His room was dark, no lights, anywhere. The curtains had once again been drawn, blocking out the last dying rays of the sun entirely. Static was sprawled comfortably on his couch, bare feet propped up on the coffee table in front of him. The red jeans and black tank had been discarded in favor of loose, navy drawstring pants and nothing else. He made a strange picture, as still as a statue, only the gleam of his eyes and the rise and fall of his chest indicating life. There was one source of illumination in the room—a set of three television screens on the wall of screens in front of him. They cast a flickering, blue glow across the immediate area, and all three had Static's rapt attention.

The bottom two, side by side, were of the room and bathroom Richie was being held in. Not that he didn't trust Deimos to keep an eye on the genius, he just enjoyed seeing the rewards of his labor. The horrified expression Richie had after seeing himself in the mirror…it sent shivers down Virgil's spine, and he grinned, remembering the feel of smooth, pale skin slitting under his hand, the warm slickness of blood welling up in the cuts. Part of him had well and truly enjoyed the whole exchange in the cafeteria, of showing the other teen who's world he really was in.

He was in control, he was the one in power. And he loved the feeling that gave him.

Above the twin screens was a larger one, this one displaying not live feed, but a recording. The security cameras had recorded every instant in the cafeteria. From the moment they arrived, to that terrified scream where he knew this other Richie had been broken. It was glorious, and he used his power to rewind the tape again.

He had the power, he was in charge of the other boy's fate. Both were true for all the people in his gang, but his blood didn't get pumping when he thought of what he could do to them. Most of them were expendable, and he'd have no problem teaching them a lesson if they stepped outta line. Richie was different-he always would be. The blond was the one person he had never broken, the one who had defied him to the end.

Now…he had the opportunity to rectify that. He glanced to the live feed while the tape rewound. Richie was dressed in sweats and just lying on the bed, curled up on his side. His expression was blank, staring out into nothingness, quelled and silent. It almost made Static want to get dressed and go down to see his results in person. Almost. He'd decided to give it a day, though…just enough to let Richie sweat it out, wonder if it was really over, or just the beginning.

A scant day ago, he had thought he'd never have another opportunity to fix his mistakes with Richie; what was another day?

He heard his door slide open, and he called a spark of power to his fingers, casting strange shadows around the room. He turned slightly from the screens and regarded the person who had interrupted him. A slow grin lit his face, even as he turned back to the screens.

"Hey, Birdie. Watcha doin' up so early?" He flicked the energy on his finger to the television, starting the tape up again.

Nightingale sidled further into the room, a slow, slinking walk. The girl was dressed in a dark, silky robe, and Static knew from experience that she was likely wearing little or nothing beneath it. She came up behind him, leaning down over the back of the couch to lightly run a hand up his arm. "I thought you might like some company," she answered softly, before lightly boosting herself over the back of the couch to kneel beside him. "But if you don't…" She trailed off, tilting her head so that the shoulder of the robe slipped down, revealing bare, pale skin.

Static smirked. "Now Birdie, have I ever turned down your…company?" His eyes strayed back to the screen, to the taped feed in the cafeteria, in time to watch himself slice into Richie for the first time. He'd almost forgotten what fun a knife could be in the right circumstances. Nightingale followed his gaze, frowned a bit.

"Enjoying the show?" she asked, no real emotion in her voice. Static grinned and pulled her close, gripping her waist to lift her so that she straddled his lap. It was a common enough ritual between the two. There was no feeling involved…he had an itch, she liked to scratch it. That was it, and all it ever had been.

"You have no idea," he murmured, still watching. Nightingale hummed happily, spreading her small hands over his bare chest. She nipped lightly at his throat as he pushed the robe the rest of the way off her body.

On screen, his image traced the knife up Richie's chest, to rest just under his chin. Static licked his lips, running his hands over Nightingale's dainty curves. She gasped a little as he gripped her hips, drawing her down to grind against him. The teeth at his throat became bolder, nipping down his collar bone.

Richie fell to the floor of the cafeteria, clutching at his middle. The blood showed up in stark relief against the white of his shirt, the pale cast of his skin.

He growled softly, gripped the back of Nightingale's head to kiss her roughly, a gesture that had nothing to do with tenderness and everything to do with plundering. Her hands plucked at the drawstrings on his pants, sliding them down over his hips.

On screen, the mist of Deimos's power swirled, forming the thing D-man liked to call Phobos. Richie lurched to his knees, and the comprehension of what was about to happen bloomed on his face. His face twisted in fear.

Nightingale gave up all pretense of teasing, and so did he. Her nails raked up his arms and he gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises. Their foreplay dissolved into wet, and heat, and thrusts. Animal like growls and whimpers filled the room, surging toward completion.

And the whole time, Static never took his eyes from the screen, his gaze fixated on the image of Richie as he quivered and screamed in Phobos's grip.