Chapter 4: Cold

Disclaimer: God, I wish I owned them! The three most perfect boys in the whole world, all mine! . But, its not gonna happen…in short, none of this belongs to me but the plot.

Warnings: Graphic crime scene schtuff (If you can watch CSI without flinching, you should be fine) and SLASH! Woohoo! ;)

Author's notes: BTW, I don't know if you all noticed, but all my chapter titles (Except the first chapter) are based off of songs. My habit is listening to music as I write, cause apparently that helps with the creative process. For instance, Chapter 2 was named "Confessions", only because I was listening to Usher at the time (Yes, I know the lyrics of the song have nothing to do with the chapter content, but the title worked, so it stuck). This chapter was named after the Crossfade song "Cold" (Totally kick-ass btw).

And Chapter 3 was called "Unaffected" after the Hoobastank song of the same name. Heck, the lyrics even speak for the themselves (as far as a V/F relationship goes): "Before they even saw my face/ they knew that I was not the same/ and decided I was not the one/ for you/ For you…"

Scary, huh? Enjoy!


Dakota, 7: 26 am

The two heroes and the meta-human arrived at the scene and stared dumbstruck at the area around them. Along the dingy street wet from morning dew were dozens of emergency vehicles, lights flashing wildly in the pre-dawn light. Neighbors in the area, dressed in bed clothes and robes and slippers, watched from their front doors, porches and windows, looking upon the gruesome scene worriedly. An elderly woman was being held up by a younger member of her family, the poor woman sick with worry. The family member, whom Static was led to believe to be her son, soothed his mother's whimpering and sent the hero a hopeful look as if to say 'Find out who did this soon'.

Don't worry, Static thought. This'll be over very soon…I hope. He hoped for this more than he consciously knew. On the one hand, he wanted the killer off the street. And on the other hand, the farther he was away from Hotstreak, the better. He couldn't wait to get back to the life he knew and loved above all else—especially the man he loved above all else.

The hero's dark eyes rested on his partner, Gear. He couldn't help but count his blessings every time he looked upon his lover, boyfriend, and soul mate. Richie was…beautiful. There was no other way for Virgil to describe him. And the other man presented such a figure as Gear—determined, intelligent, even wise beyond his years. Gear always possessed a certain calm in every situation. Static never would have guessed that deep down, his partner was riddled with fear: fear of losing the one thing that kept him going.

Gear was aware of Static's watching him. And he was also aware of a certain redhead riding on the disk with his boyfriend. Something about the way Hotstreak looked at both of them was very unnerving. And for a split second, he could have sworn that the redhead was watching him like a tiger watches the gazelle before pouncing. Gear had only seen that type of look once before…well, Richie had, at any rate…and that was whenever he was alone with Static…

The way his eyes sparkled and shone, hooded over with desire, the slightly rough hands rubbing up and down his body, the kisses on his neck, the moans elicited from him as he stroked him in all the right spots, as his hand moved down his body…slowly, oh so slowly, below the waist…

A shout from Static brought him back to his senses. He realized he had almost flown into a light pole while lost in his fantasies. Damn him for being so hot, he inwardly complained…not that he was actually complaining.

The trio landed outside a circle of police tape. An officer standing by lifted the yellow tape so they could cross over into what the two heroes often called 'No Man's Land': the dark and nearly forbidden space, marked with the red stain of murder. Both of them hated jobs like these, but this had to be done.

They approached the murder spot, the body covered in a white sheet. A CSI photographer was clicking away, the flash of the bulb illuminating the horrid message on the wall. It was almost surreal, and reminded Static of old horror movies that he was so fond of—the inside of a dark, abandoned haunted house, surrounded by dying weeping willows and trees covered with Spanish moss, blocking the French windows of the Victorian mansion. A lone woman, creeping into the dark room, her face illuminated as lightning struck outside, screaming in terror then falling silent; the next bolt of lightning, leaving a gruesome scene of her murdered form lying on the dusty floor, spilling her crimson fears…

"Static!" Gear called him over. The hero shook himself out of it and walked over to examine the message. Hotstreak was standing right in front of it, wearing jeans, a new red shirt (naturally) and a black windbreaker. His brows were furrowed, and he had a faraway look in his green eyes that suggested he might have seen something like this before.

"Recognize anything?" Static asked, indicating the body. Hotstreak only shook his head, "The body isn't of any concern—she doesn't matter. The message is the only thing that matters here."

"How can you say that!" Gear exploded. "Is that how you feel about human life?"

"No," the redhead admonished. "That's how the killer sees it—you needed an insider into the mind of a sick bastard, and I've known my fair share. So hear me out…"

He turned back to the poem on the brick wall, and raised his hand to point out words as he silently read them, lips moving, forming the words. Looking a bit confused, he stared out into space. He cleared his throat,

"I've definitely seen that poem before—but I can't remember where. I recognize the style: it's Romanticism, from around the early to late 19th century. Writers like Poe, Emerson, Stoker, Stevenson and…SHIT!" He cursed. "Shit!"

"What? What is it?" Static asked worriedly. Hotstreak pointed at the wall. "Wilde! Oscar Wilde! That poem was written by Oscar Wilde! Quick, who were the other victims?"

Gear instructed Backpack mentally, and the little robot gave him the particulars. He read them out as the other two listened closely, Hotstreak leaning against a lamppost, head bowed in thought, and Static standing by, arms crossed over his chest.

"Okay, the victims, in chronological order: Edward Jones, 31, a stockbroker; Daniel McKenzie, 35, a teller at a bank; Michelle McDonald, 24, a waitress; Dante Jones, 27, a mechanic; and now we have Miranda Carmichael, a businesswoman. She was 29."

"Do they have anything in common? Favorite hangout, a birthday, sun sign, anything?" Hotstreak wondered.

"Nope, not a thing."

"Not even a doctor or mutual friend?"

"I'm telling you," Gear was starting to get a little annoyed. "There's nothing that connects them."

Hotstreak let out a ragged breath and leaned his head back. "What do they usually say: sometimes the hardest murders to solve…"

"Are the ones with no visible motive," Static finished. "What's your point?"

"What if this was a hit man?"

Gear shook his head. "Hit men aren't this messy—ever. We're dealing with a sick mind."

"'Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword.'" Hotstreak read aloud. "I'm pretty sure that was from 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol'."

Static shrugged. "Whatever you say—I won't contest that."

"Wonder why he used that particular poem? If he was talking about death, why not use something by Edgar Allen Poe," Gear pondered. "Or Emily Dickenson or something along those lines?"

"There's a hidden meaning," Hotstreak said. "There has to be."

The police chief hailed them, "Then maybe you can find the hidden meaning with this…" he pointed at the body under the white cloth. The trio walked over, all of them a little wary of what they might find. As the police chief tore away the white cloth they gave a collective gasp.

There was a gaping hole in her chest where her heart used to be.

All three recoiled and turned an unhealthy shade of green. Static covered his mouth with his gloved hand and coughed, trying to expel the stench of death from his mouth and nostrils.

"Jesus Christ," Gear swore. "We're dealing with a modern-day Jack the Ripper…"

Hotstreak's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. His countenance screamed shock, then wonder and fascination, and then finally recognition. He could only breathe out, his voice barely above a whisper, "That's it…"


The Watchtower, 10:24 am.

"And he still hasn't said what crossed his mind?" Superman asked later. Static shook his head.

"Not a thing. He simply said 'That's it', demanded that we get back here, asked to borrow a computer, and Gear, for a little while, then holed himself up in the apartment. That was about an hour ago."

Batman was watching the Dakota Morning News on the monitors of the main control room, standing still as a statue. His face was even more unreadable than usual, and for the time being, he felt all absence of thought. He asked, "How is it that an ex-convict can figure something out, and I'm still left in the dark?"

Superman planted his hand reassuringly on his friend's shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up over it—you've had your hands full the past couple days—it shouldn't surprise me that you missed something. Aren't you tired?"

"A little," he was forced to admit.

"Then get some sleep."

"And don't you use the 'Crime never rests' thing on us, either," Static reprimanded, "We all know that's a load of bull."

"Something doesn't add up," the Dark Knight said. "You said our only current suspect is Ivan Evans?"

"Ebon," Static nodded. "But there have been rumors that he either escaped from prison or was killed in a fight. I've looked into it, but neither is conclusive."

"That's where you're wrong." Batman handed him a newspaper clipping. It was from the Obituaries. Aw, man, I know I'm not gonna like this… he thought.

In the clipping, there was the face of the 'man behind the shadow': Ivan "Ebon" Evans' mug shot, it stated his age, height, weight, and ID number. And it also listed 'Died while trapped in his cell during a prison fire. Guards struggled to open the padlock but were too late to save the one prisoner left inside…'

"My God…"

"A slow and terrible death. They laid him to rest today. I went down there myself for the viewing and the burial. It was closed-casket, without a doubt. There's no mistaking it—Ebon is dead."

"And there goes your prime suspect," Superman shook his head wearily. "It's a shame—he was slated to get out within two week's time."

This was a revelation to Static. "He was?"

"For good behavior," Batman said, taking back the newspaper clipping. "It's a bit ironic, I'd think. He waited to get out of jail for so long, then he finally got just what he wanted."

"One hell of a way out too," Static reflected.


Hotstreak's room, 10:30 am.

"This is one hell of an idea of yours," Gear said. "You sure this will work?"

"I've got a hunch," Hotstreak said, bustling about for blank paper and a pencil. Upon finding the desired materials, he roughly sketched the crime scene and the way the body was positioned. "Okay, over here we have the wall, with the message written in blood and the victim placed right underneath it. The way she was lying…" he made motions with his pencil point, "It sort of looked like a famous painting. Care to guess?"

"Botticelli's 'Birth of Venus'. A renaissance painter, from Florence, Italy. So?"

"My theory…" he made a few marks on the paper. "Is that our killer has something to do with art, or a museum or something. If you noticed the way he wrote the words…"

"Calligraphy—Edwardian script?" the hero guessed.

"Edwardian script," he assented. "A style common to the Victorian era."

"So you're saying that this guy is a Jack the Ripper enthusiast?" Gear asked incredulously.

"Maybe. But don't you think it's odd," he paused and looked right into his eyes. "That all these people were murdered in similar ways? Except they were missing only one internal organ: their hearts."

"I find it odd that I'm talking to an educated Hotstreak…"

He smirked triumphantly. "What? Not used to talking with someone with the same intellectual standing as you?"

"First of all, you're not my intellectual equal—you just know more about English, History and complete random crap than I do. And second, I…"

"Want me to stay away from Static, right?"

That question stopped him in his tracks. He tried to hide it, but the redhead saw right through it.

"You love him don't you? Wow, I guess I should have seen this coming," he chuckled arrogantly. "I knew it…I knew it! Gear is gay—how fitting."

"Yeah, so what are you going to do?" Tell the league? He thought. Too late, they already know. Tell the media? Fine, not like it'll be that big a deal…

"This." Hotstreak grabbed him and kissed him right on the neck. Gear stiffened, rigid as steel, as he felt the other meta-human's arms wrap around his waist. What the HELL

Where's Backpack? He wondered briefly, but that was before Hotstreak's tongue poked out and started licking up his neck. Gear all the while was thinking, Virgil's going to kill me! He's going to…God, I…I…oh my God, where did he learn how to do that

Hotstreak broke away to catch his breath, then trailed kisses down Gear's throat, stopping at the collarbone, then trailing his tongue back up the ivory skin. Gear's eyes fluttered closed and he bit back a moan. The last thing he wanted to do was let Hotstreak know just how much he was enjoying this.

Please don't go any further, because if you do… As soon as Hotstreak found the one spot on his body that made him weak with desire, all thought temporarily ceased. The redhead had found that spot: right under the ear.

Gear clutched at the other man, losing the battle to control his rapid breathing, his fingers digging into his shoulders. And he was also losing control over another baser instinct…

He gasped when Hotstreak nibbled on his earlobe, then licked his way back down his neck, only to prepare to leave one tell-tale bite mark.

Gear suddenly came to his senses and roughly pushed the other man away. Hotstreak fell back with a yelp and landed on his back on the floor with a thud, the wind thoroughly knocked out of him. Gear struggled to catch his breath. When he finally caught it, and had calmed down considerably, he hissed, "Don't you EVER do that again, got it?"

Hotstreak gulped down a breath of air and nodded, "Got it."


Main Circuit Board, Room C, Watchtower, 3:15 pm.

"Gear! How'd it go?" Static asked later. He had found Gear in the same room as the huge motherboard for all computers on the Watchtower. The huge room resembled a library with all its tall standing circuit boards, like shelves of books, only containing more information than any library on earth. Wires ran all along these like vines upon an old wall, stretching for meters. There were literally miles of wires in this one wing of the room. The room was lit with a soft blue light, and Gear was currently fixing up a couple broken wires and readjusting some fixtures.

He didn't even look up as his partner walked in. "He misbehaved, so I locked him in his room," he said, wincing when he realized a split second later that he sounded a lot like the mother of a troubled child.

Static thought that was adorable—he thought everything about his lover was adorable. Even after ten years together, Richie could still play the naïve virgin, even though he had 'done it' maybe thousands of times in the past decade. Hollywood lost one hell of an actor, he thought. Even after all these years, Richie could still surprise him.

And what surprised him now was the thing he noticed on his lover's neck. Was that…? It couldn't have been…he hadn't given him one in weeks. "Hey, Gear, what's that thing on your neck?" he hoped his tone didn't sound as accusatory as he thought it did.

The other hero's hand reached up to touch the side of his neck then froze. Static was able to see the expression on his face: it clearly read 'oh shit'. Then there was something else behind the terrified eyes staring straight into the jungle of wires…

"Rich, what happened?"

"Nothing," he answered a little too quickly. Virgil saw right through it. "It was Hotstreak, wasn't it?"

"Look, bro, I'm kinda busy right know. Can we talk about this la…"

"No, we're talking about this now!" Virgil said firmly. "What did he do?"

"Why are you worried about it?" Richie shot back. "You know how I feel about him."

"Oh yeah—you feel well enough about him to let him give you that."

"He came on to me!"

"Yeah, well he came on to me too!" he confessed through his rage.

They froze, slack-jawed, then simultaneously exclaimed. "WHAT?"

"When did…?"

"Last night."

"And did he…?"

"Kiss you…?"

"So that means…"

They paused, looked at each other and Gear started to chuckle. Virgil looked a little hurt, then he explained, "Look, Rich, I was going to tell you—really. I was just afraid that you'd get angry…"

"Of course I'm angry! I'm angry at him! If I had known what he did, I would have fed his sorry ass to Brutus."

"The robot in the Death Chamber?"

"The same."

"So you got the hickey…"

"From him," he looked riddled with guilt. Virgil relaxed. "So he came on to you? What were you doing?"

Richie shrugged. "Just being myself."

"Your very sexy self…" he stepped forward, embracing his boyfriend. The paler man pushed against him.

"Virg! Not here! What if someone walks in?"

"Who besides you would know what they're doing when they walk in here?" he took off his own mask and proceeded to move the visor away from his lover's handsome face. He observed how the blue light of the panels in the room reflected off the pale skin, giving it a radiant glow. It reflected off the blonde's blue eyes, the brightness of those intelligent orbs evermore emphasized.

"God, you're beautiful," Virgil whispered.

"So are you."

They leaned in closer, Richie wrapping his arms around Virgil's strong shoulders, his eyes fluttering closed as he felt Virgil's warm breath on his face. "V? Do you forgive me?"

"Like I can stay mad at you…" he answered, moving in swiftly for the kiss. Their lips met, and it was so much like the others: each one more mind-blowing than the one before. Their kisses and caresses weren't those of clumsy high school boys: every kiss reflected their passion, every touch sent shock waves through their bodies.

Virgil's hands cupped Richie's face, tilting his head so he could get in closer. Richie opened his lips to him, his fingers digging into his shoulders. The blond moaned into the kiss, and he felt his lover's lips twist into a smile. They parted for a moment, foreheads touching. Richie sighed and leaned his head on his boyfriend's shoulder.

"We need to stop."

Virgil looked hurt. "Why?"

"Because if we continue, I won't be able to stop."

Virgil chuckled. "Then how do we remedy our situation?"

"Virgil…" Richie said in warning. He knew what was coming.

"C'mon, bro," Virgil pressed. "We can find a small, dark space, unappealing to anyone, a place where no one will find us…"

"The Flash's room—has anyone told him that place can't possibly be fit for human habitation?"

Virgil's face contorted in a grimace. "Let's try somewhere clean." He emphasized the last word ardently.

"Broom closet?" Richie suggested.

"Too dusty."

"I have an idea…" the blonde's lips turned upward into a sly, suggestive smile. An odd glint shone in his eyes that his lover failed to notice. Virgil's arms wrapped around his waist and he asked innocently, "Hmm…what's your idea? WHOA!"

Before it had even registered, Virgil was on his back on the floor of the control room, pinned down by the effervescent blond. Richie was grinning like a madman, and Virgil laughed, accusing, "You had this all planned out from the beginning, didn't you?"

"You know me," Richie said deviously, his hands running up inside Virgil's shirt. "I'm not bad…I just know what I want."

"Nah, man—you're bad."

"How bad?" he asked seductively, linking his blue eyes with Virgil's dark obsidian spheres. The smile momentarily left the darker man's face; he reached for Richie's hand, brought it to his lips and kissed the inside of his wrist, breathing in his scent. He guided the hand down his body, over his chest, firm stomach, and right below the belt…

"You this bad?" he asked. Richie's eyes had hooded over with desire. Batting his lover's hands away, he answered, "You bet."

Dakota, A downtown bar, 11:51 pm.

He entered the bar scene and sat on a stool at the bar, calling the bartender over. The bartender, a tall black man, who seemed vaguely familiar to him, was cleaning a glass with a rag, and arched an eyebrow at the newcomer.

"What'll it be?"

"What do you have on tap?"

The bartender shrugged, putting the cleaned glass back on a shelf. "What don't we have?"

"I'll have a Heineken, then."

Once presented with his drink, he thanked the man, who went back to his chores silently, shifting amongst the shadows as if he were a part of them. The newcomer was sure he had seen this man before, but shook his head and focused on drinking his beer. It was odd, he reasoned, how alcohol didn't seem to affect him as it did most other "normal" people. Looking around the bar, he spotted him.

He was a young man in a business suit, now disheveled, his hair sticking up in odd places, obviously distraught. The young man ran a shaky hand through his brown hair, his brown eyes starring straight into the bar. The glass of brandy in front of him sat untouched. He looked as if he were about to crack.

"Little woman giving you a big problem?" the man asked. The younger man looked up sharply, his expressive brown eyes betraying every emotion: hurt, guilt, betrayal…and heartbreak.

"Ah, I see," he added. "Let me guess: she's been seeing someone else, hasn't she?"

"H-how did you know?"

"Well, why else would a young married man be in a bar on a Saturday night instead of at home making sweet love to his wife?"

"How did you know I was married?"

"The ring on your finger was an obvious indication," the man pointed. "Infidelity is harsh, let me tell you. What was her name?"

"Miranda."

"I see—say, wasn't her body discovered just earlier today?"

"Yes," the young man gripped his glass so hard it threatened to break. His companion shook his head.

"Pity, a real shame. But I guess you could say she had it coming…"

The younger man looked at him sharply, rage burning in his eyes. "How dare you say that!"

"Listen, kid," the man said, his eye suddenly catching that of the bartender. The tall dark man regarded him suspiciously, but nevertheless threw the towel over his shoulder then retreated to the back room, perhaps for more supplies. Good, but that doesn't give me much time.

"Kid, you're better off without a woman like her. She didn't treat you right—I mean, I know very little about you, but I can tell you that its better to have loved and lost…":

"But Miranda was everything to me! How could she cheat on me with my best friend?"

"Ah, I see…so she lied when she said she had no boyfriend…or husband for that matter…"

"Wait, wait," Mr. Carmichael paused. "Did you know her?"

"In a sense…" the older man pulled out something from his coat pocket, wrapped in brown paper. He handed it to the younger man and said, "I believe to belonged to Miranda. Go on, she'd want you to have it."

Cautious, the younger man slowly opened the small package, unsure of what his late wife would have left him. When he saw the contents, he screamed bloody murder and fell off his stool, eyes wide with horror. "Its..its…"

"Her heart?" the older man said, finishing off his beer and leaving an ample tip for the bartender. "Well, I figured she broke your heart—tore it out and kicked it around, so stands to reason…what goes around comes around. Have a good night." then he stabbed the younger man in the stomach, providing him with a slow and painful death. "Sorry, kid," the Dakota Destroyer said, "ButI can't have witnesses. Ciao." With that, he left the bar calmly, chuckling in his throat, leaving the horrified young man, who sobbed uncontrollably, his own blood flowing out onto the floor.

And in the back room, the bartender had overheard everything, and seen it all play out. Legs shaking, he moved to the back exit, not caring if he was still on the clock. He had to warn someone before it was too late.


A/N: again, the killer strikes! BTW, I loosely based the killer off Ted Bundy—hope nobody minds. Read and Review!