Chapter 2: Confessions

A/N: (does a little happy dance) Glad you guys like it so far! As for a pairing…I was thinking V/F, but I'm not sure if I should stick with status quo and make it V/R. Or how about V/R/F! Fun for all! ;)

Disclaimer: I dun own them—otherwise I wouldn't be writing fanfiction.


Hotstreak awoke hours later and didn't seem at all perturbed that someone had laid a blanket over him as he slept. Granted, he was still quite groggy, so not much was registering at this point in time. For a moment, he wondered why his bed was so comfortable, and why he wasn't wearing his orange jumpsuit, but realization didn't fully set in until he opened the blinds at the window and was met by a void of darkness.

With a surprised yelp, he jumped backwards, tripping and falling on his rump. As he rubbed at the smarting posterior, his mind finally opened the doors to his memory banks and he was left with a familiar 'Oh yeah!' feeling. Immediately following this, he felt really stupid. How in the world could he not remember all that had happened yesterday?

Speaking of which, was it day or night up here? How did they keep time if there were no time zones? And why was he even worried about it?

With an agonized sigh he stood up and proceeded to make himself decent for the most part. He threw on his shirt and pants and walked over to the door.

They probably locked it, he thought, pressing against it. A motion sensor blinked to life and the door slid open. Or maybe not...

He entered the main part of the small apartment reserved for the superhero pair. He smirked. Pair indeed… Sure, he'd had his theories about Gear and Static for years. He'd read every single article, absorbed everything that was said about them on the news, and scrutinized every photo of the pair almost to the point of obsession. He could tell one thing about them, and he had reached this conclusion over a long period of time, and after observing the goings-on in the prison. Yes, Hotstreak was almost certain. He just needed definite proof…

He found a note on the small coffee table. He picked it up and read over it.

"Hotstreak,

"Went out on patrol, should be back by noon. Plenty to eat, help yourself, don't mess up the kitchen. You are locked into the apartment. You are under heavy surveillance and there are armed guards at the door, so don't try to get out. This is not a threat—it's a promise.

"—S.S."

The last line stuck out to him. What the hell did that mean? There was a post script: "New clothes will be provided for you."

Beautiful. The redhead took a look around the apartment—it was like a usual bachelor pad, furnished in much the same way. The only difference was the abundance of technology not normally seen in normal bachelor pads. Apparently, Gear kept himself pretty busy—there were spare parts from various electronic equipment, ranging from the mundane (A waffle iron) to the not-so ordinary (if the disassembled M-16 was any indication).

Intrigued, he walked over and his green eyes roved over the machinery spread out like a runner over the dining table. They made use of the little space they had. After a time, he became well aware of the layout of the apartment.

Upon entering, visitors would be faced with the living room and television, as well as monitors that displayed current news and updates from around the world, and even the universe in some cases. There was the large sofa and "love seat" (he smirked again at the mention of the name), both dark denim in color, sitting adjacent to each other, with the coffee table in front of them. Over to the left of the main entrance was the small kitchenette, complete with oven, stove, compact fridge, and microwave sitting just above the range. Opposite this was the spare room that was used for storage, but had been converted into a bedroom for Hotstreak's arrival. Past the kitchenette ran a short hallway, where he would find Static and Gear's rooms opposite each other, and the full bath at the end.

All in all, it was what some people would call "cozy". Hotstreak shrugged as if to say "whatever" and accepted Static's offer to help himself to some food. He found some cereal sure enough, and settled down on the couch, bowl in hand, munching thoughtfully.

The clock on the wall read 10:34 am. He had little less than two hours to himself. Spooning now-soggy cereal into his mouth, he allowed himself to reflect on the past.

Prison had changed him. Before being stuck in the state penitentiary for eight years, he hadn't done much thinking. Probably what got him in prison in the first place…But after hearing his sentence, he figured that since he had nothing else to do, he got involved in some activities. He got caught up in learning—he only read because he was bored…VERY bored. The end result was him reading all the books that were on the state's reading list for high schools and college literature classes; in short, he had become a thinker…but mostly a schemer.

Sure, he tried sports, but he was labeled as being "overly competitive" after a brawl over a tag football game. His only defense was that the guy had tackled him outright—and he needed to be taught a lesson in following rules and protocol.

That was the thing about prison, and Hotstreak had learned it quickly: either you beat somebody up on your first day, or become somebody's bitch. Fortunately, he had chosen the former. Though he felt a little guilty that the guy he'd messed up would never be able to use his left arm ever again, it solidified his position as a tough hard-ass. He preferred it that way—nobody messed with him. Not that they would have, considering he still had his powers.

His powers!

He shot up from his slouch and put the bowl down. Concentrating, he could feel the rush of heat pooling down his arms to his hands, but instead of getting the fireballs forming in his hands as he expected, he ended up burning himself.

What the hell!

He looked down at his wrists and realized that there were bracelets on his arms—leaden ones.

"Shit."

He had seen them before—these were specially made to put a stopper on his abilities. Static—or Gear—must have put them before they left. Sonuvabitch…

Wasn't part of their agreement about trust? Okay, they didn't have any real reason to trust him—but he was desperate. He was getting older, and the older you got, the worse your position became. Every day, younger and younger guys came in, and oftentimes they were stronger. It would only be a matter of time before he was beaten—and he refused to let that happen.

Hotstreak would have done anything to get out—short of escaping. He learned early on through conditioned-response learning that good behavior produced positive results. He stayed out of fights, and he was rewarded—extended exercise time. Sitting in a cell all day was not very fun.

After a long time, he had noticed that he was doing the opposite of what the meta-humans stood for: he was conforming to society's rules. Not that it mattered anymore—most of the old gang had been given the cure anyway. As far as he knew, he and Static and Gear were the only bang-babies left.

Settling back onto the couch, he leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. He tried not to think, but that hope eluded him like dust on the wind. His eyes caught a small bit of furniture off to his right, along the wall of his room. It was a low bookcase, stuffed with volumes, encyclopedias, and various smaller books.

The redhead's green eyes roved over titles from where he sat. Most of them were computer manuals, or manuals for how to rewire a whole computer network. He saw some mentions of electricity, but most of it was law books, old college physics textbooks, and a few political science hardbacks. He saw the nestled in a corner, there was a hard-bound illustrated edition of "The Da Vinci Code".

He allowed himself a ghost of a smile. Great book…finished that one in a weekend. Seeing no other alternative, he walked over, picked up the novel and began rereading, the familiar words registering again, old meanings coming back to him, the illustrations providing a clearer view and understanding. He marveled at the way each and every single clue tied in with another—he was smart enough to know it was fiction, but part of him, the part that loved the idea of a conspiracy, knew there had to be more to the story. He knew that, just like this case with the Destroyer, there was more than met the eye.

He heard someone at the door and he scrambled to put the volume back. Hastily shoving it back in its place, he leaped over the back of the sofa, settled into it and feigned sleep just as the door opened.

"I saw that," Static said as he entered. The redhead feigned innocence—needless to say, it didn't work.

"Saw what?"

"The lunge for the bookshelf—I'm not stupid."

Hotstreak shrugged. "Could've fooled me."

Obviously, he was not in the mood for it right now. Static Shock looked absolutely exhausted, if his wearied posture and tired-looking eyes were any indication. He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling despairingly. "You find the food alright?"

"Yeah."

"You touch anything?" his tone became accusatory.

"I thought this was all about trust?"

"It is," he agreed.

"Then why don't you trust me?"

"I do trust you," he countered.

"Prove it."

"The door was unlocked the whole time."

Hotstreak turned around and fixed him with a stare. "What?"

Static smiled. "The door—the note said it was locked, but it wasn't. I trusted you to read the note and follow directions, and you did. Good job."

"You—" he was beside himself. What the…? That lying, twisted… He saw the glint of mischief in those dark eyes, the same mischievousness he had known since the first big bang.

Brilliant, diabolically brilliant mind…

"I got the case files right here for the Dakota Destroyer—we'll get some lunch and go over it, just so we know what we're up against."

"We know what we're up against—you already have a suspect."

"But there's not enough evidence to convict him. We need to look at this from all sides. And since you know Ebon, your input is appreciated."

"I still don't think that I can be any help," he pointed out, following the superhero towards the door. Even though he couldn't see his face, he knew Static was smiling.

"That's where you're wrong. Come on, there are some people I want you to meet."

Hotstreak stopped dead. He can't mean…


The flame-haired meta-human's eyes grew wide when they entered the meeting hall. His green eyes roved over the huge crowd around him, all of them superheroes. He swallowed in nervousness. Heroes, and all of them hate my guts…

He locked eyes with a few. He recognized them instantly. There's Aqua Man, the Flash, Super Girl…hey, the Green Arrow! Where's Green Lantern, Wonder Woman and all of them?

His questions were quickly answered when Static abruptly stopped. Hotstreak's eyes lifted up to lock with those of the most famous superhero of all. The redhead could barely breathe. "Superman…" he whispered filled with awe.

The Man of Steel smiled politely and extended his hand. "Welcome to the Watchtower, Francis Stone. Here, you are among friends."

"Hope you don't mind," Hotstreak said slowly, nodding his head at Superman's outstretched hand, "but I know all about your strength, and I'd like to keep my right hand—if that's cool with you."

"Don't worry, I have good control."

Hotstreak still looked dubious, but an encouraging nod from Static urged him to accept the handshake. His mind reeled. I'm shaking hands with the Man of Steel—oh my God. This can not be happening!

Superman waved his arm in an arch, indicating the whole room. "We are all here to help your transition here. While you are up here, there will be a few precautions, and a few denied liberties, but overall, you will be free up here."

"'Denied liberties?'" he asked. "What does that mean?"

"What Superman is saying," Static said with a forced smile, obviously not liking what he was about to say. "Is that you are free to go wherever you want to up here, but you need to respect people's privacy—any locked doors are supposed to stay locked, got it?"

"Sure—no problem."

"Also," the Man of Steel added. "You've no doubt discovered the lead bracelets?"

"Yeah, that caught me by surprise," he admitted.

"They are there to ensure your safety."

"My safety?"

"It's simple, really—"

"You screw up and attack one of us, and we won't hesitate to retaliate," a deep and ominous voice said. Hotstreak froze. He knew that voice—it was the voice that haunted the minds of all the criminals that had been transferred from Arkam, in Gotham City. The voice of the Dark Knight…the Batman.

He advanced like a shadow, towering over the redhead and glaring down. "I don't care what the circumstances might be—you attack any of us, and I will show no mercy. Are we clear?"

He swallowed hard before answering, "Crystal."

"Easy, Batman," Superman said, trying to pacify the other hero. Batman cast one more distrustful glance in Hotstreak's direction, then stepped back.

Superman went on to explain the other security purposes that the meta-human would be under: 24/7 surveillance, the leaden bracelets to hold back his powers, as well as having a tracking device injected into his arm. The microscopic tracker was only an added precaution, and had been put to use by the Justice League on their own members in cases of intense danger—the could keep track of one another easier, in the event of a colossal emergency.

Hotstreak would have struggled against them, but as much as he hated needles and any injection, pissing off these people was a bad idea. He went along with it for now, and he even said to Superman that so long as the League kept their end of the deal, he would behave, and maybe one day become a model citizen. The Man of Steel looked skeptical, but smiled nonetheless.

Later, Static led Hotstreak back to the apartment, and he was led right back into his room Static instructed him to stay there and closed the door.

Half an hour later, the door to the room slid open, but instead of Static, Hotstreak was shocked to see none other than the Martian Manhunter. Hotstreak had never really seen an alien before—especially up close.

The alien nodded once to him then stepped aside, motioning him towards the door. "We are ready for you."


Static didn't like this—at all. He didn't like having to work with the fiery bang-baby. He didn't like having him stay in the Watchtower. Hell, he didn't like having him stay in the same apartment as he and Gear. But most of all, he hated not being able to find the Dakota Destroyer. So for this purpose and this purpose only, was he allowing himself the patience to work with him.

It's the lesser of two evils, he told himself. But I really wish I had the choice of neither.

J'onn entered the interrogation room with Hotstreak and bade him sit in the one empty chair at the large table, then the martian departed, leaving the three of them alone. Static looked at a long glass mirror on the wall adjacent to where he was sitting, knowing that on the other side of the glass, Batman, Superman and J'onn were watching and waiting for any break in the case.

He focused back to the task at hand. Gear handed him a manila folder which the redhead promptly opened and looked over. Static felt himself getting nervous, but he couldn't quite place why.

Impatience, you're impatient…you don't have the perp, and its driving you crazy. Just because Hotstreak's taking his sweet time doesn't mean you need to quirk out on him. Though that thought was tempting…

The redhead seemed to be sharing similar thoughts. Why is he staring at me like that? Its kind of…queer…nah…there's no way. Okay, okay…focus…Dakota Destroyer—killed four people so far, each one found naked, having a strange symbol painted on their bodies. He looked at crime scene photos and winced. Jesus—this is one sick fuck we're dealing with.

Hotstreak had seen his fair share of disturbing things in his life, but this one had to take the cake. The bodies of the four victims lay contorted in grotesque shapes, naked as the day they were born. Blood was everywhere, spattered against walls, staining the ground, flowing freely as water.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph…" the redhead whispered.

"Tell me about it," Gear replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "Anything look familiar?"

"Not really, I recognize a couple street corners."

"I'll bet," Static couldn't help but smirk. Hotstreak sent him a hate-laden glance and continued.

"Looks like this one was near Cornerstone and Ripley," he pointed at a picture of a man in his late fifties. The horror of the picture and the monstrous way of which his remains were left behind bears repeating.

"Cornerstone and Holloway," Gear corrected, grimacing at the photo, "But it was pretty close."

"Have you been keeping track of where they were murdered? Like, on a map or something?" For someone who had spent the past eight years in a federal prison, he was certainly on top of things. That made Static even more nervous. He knows more than he's saying. He's hiding something from us.

"Good thing you asked," Static said motioning to a glass panel behind him. A map of Dakota had been projected onto it, and little red dots marked the places where the four victims had been found. "So far we can't see any real connection—they're too far apart."

"No, there is a connection," the redhead said. Static and Gear looked surprised. Hotstreak sighed and shook his head almost pityingly. "Those are key meeting places for drug dealers. The Destroyer has to be a dealer. I'll bet the victims were crack-addicts."

"How…" Gear started. "How did you know that?"

"Wild guess," he leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. "There was a chick that was killed too, right? She was prostitute—had to be. No self-respecting girl would be caught dead in that part of town." He looked strangely at the two heroes. "Jesus, for guys who spent their whole lives there, you'd think you'd know this stuff."

"Which is why you're here—and how the hell did you know she was a…"

"Again, wild guess. I'm telling you, Static," he pointed at himself, "I'm the Sherlock Holmes of the streets. Ask me anything about the underground circa eight years ago, and I'll tell you what I know."

"Since when has your vocabulary been so good?" Gear accused.

He would have given a witty and language-filled retort, had he not been given a 'small' electric shock. "OW! Dammit, that hurt!"

"It'll hurt even more if you don't behave."

Realization dawned on him. "They're letting you use electric shock on me? What the fucking hell!"

Static grinned fully now. "Gives you more of an incentive now, doesn't it? Because now you can't fight back…"

"It's one-sided anyway. I would have thought heroes had more honor than to pick on those that can't fight back."

As much as it stung, Static gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it. "So it was in drug-dealing areas. And one of the victims was a prostitute—what else can you tell us?"

"Ebon's not your man."

Static and Gear shared a side-long glance. Both instinctively knew how the heroes on the other side of the glass were reacting to this allegation. "What makes you say that?"

"Ebon was a thief—not a drug dealer. He had enough honor to not sell death to kids."

Static placed both hands palms down on the table and leaned against it, his dark eyes staring straight into the jade orbs of the ex-convict. "What makes you so sure?"

"He said so himself—all those years ago."

"What'd he say…in his own words?"

"Exactly as I said it: 'I have enough honor to not sell death to kids'. He may have been a thief, kidnapper, and extortionist, but he's not a murderer, in the first, second or third degree. He swore he'd never turn out like…" he cut himself off suddenly. Static caught it immediately.

"Never turn out like…what?"

"Forget it." Hotstreak was covering something up.

"Tell me now."

"What if I refuse?"

"I'll call Batman in and you can tell him."

"Go for it."

Static blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I said go for it—but I'm not telling him either."

"Not telling him what?"

Hotstreak was as stubborn as his hair was red. He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. "A promise is a promise, and I can't say."

"Static," Gear whispered, "Give him a minute."

"We don't have a minute, Gear. Someone could be getting killed out there while we're up here joking around with this guy!"

"Wait for it."

Perplexed, though inwardly seething, Static sat down opposite the redhead, glaring past him at the glass panel, where he was sure the others were watching. He sighed wearily and shrugged as if to say, "What else do you want me to do?"

"Hotstreak," Gear started to say, "Or do you prefer Francis? Maybe F-Stop?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Alright, Francis, you say you can't tell us something—does it have anything to do with the whole 'honor among thieves'?"

"No—it had everything to do with knowing when to keep your mouth shut."

"Oh…so you're saying," he ventured slowly, "That Ebon found out somethingsupposedly damaging about you, and then you found out something about him, and both of you agreed not to tell anyone for the sake of reputation?"

Hotstreak and Static sent the genius superhero identical bewildered looks. The redhead's jaw had even dropped. Gear smiled triumphantly, knowing he had hit the nail on the head. "Okay, I was right—so…" he began pacing the room slowly. "Both of you held incriminating information about the other—an embarrassing story maybe…" he trailed off. Something in the green eyes of the interviewee told him that he was treading on dangerous ground.

"Or something horrible…that may have happened in your childhoods?"

"Stop." It was a direct order, but it didn't come from Hotstreak. Static stood quickly and rounded about, so that he could whisper something to Gear. Hotstreak watched worriedly, as Gear suddenly sent him a surprised look. Does he know that I hate hospitals?

By the look on his face, he guessed he hadn't. This must have been the first time Static had told him about that day on the island.

'This is a hospital…I don't do hospitals…'

Why hadn't Static said anything before now? He sent his questioning gaze towards the hero in question, who only looked back at him with a look that said 'it'll be alright.'

Gear sighed and looked a little uneasy before continuing. "Okay, moving right along…"


Hours later found an exhausted Virgil Hawkins in bed. The whole day had been grueling for him. And what made it worse was the fact that his greatest enemy was sleeping only a few yards away.

Virgil had never considered himself the type of person to hold a grudge, but when memories of F-Stop's bullying resurfaced, he was filled with such anger he couldn't control. Stop it, he told himself. That was high school—both of you are grown adults and can settle matters in a purely adult way.

But that didn't help matters. Tossing and turning for a few more minutes, he groaned in frustration and got out of bed. Maybe a visit back to Political Science 101 would help him get to sleep—he'd always slept through that class back in college, and had still passed with flying colors. Rereading the textbook wasn't such a bad idea—it had always put him to sleep before.

He reached for his mask, just in case, and walked out the door. Clad in only a black tank and dark blue pajama bottoms, he walked out only to find there was a light on in the living room.

Hotstreak was up, and supposedly he had the same original idea. "The Da Vinci Code" lay open on his lap and he seemed thoroughly engrossed in it.

"Good book?" Virgil asked, now disguised as Static.

Hotstreak jumped visibly, muttering a stifled curse of surprise. "Jesus, Static, give a guy a heart attack…" he paused for a moment. "Why are you up?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"Oh, so insomnia's a crime now?"

Static held up his hands signaling defeat. "Look, I'm tired, but I can't sleep. All I want to do a little reading, and go to bed—and I would like for it to be quiet."

"Good luck," he answered, getting back to his reading. He chuckled suddenly.

"What's so funny?" he asked. The redhead pointed to a place on the page he was reading. "Teabing—funniest guy, too bad about the end though…"

"Yeah, tragedy," he agreed, pulling the old textbook out. Flipping through some chapters, he asked aloud, "Fall of Communism, or Economics of the state?"

"Economics," Hotstreak answered. "The first one actually sounds interesting."

"True." He settled on the couch adjacent to the other bang baby and started reading. He kept feeling the other's eyes on him. "That's really unsettling, you know, watching me like that."

"I never thought Static Shock to be someone who read."

"How else do you get through college?"

"Where's your diploma?"

"My room—which, by the way, is off limits to you. Gear's room, too."

"I gotcha—I wouldn't let anyone on my turf either, especially if I was hiding a secret."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you hiding secrets?"

"A couple. But they wouldn't interest you."

"Really?"

"Quiet—reading," he cut him off, avoiding the subject. Static rolled his eyes. "I'm going to figure you out eventually, you know."

"All you know about me is my phobia of hospitals, which is a perfectly legitimate fear. You can't hold that against me."

"Sure I can—telling everyone that Hotstreak is afraid…"

"Everyone's afraid of at least something," he said suddenly. "Fear of heights, snakes, spiders, or whatever—everyone has a fear. So what's yours?"

"I'm not telling you."

"And I'm not telling you mine, either."

Here they were, at a standpoint, a stalemate. Neither wanted to give in, yet neither wanted to continue. They knew there was something about the other that was unnerving, and both were determined to figure out what it was. Static more so than Hotstreak.

"Were you sick?"

"What?"

"When you were in the hospital…were you sick?"

"Why do you care?"

"I just do."

"Since when?"

"Can we please have a decent conversation?" he was arriving at his wit's end. Just as he was about to give up and go back to bed, his question was answered.

"Yeah, I was sick—very sick. Doctors didn't think I'd pull through."

Static's eyes regarded him a new way. Without meaning to, he started imagining a much younger Francis Stone, lying in a hospital bed with IVs sticking into his arms. It was a sad picture, seeing a small, frail little boy suffering like that, weakened and lonely, with no one around to care for him. "What was it?"

"Pneumonia, with complications. I was pretty weak as a kid, so anything that was going around got to me first, and it hit me hard."

"Like the flu?"

"I got the flu once when I was five, and it nearly killed me. I was lucky they had vaccines left."

"And the time in the hospital, the one with the longest run?"

"It was hell—nobody really cared about me. All the doctors and nurses hated me for some reason."

"Can't imagine…"

"Just so you know," he said harshly, "I was unconscious most of the time, or too weak to do anything. The doctor never found out what was really wrong with me—they only knew the high fevers, the nightmares and hallucinations were more than just a bad virus."

"How long were you there?"

"Two and a half years. I was ten when they let me out. You know," he dog-eared the page he was reading, closed the book and looked Static right in the eye. "The only thing at that hospital that kept me going was a paramedic—she was an angel. Sweetest lady in the world. She used to call me Frankie—the only one who will ever get away with it. Every time she came through the Emergency room, she'd always stop by my room to see how I was doing. Sometimes she'd sneak in some candy or a drawing pad or something like that. If I had a mother, I hoped that she would have been just like Miss Jean."

Static nearly choked. "M-Miss Jean?"

Hotstreak looked at him strangely. "Yeah…Jean Hawkins."


A/N: O.O whoa, didn't see that comin', did ya? Remember to Read and Review:)