Chapter 5: Rapture

Author's notes: Wooo…okay, sorry for the delay. College has been draining me of good ideas, and my prose hasn't been too grand lately. Plot's doing well, so nothing to worry about.

Warnings: SLASH—you have been warned—violence, angst, and more fun with the Destroyer.

Rating: I just might make it R for language and slashiness.

Disclaimer: though I don't own the boys, or the Justice League for that matter, the plot of this little monster is mine. So no stealing! It took me a lot of brainstorming to come up with this whole shebang.


Hotstreak's room, 11:34 am

Hotstreak couldn't quite remember how he ended up on the floor of his room when he was only in bed just seconds ago. To add insult to injury, he was being held to the ground by pulsing electricity. Shit, he thought, he knows.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Static asked coldly, his eyes flashing dangerously. Hotstreak struggled against the bonds, receiving only electric shocks. The more he struggled, the more pain he was in.

"C-c'mon man! Can't you take a joke?"

"What exactly do you want from us?" he asked angrily.

"Truth—you two are gay, aren't you?"

"Bi-sexual; we're bisexual. Happy?"

"A bit disappointed, but yeah."

"I think it goes without saying that you stay the hell away from both of us."

"Even though both of you had it coming."

"Come again?" Static's power diminished slightly, an eyebrow raised in question. Hotstreak tried pushing himself up off the floor, but was still held down with the right amount of static cling.

"Both of you…are too damn sexy for your own good…"

Static smirked, but said nothing. Then he frowned and let the redhead go. "Stay away—your schemes aren't going to work, okay?"

"You want me to be honest?"

"That'd be nice."

"I want you."

Static laughed. "Yeah? And I want you…to leave me and Gear alone."

Hotstreak gave him a half-smile, more like a smirk than anything else. "You'll warm up to me—you can't deny it."

"Sure I can. Just watch me," he said, turning his back and walking towards the door. Static gasped when he felt heat against his back and strong muscular arms wrap around his middle. He felt Hotstreak's head rest on his shoulder and whisper in his ear.

"Is it too much to ask that once—just once—I be treated like any man would want to be treated?"

Static gulped down a breath of air before answering, "You're not like most men."

"You're right," he said, one hand running down to Static's hip. The hero stiffened. "I'm not like most men, but neither are you, Static."

To this, the hero had nothing to say other than, "You were in prison…"

"And had experiences I'd rather not talk about, if it's all the same to you. Please," he begged, almost tenderly. Static could feel unnatural heat emanating from the other man's hands and fingers as they lightly traced over the muscles of his taunt stomach. He closed his dark eyes and bit back a moan, gnawing on his bottom lip. He took a deep steadying breath, and Hotstreak noticed.

"You like this, don't you?"

"If I gave you what you wanted," Static said with a calm he didn't even know he possessed, "Will you let me leave?"

He could feel the man's smile as his mouth kissed the junction between the neck and shoulder. Hotstreak's hands, hot as any passion, reached up and pushed the long jacket off of the hero's strong shoulders, kissing the bare skin. He nuzzled his head into his shoulder. "Give me what I want, and you can leave."

Instead of being relieved, Static knew he was in hot water. Gear would hear about this, and then he might as well throw himself out of frying pan and into the fire. Speaking of fire…what the hell was he doing!

Hotstreak still stood behind him, pressing his chest against his back, leaning his head against his shoulder, hands reaching around to the front and running up inside his shirt. When Static felt those hands on his chest he almost lost it. He's obviously done this before…but how many times? And with who? He didn't want to think about it—he settled on instinct being the culprit of the skilled ministrations currently bringing him to a high no drug could recreate.

And Hotstreak wasn't even rubbing and caressing below the waist.

God damn but he's good… he snapped himself out of it. Okay, Static, how are you getting out of this without really crossing the line? The thought hit him like lightning. Perfect.

Suddenly, without warning, he turned around and grabbed the other bang-baby forcibly, holding him firm by the shoulders, his gloved fingers digging into the redhead's shoulders. Static's hands came up to cup Hotstreak's face, then moved in for the kill.

Hotstreak's eyes were wide with shock at the force of Static's kiss. It electrified him, no pun intended. He felt lightheaded suddenly, and molded into the other man's arms, moaning as he felt Static's tongue on his lips. He opened his mouth and felt that hot and skilled tongue ravage the hot cavern.

The redhead's hands gripped at the hero's shoulders, fearing collapse if he let go. There were no other sensations he felt other than those lips, that tongue, those hands running down his sides, arms wrapping around his waist and pulling him in closer. Hotstreak arched into Static's body and tilted his head as the hero trailed his tongue down his neck, stopping to suck on the crook of the neck.

Static pulled away and Hotstreak whimpered in protest. When he looked into Static's dark eyes, they were dancing with mirth and barely contained laughter. The hero's hand lightly slapped against Hotstreak'sblushing cheek, and he said playfully, "One good turn deserves another. Now we're even." With that, he strode out of the room and left Hotstreak still reeling from the assault on his mouth.

The redhead meta-human took a few steps backwards until his back hit the wall, and he slid down it, his legs suddenly deciding to give out from under him. He raised his fingers to lightly touch the still-tingling lips, wondering if what had happened had actually happened. That kiss, he decided, was the most mind-blowing thing he had ever experienced.

What the hell did Static and Gear do together…? Did Gear teach Static how to do that? And if so, Hotstreak needed to take a few lessons.

And so what if he didn't get everything he wanted? The kiss was good enough…for now. As he stood he still felt lightheaded, and even wavered a moment, almost losing his balance and falling again. He leaned against the wall and shook his head to relieve it of the cobwebs and less-than-innocent fantasies. Even after a few steps, he still felt…terrible.

It's the kiss, he told himself. It affected you like no other kiss has before…ARG, stoppit! With things the way they are, there's no way your little fantasies will ever come true. You have a better chance of being hit by lightning than… he made it as far as the doorway if his room before collapsing against it. One shaky hand reached up to wipe away the cold sweat that started perspiring on his forehead, longish strands of red hair sticking to the skin. What is wrong with me?

He felt dizzy, very tired, weak, and there was a faint queasiness in the pit of his stomach. Instinct told him, this isn't because of Static. This is serious, Francis.

He grimaced. Even after all those years as F-stop or Hotstreak, his mind still called him Francis. He never referred to himself as Francis, unless it was a really serious situation.

And this was serious.

Biting his lip, he summoned enough strength to make it to the couch and collapsed on the cushions, taking off his red shirt in an effort to cool himself off. He was burning up, and not in a good way. Then a familiar pain hit him—it was the same pain he felt the night his powers had surfaced.

The nurse had run from the room as the doctor entered, and she was screaming, 'He's burning up!'

He really was burning up now. He had never felt so bad since…

Hotstreak gulped and tried hard not to panic.


Main Control Room, 12:01 pm

"So did you handle the situation?" Gear asked as Static entered the computer room.

"You could say that," he answered with a sly grin. Gear looked satisfied enough. "So what did you do?"

"Gave him a taste of his own medicine."

"You WHAT?"

"Rich," he tried calming his lover; "Do you really think I give a damn about him? He's only here because of the Destroyer—once we catch this guy, Hotstreak leaves. It's that simple…"

"I still don't like it," the blonde said, taking off his helmet, judging the relative safety of the enclosed room. Virgil followed his example, taking off the mask, gloves and jacket. Staking a seat next to him, he looked over his boyfriend's shoulder.

"Watcha working on?"

"Research," Gear said curtly.

"About…?"

"Serial Killers."

"Fun."

"Mm-hmm."

There was a long awkward pause. Virgil hated these—they had known each other for how long? There weren't supposed to be any awkward silences between them. He's probably mad that I kissed Hotstreak—c'mon, it didn't mean anything…

Did it? The devil on his shoulder asked him. Was it merely nothing to you?

Of course it was—I don't care what happens to him… Static reasoned.

Not true, the angel on the other shoulder said. You are a good and true person, Virgil—you care about people.

I don't care about Hotstreak the way I care about Richie.

Again, the devil wondered, is that the true story?

Static shuddered and shook his head. Gear noticed this, but didn't comment. After another subsequent shudder from the electric hero, Gear rolled his eyes and said, "If you're cold, put your coat back on."

"I'm not cold."

"Then why were you shuddering?"

"Because you gave me the mental image of me and Hotstreak going at it…"

Gear's fist came down hard on the control panel. Barely holding in his anger, he gritted out, "Don't even joke about that."

"I wasn't—just thinking about…ah, Jesus…that ain't right."

Gear couldn't help but imagine the same scene, except he was a part of it as well. Yet for some reason, instead of revulsion, he thought it felt…right. All three of them, together, three as one meddled together…

"Yeah," he forced himself to agree. "Just ain't right."

Static's shock box buzzed suddenly. He answered it then cursed loudly. "He's WHERE? All right, we'll be right there. Rich," he turned to his boyfriend, fear and panic evident in his eyes. "Hotstreak's in the hospital wing—he's burning up, and not in the good way."


Sick bay, Watchtower, 12:10 pm

They arrived and pushed their way through the throng of heroes that had gathered around to find out what was going on. Muttering an apology to Kara as he pushed her to one side, Static dragged Gear over to Superman, who stood just outside the room, looking in. the hero's face was etched with concern.

"Superman, what happened?" Static demanded.

"J'onn found him in your apartment with a dangerously high fever. He was making his routine check-ins, and found Francis passed out of the couch. Would you mind explaining what happened?" It wasn't an accusatory tone, but Static felt the full blow of it. He was, after all, the last person to have seen Hotstreak before…

He chanced a look into the room beyond. His jaw dropped and he felt as if he was going to be sick.

There was a lone light shining down from the ceiling, illuminating the figure in the hospital bed. Hotstreak was deathly pale, the majority of his clothes having been removed to help him cool down faster, but to no avail. The dark red hair was a sharp contrast to his face that had now taken on a most deathly pallor, his mouth was parted open, drawing shallow breaths. His green eyes had closed, and dark circles had appeared under them.

Static brushed past Superman and rushed over to the hospital bed. He was instantly reminded of the old quote: 'this is a hospital…I don't do hospitals…' He stopped and took Hotstreak's hand, and felt his pulse. The hero couldn't believe it. He had an irregular heartbeat—too irregular. It hit him abruptly—Hotstreak…Francis was dying.

The redhead's eyes cracked open and locked with those of the hero. There was a pleading look in those jade orbs, now glassy and glazed over, misting over…

"You have to take the bracelets off," he begged, sweat running down his forehead, his breathing more labored by the minute. And Static was getting more and more panicked by the minute. Hotstre—Francis' body temperature was rising too quickly: 105 degrees. He was dying. But how?

"Please man," he begged, his hand weakly gripping the hero's gloved hand. "Take them off."

It suddenly hit him. Before Hotstreak had come up to the Watchtower to stay with them, Static remembered asking Gear to find Francis Stone's hospital records, just in case of an accident, they'd know what to do. In them, it mentioned a kid weakened by a bad immune system from birth. As a baby, he suffered from a low white blood cell count. However, recent doctor's reports told that Hotstreak's white blood cell count had jumped to incredible numbers, meaning that he couldn't get sick. The fire powers helped to fend off bacteria and viruses. The immunity was due to his powers. His powers were saving his life.

And if he didn't use his powers on a regular basis, he'd get sick, and he'd more than likely relapse. Extracting his hand, he charged up, sparks flying from his fingers. There was an electric code he had used to lock the bracelets in place. He only had a matter of seconds before Francis' situation became overly critical.

Zap! One bracelet came off—Francis' breathing became more ragged, and his eyes closed, squinting in extreme discomfort. He looked deathly pale and there were dark circles under his eyes, and Static could see his heart palpitating in his chest. Irregular heartbeat—Jesus, I'm losing him!

He rushed to get the other one off and fumbled around, hands sweaty and clammy, his own breathing quickened in panic. The code, the code…please work! Please work!

Finally the last leaden bracelet fell away and Francis' body heated up to an extremely high level. Static swore that his heart had stopped. No!

Then he saw the sparks on the other man's fingers. He called over his shoulder, "J'onn, lock us in! Francis," he whispered in his ear, "hold on, and don't let go, whatever you do. Focus on my voice, I'm here for you."

For a moment, Francis relaxed, his head falling back onto the pillow, breathing still labored and shallow. Sparks flew from his fingers, then Static saw smoke beginning to billow, then to his relief, tiny flames on his fingertips. He let out the breath he had been holding and allowed himself a tiny smile of satisfaction.

He felt sweat run down his face, then realized that the room's temperature had risen dangerously. It wasn't just him—the air around him was hazy with desert-like heat. And it was getting steadily hotter and hotter…

Francis' body convulsed, and the redhead gripped the sheets with white knuckles, handsome face contorted with a fearsome grimace of pain. Throwing his head back into the pillow, he let out a scream that mingled with Static's own yell of shock as the flame-haired meta-human burst into flames.

The air around him became dry and extremely arid, and though he was engulfed in flames, Francis seemed totally at ease. The flames licked at bare skin, not a burn to be seen. The smell of burning flesh that static had expected was non-existent, instead was the sensation and the…natural beauty before him.

He had never actually watched a fire burning before, and now that he had the chance, he found himself drawn in, enraptured, caught in the inferno. There was something about Francis that made him the personification of fire: dangerous, yet irresistible in the sense of being someone who wasn't afraid to experience raw emotions. Like fire, he was ever-changing, destructive, and yet could easily be defeated through the likes of fire and need of air. Without oxygen, a fire cannot thrive. Was that why the redhead craved freedom so much? Did he know this? Did he know that without room to breathe, he would fail to survive?

The flames, raw, primitive and simple, were still so beautiful and hypnotic, Static found himself drawing closer and closer to the flaming man. Francis' grip on the bedclothes had lessened, and he lay back, relaxed, eyes closed, his breathing deep and relaxed, almost in a meditative state. Most of the redhead's body was bare but for the jeans he wore beneath the sheets, the sweat that had perspired there evaporated by the fire.

Static took a dare. He stepped closer to the flames, reached his hand out and put it right into the flames. His jaw dropped. He didn't burn. He didn't even feel heat. What did this mean?

Does he…does he trust me?

He reached out and took the man into his arms and held him to his chest, feeling the burn of the flames this time, but as he held him, the flames dissipated and Francis' tense frame relaxed into his embrace, his head lolling onto his shoulder, exhausted.

Before Francis blacked out, he said, almost too quietly to be heard, "Thank you."

"Anytime, man," Static told him, "Anytime."


Sick Bay, 12:15 pm

Gear struggled to keep his emotions in check. From where he stood, he could see it clearly: the look on Static's face as the hero gazed down onto the other man in his arms, holding him to his chest like a mother protecting her one and only child. There was love in that gaze, whether static knew it or not, and it tore at Gear's heart.

He said it didn't mean anything. He lied… Regretfully, he turned away from the window into the hospital room, and marched out of the hospital wing of the Watchtower, almost bumping into Batman, who was coming in to check on the situation.

"I'm going on patrol," he said in parting.

"But you're not on the roster for the next two days," the Dark Knight pointed out.

"I need some air…"

"Richie…"

The super-genius stopped, turned and fixed his most heated glare at the elder hero. "Listen, Bruce—I don't need you breathing down my neck."

Unabashed, and quite calmly, Batman asked, "Don't you want Virgil…?"

Gear interrupted him, "He's busy. Besides, it's not like he'll miss me." With that, he turned his back and marched out, inwardly seething. Batman stood still as a statue, his eyes narrowing. Something wasn't right at all. When the Dark Knight turned around and saw the scene before him, he resisted the urge to run after Gear and drag him back in kicking and screaming if need be.

This whole thing is going straight to hell, he thought, and it's taking the three of them along for the ride.


Sick Bay, 1:14 am

When Francis came to many hours later, he was still lying in the hospital wing, this time in a new bed, the clean white sheets pulled up to his chin. An IV was stuck into the crook of his left elbow, and next to him was a chair occupied by one very frightening individual.

"JESUS CHRIST!" he swore, nearly jumping out of his skin as Batman sat forward. "Shit, man—do you do that to everyone here?"

"Get used to it. Francis," the hero started, handing him a stack of stapled documents, "tell me if this looks familiar."

His eyes still bleary, the redhead roved over the notes and recognized a certain handwriting. "This is my doctor's writing. Wait, are these from…?"

"Your stay at the hospital when you were a child—these are the documents the doctors kept."

"I thought these were confidential…" He groaned, suddenly realizing who he was talking to. "I figured you of all people would go this far." He could have imagined it, but Francis could have sworn he saw the ghost of a wry smile beginning to tug at Batman's lips. "I suppose you know of my methods?"

"Let's face it, Bats—you're so unpredictable it's predictable, if that makes any sense."

"Plenty. Back to business, though—I did my research and found out a few things about you, things that not even doctors knew about."

"Like…" the redhead looked a little worried when he saw the Dark Knight's shoulders rise and fall with a sigh. "Like the manner of your mother's death."

This was what he had feared to hear. Nevertheless, he sat back, propped up by pillows as Batman began the short history.

"Your mother was a young woman by the name of Bridget Williams, married one Jack Stone sometime in the early eighties. As far as I know, you are their only surviving child. Your mother was a businesswoman in order to pay the bills, what your father did is still debated, but that's not the issue here. They divorced when you were two, your mother gaining custody.

"When you were three, your mother had just picked you up from daycare just like any other day…"

"The accident?"

"Yes."

Batman watched the red-haired man take a deep breath and nodded his approval to continue. The dark Knight said, "She was crossing an intersection, an incoming truck had lost its brakes…"

"A side collision…" Francis' voice was low, barely audible, and quiet as if he were witnessing a ghostly apparition. "There was a side collision on the driver's side. I was in the back seat…right-hand side…I…"

"You remember the accident?" it was difficult for him to mask the apparent shock in his tone. Batman wondered to himself; Imagine your very first memory being the violent death of your parents. The memory of Bruce's parents' deaths certainly wasn't his first memory, but damaging all the same. To think that Francis Stone's first memory was a tragic car accident…No wonder he was messed up as a kid…

"The accident claimed your mother's life," Batman continued, noting the numb look on the other man's face, the eyes seemingly lifeless, devoid of any visible emotion. "She was pronounced dead at the scene. The truck driver spent two months in jail for vehicular manslaughter—a crime in and of itself—and you were given to your father to raise."

"You can see how that turned out…"

"There's more." He paused, trying to find the right way to put this. Batman was normally quite adept with words—he always knew what to say and when to say it and how to say it. This was one of the more…interesting…things he'd ever have to talk about.

"Francis, at the hospital, the pediatricians were concerned about your well-being, mostly because of an abnormally high body temperature—for most people, regular body temperature is 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit…"

"I know that, no need to insult my intelligence."

"Yours was 100.4 degrees Fahrenheit." He let the words sink in before he continued. "Later reports indicated that this had been present since birth—you've always been this way."

"But…"

"Yes?" he asked patiently.

"When…" he paused, trying to put his thoughts to words, "the Big Bang…I got fire as my power. Are you saying…?"

"The pyro-kinetic abilities you've had your whole life. there are many scientists an biologists that believe all humans have the capacity for what we call 'paranormal abilities', such as telepathy, psycho-kinesis, precognition, and in your case…the ability to create fire using only your mind.

"The long and short of it is, the mutagen gas helped bring these abilities to light, powers you've had up until then left uncultivated, and as you grew, so did your power. When you were hospitalized, that was when you had accumulated all that power, and had no output for it. The Big bang, in a literal sense, saved your life—if you didn't have the output for all that excess energy, it would backfire…"

"And I'd get sick," he finished, finally seeing where this was going. "So I'm guessing I won't be wearing the bracelets anymore?"

"Don't get me wrong, Hotstreak," Batman's tone became dangerous, "I don't trust you at all. Because of this little oversight…"

"Little? I almost died, you heartless bastard!" he scoffed. Batman ignored him. "You won't be wearing the bracelets, but my earlier comment still stands." Then, as if to emphasize his point, Batman stood from his chair and leaned in close to the redhead's face, making sure he got the point clear, "You screw up, and I will take you down."

With that, he left the room, muttering a quick 'good night' before closing the doors behind him, also leaving the documents with Francis. The redhead looked over tiny pieces of paper—photocopies—and his eyes started to water up for the firs time since…well, he couldn't remember.

They were photocopies of he and his mother, and a sampling of baby pictures of himself. Francis glanced at the door that batman had walked through and shook his head. As long as he lived, he'd never be able to understand that guy.

Batman himself rounded the corner and stopped in front of the lone eavesdropper. "Satisfied?"

Gear's expression was unreadable, but for a flash of guilt that appeared as a specter on his face. He lifted his head and stared long at the wall before nodding. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me," Batman said as he glided by, "not yet."


Virgil's room, 2:02 am

Virgil sat on the edge of his bed in his darkened room, his head in his hands. He felt like he was going to be sick. He felt like he wanted to curl up into a little ball and die. He felt like doing a lot of things, but confronting Richie wasn't one of them. Virgil had come to the startling conclusion that he dreaded above all else: he loved Francis Stone.

When did this happen? he wondered. How, and why? When did it start—did it begin all those years ago, when they were still in high school? Did feelings begin to fester like an open wound inside him since the first throw down, the first punch? Was it after the Big Bang? Was seeing F-Stop be so powerful and witness him possess such raw and unbridled power the trigger that made his heart beat in crazy ways?

At the time, he thought those feelings were nothing but hate, and the heartbeats would only be attributed to adrenaline rushing through his veins during every fight. Virgil realized something suddenly.

Every time he was near him, he felt the same surge of adrenaline, the same bolt of electricity that compelled him to go on the defensive. At first, he thought it was simply a conditioned response…but now he knew better.

He loved him.

But he also loved Richie. In fact, he loved Richie more. But now…

Virgil felt the lone tear fall down his cheek before it registered that he was crying. What was he going to do?

Sighing, he answered the shock box as it signaled hisa attention. It was J'onn, telling him there was a possible lead in the Destroyer case. Standing and putting on his Static costume, Virgil paused. He held his mask in front of him, feeling the material with his thumb.

A mask…it was all a façade. He was not naïve, he decided as he placed the white material over his face. He knew that you couldn't escape your problems by putting on a mask and pretending they weren't there. He'd have to face Richie when he got back.


Dakota, 2:55 am

The bartender he had spooked the other night, he was an issue. Who was that tall black man with the cornrows? Why did he look so familiar? Where had he seen him before?

The Destroyer sauntered down the same road on his way to the very bar he had killed the young man in just a day prior. Maybe, if he was lucky, the bartender would be working tonight.

He allowed himself a tiny smile of contentment, not cat-like…more like a panther on the prowl. That bartender, whoever he was, would certainly be a welcome change to the usual fare. Tall, muscular, more than likely a great long-distance runner, powerful, and better yet—he looked intelligent. The Destroyer loved to hunt intelligent prey.

He walked into the bar, late at night, just as before. There was no one else in the bar and, judging from the way the glasses and bottles were stacked, they were about to close up for the night.

The curtain covering the doorway to the back room was thrown back as the tall black man strode behind the bar, white towel over his shoulder, not noticing the figure standing in the shadows until he spoke.

"Hello there."

Visibly anxious, the bartender threw the towel down onto the bar and stared at him levelly. "You the guy that bumped off Ricky?"

Ricky? Hmm…must have been the name of Miranda's husband… "As a matter of fact, yes, yes I am."

"You sick fuck."

The Destroyer chuckled mirthlessly and advanced quickly, hoisting himself over the bar so that he stood not two feet from his intended victim. The bartender took a cautionary step back and instinctively fell into a fighting stance as the serial killer walked forward.

The bartender kept his eyes focused on the killer's. He learned through years of experience—you watch their eyes, you can always tell where they'll strike next. But he knew that he was in trouble. The man had never gone up against a psychopath before.

"You know what? You're right—I am a sick fuck, aren't I?" even in the dim light, he could make out a few facial features: the killer was also tall, white, golden blonde hair, steely gray eyes, kind of on the skinny side, but practically oozed charisma. The bartender was instantly reminded of Ted Bundy…only this guy is much worse…

"What are you planning?" he asked, stalling for time, even though he was sure of the answer.

"What am I planning?" the Destroyer considered it as if it were a poignant question. "Let's see—first, I'm going to take you out back, make you scream and beg for a quick death, then," he whipped out his favorite curved knife, "Maybe I'll skin you, still alive. And if I'm in the mood, take your heart as well? Hmm? How does that sound?"

He yelped in surprise as the bartender threw the towel in his face. The split second it took to tear the cloth away was more than enough for the one on the defensive. The bartender had taken a bottle of whiskey and stuffed a wad of paper towels into the neck of it, setting afire with a lighter. He threw it at the feet of his assailant and ran for cover out the back room.

Even though he heard the explosion of flames in his bar, he still kept running, grabbing his coat as he ran out the back door. Through the dingy alley, splashing through muddy puddles and skirting around dumpsters and trash cans, he ran faster than he had ever run before.

Overhead, he saw the one person he knew who could help him. Whether or not he would help was another issue, but he had no time to think about it. The bartender bravely set off after the superhero on foot, praying to whatever gods would hear him—Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, Buddha or whoever else was listening—that he wouldn't run into the killer.


Dakota, 3:14 am

Static caught movement on the ground below him. Someone was following him. He slowed his passage a bit, only slightly so his pursuer wouldn't be able to catch on. At the next block, he landed on the ground and took a look around at his surroundings.

Years of working with Batman had honed his natural senses and reflexes. He heard his pursuer before he saw him. Using this knowledge, he made himself scarce, hiding behind a dumpster as his shadow ran past and into the empty street. There were no street lights here, and the street was cloaked with darkness. Through the darkness, however, Static could see the bewilderment evident in the shadow's body language.

The shadow's shoulders hunched in defeat, sighed loudly, dejectedly, then turned to walk away…

Then found himself flat against a brick wall, propelled there by the force of static cling. Static used a ball of electricity to hold the runaway on the wall. The tall black man winced as the herowalked closer. In the provided light, Static said, "End of the line, man—why don't you tell me why you were…"

He gasped and his eyes grew wide. The person in front of him was not the Dakota Destroyer. In fact, the man he had been chasing was the last person he had ever expected to run into. Static was, sure enough, looking into the startled, shocked and bewildered face of Ivan "Ebon" Evans.


A/N: Who saw that one coming? God, this chapter took so long to get done, between school and other activities. Hope y'all enjoy. Read and Review!