Author: Athena2693
Pairing: Hard question. The closest would be Hotstreak/Richie, thought it's a Virgil/Richie story.
Rating: Probably PG-13. Maybe R, if you're sensitive.
Warning: AU. Virgil and Richie were never friends.
Summary: Static goes to investigate a murder.
Disclaimer: They're mine! I control their every move! I tell them when to sleep, what to eat, and who to make out with! Damn it…that's just the Sims.
A/N: Not sure if this is a one shot or not. Not because I'm asking for reviews or anything, I'm just not sure if I could even add anything.

Black Eyed

Static had been following this guy for weeks now. He wasn't a bang baby. There was no real concern with bang babies anymore, after the cure had gone out to the city. Of course, the doctors had given him the cure for the cure. There was plenty of crime out there, even without the bang babies. Just look at the riots that had killed his mother.

Hotstreak and Ebon showed up, occasionally. They had washed down the river somewhere and escaped most of the cure. The little they had received before being carried away was enough to separate them and tone down their powers, so they were almost no stronger than they were before the second big bang. Hotstreak was barely stronger than he used to be. Just barely. Ebon seemed the same.

They didn't fuck with him though. Their petty thievery was nothing more than an annoyance now. Without any babies to follow them, they worked alone. The only time they actually became a nuisance was when they got into one of their fights. They hated each other. Mostly, they kept to their own sides of the city, and that suited them both fine. They had calmed down a lot, they stole what they needed to survive, and besides Hotstreak's occasional temper tantrums, were quiet.

This guy definitely wasn't a bang baby. Static wasn't quite sure what he was, though he was leaning to the side of hit man. His murders were to scattered to be gang activity. Serial killer was unlikely. He had to be working for someone.

He had picked up a report on the scanner only minutes before. A guy fitting the man's description had just broken the neck of a man at 741 Judson. The address sounded familiar, but it didn't hit him until he was standing in front of the large, Victorian-style house. It was one of the run-down brothels on the uptown district. The brothel was better run than some of the others near the docks, and, he had heard, held better whores. It was different from the hookers on the street because to be serviced, the men had to go to the house. The leader took good care of his girls.

The police recognized him immediately and let him cross the bright reflective tape. A young girl, probably only a couple years older than himself, caught sight of him, and with a quite "This way" led him up the old-fashioned wooden stairs. He followed her.

"Who was killed?" he asked, in a pseudo-professional manner. It was hard to be professional in, well, a whorehouse. The girl walking only steps ahead of him was wearing little more than a pair of briefs and a bra, covered barely by a wispy robe more for show than comfort. Her hair was down, and tangled, and her heavily applied make-up was smeared. She had probably been in the middle of something before the murder.

"A customer. A regular."

"Does he have a name?"

"I'd think so."

"Can I have it?"

"Only Clark knows." She tossed her hair back off her face, totally comfortable with her half naked appearance.

He reasoned Clark was the leader of the house. The door was open to the room, and the light was on, though it was a dim light, glowing a sort of orange-yellow into the hallway. Men probably didn't want florescent lights when a prostitute was sucking them off. Some officers were already inside, looking for evidence, and barely looked up at all when he entered. The body was still laying there, the neck at an angle that was impossible to achieve while alive. He could see the sharp shard of bone digging into the flesh from the inside.

"What's the news?"

"His name's Joel Ronald. Thirty-two. Broken neck."

"Is there a suspect?"

"Yes. What're you doing here?"

"I think we're looking for the same guy."

"It might just be a random murder." The officer who spoke to him knew him enough to question him. He couldn't remember her name, but they had met several times, and had went out for coffee once after a particularly grisly murder. She was an older woman, probably in her mid-forties. She reminded him of her mother.

"I heard the description over the radio. I doubt there's two people in town with a spork tattooed on their arm."

"True."

"Did the witness say anything else?"

"Go ahead and ask him yourself, he's in the bathroom," she waved in the general direction of another open door, leading off the side of the room. Her co-worker was shushing her, telling her to go back to looking for hairs on the dead man's shirt. Static turned, following the bright white light splashing from the bathroom. It was much brighter than the light in the bedroom.

The boy was sitting on the toilet, the seat down, a wet cloth over his nose. The boy was young. Very young. Maybe even younger than him, or maybe about the same age. He was only wearing a sheet around his hips. When she had said he was in the bathroom, he had assumed that it would be another client, getting in the way of the killer. But this boy definitely wasn't a client. What sort of client would wear such heavy eyeliner? A jewel sparkled in one ear. He was a very light beauty, with very pale, soft looking flesh, and bright, obviously bleached hair. Static took a seat on the bathtub's edge and greeted him with a friendly smile.

"Hey."

"Hi." He spoke very softly, in a submissive sort of voice. It was evident his voice was muffled though, so he took the cloth off his face. There was a thin smear of blood, and his nose was slightly swollen. A black eye seemed to be forming as well. "You're Static, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I just wanted to ask you a few questions." He spoke calmly. Sometimes, witnesses were extremely jumpy. That didn't seem to be a problem with this boy though.

"Go for it." He set the wet, blood stained cloth on the sink's edge next to him. The bleeding mostly seemed to have stopped by now.

"What's your name?"

"Richie Foley."

"You saw the guy?"

"For like, a second, before he punched me in the face." He wrinkled his nose angrily. It would've been cute, if he didn't look terrible at the moment.

"How many times did he punch you?"

"Just once. From this side," he traced a line from the outer corner of left eye to the side of his nose. "When I screamed."

"What happened?"

"Well, Rex was on top of me and-"

"Rex? Who's Rex?" Nobody had mentioned anybody else in the room.

"The guy out there, on the floor," he indicated with a turn of his head, towards the door.

"His name's not Rex. At least, that's what the officers said."

"Well, that's not his real name, no. They have to give ID to Clark, but they just make up whatever name they want to be known by." The boy shrugged off handedly. "We don't know their real names."

"Um, okay."

"Well, anyway. Yeah, Rex was on top of me, you know, fucking me, and I was just doing what I usually did, you know, after you've been doing this for so long-"

"Just skip that part," Static grimaced in distaste.

"Innocent?" The blond smirked a bit evilly. Sadist. "Well, yeah, anyway, suddenly Rex was yanked off me, and I opened my eyes and saw this guy in a wife-beater standing over me, holding Rex by the throat. So I screamed, and he dropped Rex on the floor, and punched me. I fell back onto the pillow, grabbing my eye, and I just saw him vaguely as he snapped Rex's neck with his bare hands. I was so frightened. I thought he'd kill me, because he knew I saw him, you know? I think he might've, too. But Clark heard me scream and came in with the gun, and the guy jumped right out the window onto the porch's rooftop, and I guess he must've climbed down." Richie ended with a shrug.

"What did he look like?"

"He was big. I mean like, muscled. Not fat. He probably weighed two hundred in pure muscle. His hair was dark, I'm not sure if it was dark brown or black though, it's hard to see with tears in your eyes. He was tan. Like, the red sort of tan, not the orange sort. Like he would burn easily. And he had a tattoo on his right arm, of a spork. I know, that sounds insane." The blond laughed a little too himself. He voice sounded tired. Well, he had probably planned on getting some sleep after having extremely uninteresting sex.

"Not at all. Were his eyes green?"

"I don't know. I didn't look that closely."

"It's not that important. I think I know the guy."

"Is he bad?" He tipped his head to the side, looking at him, like maybe if he looked at him at an angle he could see the truth better.

"I think he's a hit man, so yeah."

"Will he come back for me?" Richie's eyes were open in sort of an innocent way, glowing a mixture of blue and green, like the ocean. "Am I safe?"

"You already gave his description. What would be the purpose of him coming back now?" Static smiled reassuringly.

"Revenge."

"Well, people will be looking for someone with his description now, won't they? So I doubt he'll be paying a visit anytime soon." He reached out to pat his hand comfortingly. Then he thought of where the hand he probably been, and yanked back quickly. Richie noticed and frowned a bit, but didn't say anything about it.

"First the bang babies, now this."

"What about the bang babies?"

"Nothing," he flushed, like he hadn't meant to say anything. He spoke awfully quickly, actually.

"Did you know any?"
"Do you mean did I associate with any of them? No." His voice was solemn and low.

"Ever have any as, um, clients?"

"We're supposed to be confidential."

"It's not like I'll tell anyone." Static reason. "Who would I tell? Going to go up to some of my friends and tell them about it? I'll either have to give up my identity or tell them I've been going to brothels. Er, not that it's a bad thing."

"I know what you mean," Richie shrugged, "I used to feel the same way. Actually, I, I think I used to be a bang baby."

"Were you?"

"I was never at the docks. But one of my regulars, he was, and I think he must've rubbed off on me or something. But whatever I had is gone now, because of that cure they spread." He explained.

"What was your power?"

"You'll laugh." He turned his eyes away from him, glancing towards the sink.

"No I won't."

"It was a really wimpy power," the blond laughed a little. "I mean, I could've had the power to fly, or go invisible, or something cool like that. But no."

"So what did you have," Static asked, sympathy in his voice. His butt was starting to hurt from sitting on the cold porcelain, and he knew he should be out trying to find the guy, but it was rude to just leave when someone was talking to you.

"My brain. I think it made me a genius. You should see all the plans I made. For all these electric devices and stuff. They're in my dresser. But after the cure came out, I couldn't even understand what I had written." He actually sounded a bit wistful. Of course, losing your mind would be worse than losing the power to fly or invisibility. That would actually change your very thought process, your identity.

"Ever make any of them?"

"Where would I get the supplies? Besides, I wouldn't have any use for them." Richie stood up, the sheet slipping from his waist. He caught it quickly, before it could fall. "Actually, you might be interested in them. Some of them you might be able to use for fighting."

"Sure, I'll take a look at them some time. So who, er, rubbed off on you, not to be nosy, or ironic?"

"Hotstreak."

"Hotstreak!" Static almost started laughing. Who'd have guessed the masculine egomaniac was a poofer? "You're kidding! Didn't it burn?"

"Nah. He can control his flames when he wants to," Richie grinned. He seemed to be happy to have shared this information with someone who found it so amusing. "He's just a big kid, he loves to be told he's doing everything right. Always asking for confirmation. You just need to know how to appease him."

"Okay, that I didn't want to know."

Richie shrugged, still grinning.

"I'm heading downstairs now, if that's okay? I'm in the mood for a sandwich. I'll show you my plans some other time."

"Sure. I need to get going anyway. But one thing?"

"Huh?"

"Does he still come to you?"

"I can't tell you."

"He does, doesn't he?" Static chuckled to himself. "Guess he can't get a date."

"Don't come here after him. This is supposed to be a sanctuary."

"Eh, I don't mess with him unless he'd being bad."

"Just give him a spanking, it works every time."

"I did not need to know that!"