Chapter 9: From Hell

A/N: (sobs uncontrollably) I'm sooooorrrreeeeee! Please kind, beautiful peoples, don't kill me! The only reason I left off there was because I've been smashed over the head with a 2-ton hunk of writer's block.Thankfully, my muse came around and slapped me in the face with a big fat fish and told me to get my ass in gear and finish the two fics I'm working on simultaneously. Yes, TWO. The sequel to this bad boy not includedyet.

Disclaimer: I don't own it—Milestone and DC Comics owns Static Shock and any superheroes of the DC universe. This includes: Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, GL, Flash, Supergirl, and any others I can't remember right now.

Warnings: Major violence and angst, and more from our favorite serial killer. Good times, good times…

Rating: based on the new rating system set down by rated M, or R, for those of you unsure about the new system. Yes, there is much violence, lotsa swearing, and sexual situations in the next two chapters. Fun, fun, fun…


Watchtower, docking station, the Javelin, 2:04 pm

"What do you think?" Gear asked proudly. Francis' eyes widened appreciatively at the unveiled mode of transport before him. The redhead whistled approvingly and stepped forward, running his hands across the polished metal lightly, almost a caress.

His face was reflected in the red-painted metal of the motorcycle Gear had unveiled to him. It was sleek, painted a dark red and black, a matching helmet sitting on the seat. Francis rambled on in his excitement.

"An '05 Suzuki? Wow, its…it looks…hey!" he ran his hands over it, muttering as he went, "1299cc Displacement, 4-stroke, four-cylinder, liquid-cooled, 16-valve… 6-speed transmission…" his hands moved down to the tires. He crouched down and inspected the brakes.

"Dual hydraulic disc in front, single in the back, front inverted telescopic, coil spring suspension, back suspension is link typed…Woohoo!" he whooped. How long had it been since he had ranted about things like this? Most of the guys in the clink talked about cars and their women—Hotstreak was always telling them about different motorcycles. His soft spot were the Suzuki's. Hondas were fine, and Yamaha was okay, but Hotstreak remembered feeling more of a rush when perched atop a machine like this one. Hell, he'd even broken into a when he was 17 to get one just like this one.

"This is in great shape! Where the hell did you get this? They stopped making these years ago!"

Gear leaned against the Javelin, the spacecraft standing just next to the redhead's new ride. Smiling triumphantly, he said, "It was actually a commission for Nightwing—only he wanted it in black and blue. But, since his own bike it still running smoothly, I figured you'd give it a test run—that way you can tell him yourself how nice it is."

"This thing got any special features?"

"Pfft…plenty." He circled around the bike, counting off the newest features on his fingers. "I added two more cylinders for extra power, fixed the suspension for an easier ride, turbo speed to get around the slow-pokes on the highway. And…" he pointed out the odd attachments on the wheel axles. "These are jet-fuel propelled engines, much like what you'd see on a harrier jet."

Hotstreak looked up at him sharply, his jaw dropping, "This thing can fly?"

"Theoretically—I wouldn't try it out just yet, I'm still working out the kinks so it'll be more aerodynamic. So…think Nightwing will be pleased?"

"I'll say. He's missing out. And he wanted one just like this?"

"Yup, sleek and shiny. So," Gear handed him the helmet perched on the bike. He also held out a package wrapped in brown paper. "Think you can honor this genius with a test run of his innovation?"

Francis took the parcel from him and tore away at the paper, his grin widening. He unfolded the black and red racing jacket and held it up in front of him. He immediately put it on, and marveled at how the fabric seemed to hug all the right places, and leave slack in places where it counted. And, he also figured, it was heat-retardant. He thought ecstatically, Perfect fit! How'd he know?

Something smaller had fallen to the floor. He bent to pick it up and stopped. Taking the objects into his hand, he brushed his fingers over the leather of it. The biking gloves were just what he needed.

He threw another admiring glance up at Gear and said, barely able to hold in his delight, "Thanks. I'm…"

"Speechless?" Gear offered. Francis only nodded. The redhead cocked his head in the Javelin's direction. "We taking that down to Earth?"

Gear nodded. "GL's flying. Once we touch down, we get off and he flies away—there's a bloody rebellion going on in one of the old Soviet-block countries. He, Green Arrow and Flash are going there while we're in Dakota."

"Think we'll find this guy tonight?" he asked, taking the red helmet and tucking it under his arm. Gear sent his gaze out the large windows, his eyes stuck on the breath-taking image of the earth from space. Just looking at it was enough to make him feel at peace. Most of the time, he figured that other races unfamiliar with Earth would take one look at the planet from afar and think 'What a beautiful place—there can't possibly be anything there to mar that beauty'. Unfortunately, they were never right.

Thus resolved, Gear turned towards the Javelin's open bay door. Taking Francis by the arm, he instructed, "Tonight we're going to use our aliases. I'll still be Gear, but you'll go by F-Stop."

"Better make it Hotstreak—no confusion, that way. Hey there," he greeted Green Lantern. The taller man only glared back, in retaliation to the pyro's informal greeting. Francis wondered briefly if Green Lantern had taken lessons from Batman—both of them were extremely anti-social, to the point that it made 'anti-social' look like a mild case of 'introverted'. Green Arrow scared him, a little bit—he wasn't going to deny that. Flash was the only superhero so far that seemed totally okay with him being up there. The others tended to avoid him. Not that Francis was complaining…there were plenty of characters he didn't want to meet anyway, strictly for the sole reason that they would kick his ass before he could say a word.

He and Gear followed the senior members of the League onto the ship. Fra…Hotstreak, you're Hotstreak tonight, he told himself. He felt an odd…feeling. Okay, he was never good with words, no matter how much he picked up, that would never change. But the point was…he had an odd premonition. Something was telling him that something just wasn't right…


Dakota, 'Downtown' 10:35 pm

Gear received a beep on his communicator. For tonight's purposes, he and Hotstreak had borrowed headphones for easy communication. Currently, the redhead was following the super genius on the new motorcycle, zooming down the empty streets like a maverick. Gear answered the transmission from Hotstreak, "Yes?"

"You sure we got the information right? I haven't seen anything from the ground, and this doesn't seem like the place at all."

"I know what you mean," he said, pausing in midair. Hotstreak stopped the bike below him. Without taking off the helmet, the redhead glanced around the dark streets. They were in the 'Downtown'—Dakota's worst area. It was likened to slums, but it was really more like a ghost town. No one wanted to live here—it was even said the entire neighborhood was haunted. None of the gangs went anywhere near it, even the non-superstitious ones.

"Fr—Hotstreak? You don't think we've been duped, do you?"

"Dunno—but something just ain't right about this. I've got a bad feeling that something's gone down while we've been on this wild-goose chase. Have you checked in with Static yet?"

"He won't answer his communicator. I'm getting worried."

"Maybe he's sleeping?" the redhead offered.

"He'd still answer it, regardless."

"Doesn't he have a tracer on him? Wouldn't that work?"

"Negative—he must have taken it off because I can't get his signal anywhere on my GPS. Either he's still in the Watchtower—highly unlikely, knowing him—or he decided he needed a night off…"

"And went patrolling on his own," Hotstreak finished. He tugged at the collar of the racing jacket provided to him, feeling a little hot under the collar, which was odd, considering it was a rather chilly night.

"You alright?" Gear asked, noticing his discomfort.

"I need to let loose some power. There any targets 'round here that no one'll miss?"

"So long as you don't destroy a house, I think you're good."

Hotstreak took off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair, taking off the gloves as well. He propped up the bike and dismounted, walking out into the center of the street. Loose papers flew past him in the wind, and he skirted around broken bottles, standing on the faded double yellow lines. Holding his hands out in front of him, he made two fists and focused his power towards his hands.

They smoldered, then burst into flame. He felt the heat leaving his body, pooling into his hands. Just when they had reached the proper heat, he threw the fireballs into the sky. They exploded into tiny puffs of smoke as Gear landed a few feet away. He gave the pyro a wide arch and watched in fascination. He had never really watched the fiery bang-baby in action—he was always too busy dodging his attacks to really notice just how…enchanting it looked.

The fire had the same effect as a bug-zapper—the intoxicatingly beautiful light and appearance, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. He now understood why Static had looked so drawn in the night Francis was admitted to the hospital. You really can't take your eyes off him, he thought.

Hotstreak threw fire around haphazardly, the flames scorching the already abused pavement. Finally, he allowed himself to be fully enveloped in flames, the fire licking at his body. He threw his head back and relished in the welcome heat, sighing happily, smiling as he felt the rapture of it. He was certain was no drug on earth that could match a high like this.

Finally, the flames dissipated and Gear took a few steps forward. "Feel better?"

Hotstreak inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth in a meditative-like breath. "Much better—I haven't really let loose since I was 18. That felt great."

"Looks kinda scary."

"It is, the first couple of times. But you get used to it," he admitted. He clapped a hand on Gear's shoulder and turned him back around to the bike. "Now, what are we going to do about our missing friend?"

Gear stiffened, and Hotstreak immediately felt bad. Nice choice of words, hotshot, real suave, he scolded himself. "Maybe we should call the Watchtower?" he suggested. "Someone might find him asleep, and tell him to get his ass in gear."

"Gotcha—I'll call Wonder Woman."

Hotstreak grinned wickedly. He almost wished he could be there to see him get whipped by the Amazon. God damn, that would've been hot, he thought with a queer smile. He heard the communicator go off, and he placed the bike helmet over his head and turned off his microphone as Gear answered the incoming message. Both of them were able to hear the transmission.

"Gear, its Superman."

"Hey, what up?" he asked cheerfully enough, though there was still the hint of worry behind his voice.

"I've got bad news."

Hotstreak mouthed a few choice words and all the blood left Gear's face. As he listened to the rest of the Man of Steel's message, he felt he was going to be sick. Once he shut off the transmission, Hotstreak took off the helmet again and stared him in straight in the eyes. "What are we going to do?" he asked, not bothering to mask the worry in his own voice. He in truth felt that his heart had dropped into his stomach.

Gear shook his head. "We have to find him first, but how we're going to do that when we can't even track him…"

"I know where he is."

Gear looked up suddenly and stared at the redhead. Hotstreak's green eyes had a far-off look to them, as if his mind were elsewhere. He did, however, look oddly focused. He snapped out of it and mounted his bike. "Get on," he told him. "We'll get there faster this way. Hold on tight."

Gear followed the request, wrapping his arms protectively around the other man's waist. He leaned his head against the man's back, and felt a reassuring hand on his arm. Even though no words were uttered, Gear felt the hidden strength beneath those hands. He felt the determination in the meta-human's posture as they sped away.

Gear wasn't aware where they were going until he smelled the scent of gasoline and dead fish. Never a nice combination.

The motorcycle came to a stop, and Hotstreak kicked the kick-stand down, turning off the powerful machine as he dismounted. Gear disengaged himself and followed the redhead towards a tall chain link fence. It was oddly dark out—all the streetlights and surrounding buildings were dark. Gear surmised a power outage. Backpack was even picking up energy readings; Static had been there, and not too long ago, either. Hotstreak faltered in his step and Gear noticed.

"What's wrong?"

"This…the Bang."

He understood right away—this was where the Big Bang originally took place. And maybe…Francis had bad memories of that? Well, not too many would be exactly thrilled with the idea of becoming a freak of nature in one night, but at the time, it didn't seem to matter much to F-Stop. Gear remembered not being happy when he found out about his powers: then again, he'd wanted something 'cooler' like super strength or laser vision. Nope, he had to settle with brains—not that he was complaining anymore.

Hotstreak crouched next to the open gate and looked at the shards of…was that ice?

"What's able to do that to this?" the redhead wondered. Gear got a scan of it, and as Backpack processed it, he drew in a short breath. "This was done by a human."

"Huh?"

"There's traces of human DNA—a human froze it, and another blasted the hell out of it."

"Question is, do we know anyone with that kind of power…?"

"Hang on," Gear silenced him. Hotstreak saw the information and figures flit across the blond man's visor like a computer screen. Gear's face was set, then sent him a look. "I'm getting similar readings of this kind of activity near the corner of Milestone and Cowan."

"Milestone Street and Cowan? Wasn't that near…?"

"The Meta-Breed's hide-out," Gear nodded. Hotstreak rubbed his chin as he remembered, "I was only down there a couple times, but I remember it well enough. You think there's more bang babies out there?"

"What I'm more worried about," Gear said, "is whether or not we can trust them. How do we know they're not responsible?"

"We just have to trust them…"

"What's with you?"

"Huh?"

"You've been cryptic like that all night. What's the deal? What are you hiding?"

"I'm not hiding anything," he said a little too quickly. Gear wasn't buying it. "What secret are you keeping from us? From me?"

It certainly looked like the redhead was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He was visibly holding an internal debate of whether to come out with the truth or keep his mouth shut.

"Francis," Gear said, "when you signed up for this, we agreed that this was all about trust—how can I trust you if you're keeping something like this away from me and Static?"

"I…" he paused and took a deep breath, "I kinda—don't take this the wrong way, alright? I…have this…link, I guess you'd call it…between me and Ebon. I already knew he wasn't dead, but I didn't say anything because…well, we both have out reasons."

"Which are…?"

"I can't say—confidentiality. But, I can say this: he's changed. There must be someone close to him that caused him to change for the better. Dunno who, but I guess whoever she is, she's obviously got him whipped."

Gear smirked. He would have liked to see that—an Ebon who answered to someone else for a change, and wouldn't try and usurp power. An Ebon content with being second-in-command—if that was possible.

"I think what it is," Hotstreak continued, trying his best to explain when he really didn't fully understand it himself. "When he and I fused together at the second Bang, you know, we were that big monster?"

Gear nodded in understanding.

"Yeah—I guess…I think we shared telepathic information with each other. When we separated—how we did, I don't think either of us knows—we still had that link. So while I was in prison, I could still catch snatches of what his life was like. I mean…its not words or thoughts…just, feelings. Like, he knows when I'm angry or tired or whatever. And I think this whole mental link also gives him a lot of headaches. Like he doesn't have enough reasons to hate me…"

Things were starting to become clearer. Gear went over the things that had been said over the past few days. 'Ebon's not your man'. 'Just a wild guess…'. 'It has everything to do with knowing when to keep your mouth shut.'

"You realize what this means, right? Now that we know all this stuff?"

"Shh…hang on; Backpack's picking up something in the building. It's a low-definition heat source."

"Someone's got the heat on?"

Gear shook his head, his eyes narrowing in confusion. "That's the weird thing: the building's on electric heating, but all the electricity has been disengaged…" he trailed off and shared a significant glance with the pyro-kinetic. What better place to hide an electric bang-baby than in a place totally devoid of electricity?


Dakota City Docks, Warehouse #8, 11:09 pm

The first thing Static was aware of was the sensation of a jackhammer pounding away at his cranium. The back of his head hurt like hell, and his vision was still largely unfocused. No amount of aspirin is gonna help this, he thought dismally. What he was next aware of he deemed more alarming: he was lying on his back, strapped to a table with thick leather bonds, held tight and secure. His powers were useless against them. As his vision slowly corrected itself to fit the dim lighting, he found even more alarming sights.

Ivan was handcuffed to a vertical metal beam, arms behind his back. The man was struggling frantically like a caged animal, all but foaming at the mouth. It seemed as though he were trying to get to something…

The Static's eyes rested on the two teens. Cold Case was still unconscious, lying on his side on the concrete floor, distressingly still. But Pixie stood…or rather hung…nearby, both her arms tied together to a chain hanging from the ceiling. She was visibly weak, her legs failing to give out from under her. Her face was turned down, studying the floor, her blue eyes holding a catatonic look.

Static was next aware of the movement off to his left side. Someone, impeccably dressed in beige slacks, white shirt and suspenders stepped forward out of the shadows cast by…were those candles?

Yes, the whole place was alight with candles—some scented, some unscented, in varying colors. Hot wax dripped down to the cool floor, steaming slightly upon impact. The warehouse reminded Static of a cathedral—high ceilings, lots of candles, deadly silence…he didn't like it one bit.

Nor did he like the idea that in the mysterious man's hands was a carving knife and a piece of wood. The man appeared to be sharpening it, whistling away contentedly, nonchalantly, as if it were normal for him to hold hostages. Then again, it is normal for him, isn't it?

"I'm glad to see you are awake," the man said, stepping into the warm light of the candles. He must have flipped on a switch, because a bright white light shone down in a wide circle around the captured hero. I know I'm usually in the spotlight, but this is ridiculous.

"I didn't want you to miss the good times…" the man continued, in a tone that belied the ferocity and overall dementia in him.

"What are you planning, Miles?"

The man stopped suddenly, turning rigid. He chuckled low in his throat. "Really, was I that obvious? Granted, I was hoping I'd be the next BTK killer and go for a good thirty years before anyone found out, but I suppose this works all the same."

"You're too messy," Static said, trying to keep his resolve. He wasn't afraid to admit he was scared. Terrified, even; he knew what he was dealing with…a madman. This man was insane; some would go so far as to say evil.

Well, maybe not true—many had said that Ebon was evil, but look at Ivan now. The only difference between the two men was that Ivan wasn't insane.

Miles Fisher stepped up to the gurney, looking Static right in the eye. The hero suppressed a shudder. Those eyes were horrifying—there was a look of madness in them that defied all description. Miles hadn't gone off the deep end—he was drowning in it.

The white man with sandy colored hair grinned. On a normal person, that grin would have appeared friendly. Combine that grin with the eyes of a psychopath, and it makes Hannibal Lector look like Mr. Rogers.

Fisher was downright scary.

The killer kept scraping away at the wood, forming a sharp point at one end. Wood shavings fell onto Static's chest, and though his heat beat like crazy, he was still intrigued. "What exactly is that for?"

"You'll see." Static didn't like that tone at all. Miles strode over to Ivan, who stopped tugging at his bonds long enough to send a defiant glare at the killer. Miles chuckled, "Still fighting even after you know you've lost? Impressive," he slapped the darker man sharply, the crack of the hand against Ivan's cheekbone echoing throughout the vast house. "Foolish, but impressive."

He raised the sharpened wood stake and positioned it over Ivan's wildly beating heart. "You know, Ebon, you remind me of a vampire, do you know that? Refusing the light of day, walking the streets at night, looking for people to prey off of…even rising from your own grave. So I wonder…" he said with a wicked grin. "If it would be fitting to kill you in the same way? How does that sound?"

Ivan responded by spitting in his face. He received another hard slap, yet still glared back, the gaze steady and defiant as ever. Miles tired of this quickly, setting his sights instead on the struggling girl not too far away.

"Christina, it's been so long," he said, opening his arms wide, expecting a hug. Pixie scooted as far away from him as her bonds would allow, sending him a glare of her own, though her eyes reflected the fear behind them. Static pushed up against his bonds, his natural protective instinct kicking in. Apparently Ivan was having similar issues.

"Don't you dare touch her, Fisher!" he screamed at him. Ivan was again, much like a tiger—piss him off enough, and you just might get mauled… Miles paid no attention, reaching his hand out of touch Pixie's cheek.

"You are so beautiful, Christina," he gasped. "So much like your sister…" his tone and mood took a dangerous tone. "I wonder…just how much you have in common with her? Would you break hearts as idly as she did? Well, dearest sister-in-law, would you? ARGHHH!"

Cold Case had just regained consciousness, and had bitten into Miles' ankle, drawing blood. The crimson life force stained the ankle of the beige slacks, and Miles, obviously offended, roughly kicked the boy in the stomach. Cold Case grunted and struggled to breath.

"STOP!" Pixie screamed. "DON'T DO THAT! STOP IT!" Miles rounded on her and struck her sharply, gaining a cry of shock from her. No one had ever struck her before, and it was shock that silenced her rather than the pain.

Static knew without looking that Ivan was going crazy, succumbing to a maddening rage. He really is protective of those kids, Static thought. He tried using some of his powers, but was surprised to find the he couldn't even garner so much as a spark. What the hell…?

Then he saw them. On his wrists was a pair of identical bracelets… Just like the ones we used on Hotstreak. How did he get his hands on these? As a matter of fact, he thought, why did he even take us hostage? What does he have to gain?

Miles was by his side again, grinning wolfishly. He took out a knife from a sheath at his belt, a cruelly curved, jagged knife. Static's heart jumped up to his throat. He knew what that knife was used for! The pale man clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

"Static, Static, Static…you, sir, have been a very unfaithful lover." Ivan sent Static an odd look, questioning. Static refused to look at him, his dark eyes focused on the blade being held at his throat. Miles, relishing in the fear he was causing the hero, started reciting in a sing-song voice, "For 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…" he bent down and lightly kissed the hero's forehead. Straightening up, he positioned the knife directly over the hero's palpitating heart, then raised it high over his head to drive it into its intended target, poised and ready. "…the brave man with a sword."

With an agonized cry, Miles dropped the knife and it fell point first into the gurney…right next to Static's head. Miles' hand was severely burned, and an explosion of glass from the high windows above them raised the sudden awareness of what was going on.

Gear flew through the open window and threw a zap cap at the killer, the weapon working to full capacity. As Miles began to fall to the floor, he was caught by the lapels and faced a hand full of fire. When the sandy-haired man looked up even further, he could have sworn he was looking into the eyes of a demon. Though ordinarily, this particular demon would have fried his sorry ass a long time ago.

Hotstreak's grimace of rage distorted his handsome features, wisps of longish red hair falling into his face as he gritted out, "Make one stupid move, I'll fry you so bad, you'll be begging for a quick death!"

"Amusing…quite amusing," Miles laughed. "To think you of all people have the right to talk to me that way? You're the one who caused all this to happen—and you know that, don't you?"

"I didn't have anything to do with this…" the redhead glared back. Gear landed just a few feet away and rushed over to aid Static. The bound hero shook his head and sent a silent message to Gear with his eyes. Get Ivan and the kids out of here first—then go call for help. This guy's nuts! We need all the help we can get.

The look he sent the other hero must have registered, and Gear nodded once, running off to untie Cold Case and Pixie. The short blonde girl rubbed her sore wrists, but before she could rush over to lay out her own retribution on her brother-in-law, Gear and Cold Case held her back. As much as she struggled, she gave up after gear had transferred her to Cold Case's arms. The super genius rushed over to Ivan, taking out a long pick and picking the lock of the handcuffs in a nanosecond. The ex-bang baby rubbed his wrists, grabbed Pixie and Cold Case and ran for the exit, sending Static one last hopeful glance. The man stopped long enough to take something out of one of the many vest pockets. One fluid sweeping motion, quick as the blink of an eye, and the object was safely back in its place. "Take care of this guy," Ivan whispered, then ran, dragging the kids along with him.

Static, perplexed as to what had just happened, turned his attention back to the matter at hand. Hotstreak still had Miles in his clutches, the flames in his hands growing hotter as his temper shortened ever more.

Miles shrugged at the meta-human, nonchalant even though he was practically staring death in the face. "The others that were…expendable…certainly were not your fault. But the fact that your lover's life is in my hands is all your doing…"

"What are you talking about?" he asked, his already short fuse dissipating rapidly, the flames in his hand leaping up a few feet. Miles only gave him a knowing look.

"Come now, Francis—did you really expect your flirting wouldn't have its repercussions? Playing with hearts like that is dangerous…"

It all happened too fast. Hotstreak screamed as a powerful volt of electricity ran through his body. The shock caused his grip to lessen, and the zap cap came undone. Miles stood erect, slipping a taser into his pocket. "…And I would know that personally."

Hotstreak fell back on his rump and scrambled backwards, missing the next of Miles' attacks. The older man had drawn out identical long knives and started slashing at the meta-human. The redhead yelled over to Static, "What the hell happened?"

"How should I know!" he yelled back, his head still throbbing painfully. "I only woke up just a few minutes ago!" He turned his head and saw to his immense relief that Gear had made short work of setting the other hostages free. He could hear a distant argument—no doubt between the genius and Ivan—about the next course of action. Call for back-up, he pleaded. Just do it.

Hotstreak was still dodging Miles' attacks, but decided early on that he'd try to make sense of the situation.

"So you're Miles Fisher…The Dakota Destroyer…How's that working out for you?" A knife stabbed the wall next to his head. Ducking quickly, he avoided the next one that came at his head. "Mind me asking how you got a hold of those lead bracelets?"

"It's easy once you know the basics…but you would have known that already, wouldn't you, Francis?"

"How do you know me?" he asked, ducking behind a vertical beam. He paused to catch his breath and strained his ears to hear what the killer had to say.

"I know all there is to know about you…" he answered cryptically. He stalked his quarry like a lion, practically licking his chops at the thought of easy conquest and the end of the hunt. "I've known you since that first day at the ward…"

Suddenly it was like a light switch had flipped on in his brain. Hotstreak knew who this man was. "You're Dr. Fisher…" he gasped.

"Oh, very good," his silky voice sounded right next to his ear. Miles caught him around the throat from the back and held on firmly, displaying his new-found toys. The knife held at his neck glistened in the candlelight…Candlelight!

Hotstreak smirked and laughed. Miles was not amused. "May I ask what is so funny?"

"For some guy who claims to know me, you have no clue." Hotstreak held out his hand to the closest candle and waited. Concentrating, he felt the inviting warmth of the energy seeping into his body. One by one, the tiny flames scattered all over the warehouse went out. A deathly silence stole over the whole place.

Miles still had Hotstreak by the throat, but yelped in surprise when the fiery meta-human suddenly erupted into a bright flame, then receded the fire just as quickly. The bright light had blinded him, and in the darkness, Miles saw multi-colored spots as his eyes adjusted. In his shock, the killer had let go of his quarry, and now looked about frantically. The darkness was overwhelming and blinding in and of itself.

When miles felt the hand close around his neck from behind, the killer stiffened. He could feel the smirk on the other man's face. "Boo."


Hawkins Residence, 11:15 pm

Whoever said buying in bulk was cheaper must have never ordered fifteen pizzas at 10 o' clock at night to feed 50-odd teenage refugees. Robert hadn't seen so many teenagers in one tiny place before. Close to twenty five of them huddled in his living room, most on the floor, the younger ones sleeping on the large sofa. A few stood by the windows, looking out into the streets warily. Poor kids, Robert thought, they had to grow up too fast. He picked up the remains of the ten pizzas he had ordered for them, stooping to pick up paper plates and cups. As he bent down to get the pizza boxes, he found them levitating over his head.

Turning to look behind him, he saw a twelve-year-old girl with short black hair holding her right hand aloft, her eyes glowing a soft shade of lavender. The pizza boxes, paper plates and cups all levitated over to the trash bag at the girl's feet. Using the same telekinetic powers, the black trash bag tied itself up and was positioned next to the front door for the next garbage collection day.

The little girl smiled shyly then retreated into the kitchen. Robert, curious, followed her in, and found her at the table, holding onto Serendipity. Serendipity had helped herself to some tea, and sat at the table, her arms wrapped around the little girl lovingly. The blind seer smiled as Robert entered.

"These children are grateful—we are all grateful for your generosity. If more men like you existed, none of them would be living the way they are," she said sadly. Robert sat across from her, noticing the mug of fresh coffee sitting in front of him. Serendipity had that knowing smile on her face. Well I'll be… Robert took the mug in hand and asked,

"Why are all these kids misplaced? Where are their parents?"

"A fair majority were once gang members, but there were also those who developed their powers late, and their parents threw them out to avoid the shame of having a 'freak' living under their roof. In Ashley's case here," she said, indicating the girl, "she was an orphan. Most of the younger ones are either orphans or were saved from foster care."

"Saved?"

Serendipity's head turned to face him, her normally calm face contorted in a look of extreme dislike. "The foster care system is flawed—these children deserve a decent upbringing. What they are given is much worse than you can imagine."

"Don't they do background checks of the families?"

"Not always," she answered softly, cryptic as ever. She stroked Ashley's soft black hair humming softly. Robert mulled over the conversation, his eyes watching the steam rising from the coffee. Taking a sip, he said, "I can't imagine a parent doing that to their children. Throwing them out for something they can't help being? It's ludicrous! It would be like me throwing out my own son just because he's…"

"Static Shock? Don't worry, Robert—I will tell no one. I am bound to honor the secret just as much as you are. I am bound to keep the secret of these children, as well keeping them safe, even if it kills me."

She sighed and continued, "The system is against our kind. Just because we look different, act different, and have our different abilities, everyone hates us. I agree with you—it is ludicrous. These people act in the same way white men have acted against minorities for generations. No one is better than their fellow man—we are all the same. We all see the same sun, same moon, same stars; we all share this world, we are all earthlings, all of us in this country are Americans. Why differentiate?"

"Absolutely, I completely understand." Another sip and he wondered aloud, "Have you ever thought of appealing to someone? Perhaps the Justice League?"

She laughed. "The League! Why, they would turn us out faster than your governments. I am telling you, the world is against people like us—there is nothing to be done."

"That's where you're wrong," he said sternly. Serendipity was taken aback by the conviction in his tone. Using the same tone he had practiced with his own children, he looked straight at her, saying, "I know plenty of people who would help you—I work with all of them."

"I admire your vote of confidence, Robert," she said, inclining her head in reverence, "But you are just one man—I am just one woman. No one, even in this day and age, takes women seriously."

"They will now," a southern-accented male voice said from the doorway. A smart-looking sandy-haired Louisiana boy held up a tape recorder and frowned. "We've been mistreated, all o' us. An' with this 'ere evidence, there ain't no way they can say no to helpin' us."

He replayed the whole tape, and Robert and Serendipity's eyes widened in horror. They knew that voice, they knew that name. The voice was unmistakably that of Miles Fisher.


Dakota City Docks, Warehouse #8, 11:16 pm

Gear had remembered that fighting Ebon was no piece of cake. But even without his old powers, a struggling Ivan was nothing to shake a stick at. The taller older man yanked his arm out of Gear's grasp and hissed, "We can't just leave them in there! We have to do something!"

"Let me at him," Pixie growled, the pinkish light illuminating her clenched fists. Cold Case paced the area outside the chain-link fence impatiently, itching to get back inside.

"C'mon, man! Look, it's six against one! We can win this!"

"No, we can't," Gear said. "Here let me show you. Backpack, pull up any records of Dr. Miles C. Fisher." The little robot crawled down his master's back and perched itself on the fence. A screen flipped up, displaying a light blue-green screen with the word 'Searching' outlined in white. Finally, they found ten matches. Gear pressed against the touch-tone screen at one link and it opened a file to a newspaper article from six years ago.

Ivan drew in a sharp breath. "You're kidding…"

"What?" Pixie said, using her wings to hoist herself up for a better look. "What about Miles?"

Gear explained, "Miles Fisher's real job was working for Alva Corp. About eight years ago, after helping to reanimate Alva Jr. he joined up with Dr. Todd in creating a cure for the Big Bang. Problem was, Fisher was too fascinated with the idea of bang babies that he started developing side experiments. Todd found out about it, and ordered it to be terminated. At the time, Fisher was using lab rats. Once he got in trouble, he went to Alva Corp and started using humans as his test subjects. He was only there for three months before the cops found out about this…"

"Hotstreak looked like he knew him. How?"

"I…don't know yet. Hang on, let me look." He searched a little bit longer, but the seconds it took felt like hours for the other three. Finally, Gear gasped. "Holy shit…"

"What? What!" Ivan pressed. Gear locked gazes with him, the horror evident in his own eyes. "You said your leader was a lady named Natasha?"

"Yeah? So?"

"Look," he pointed at a newspaper photo on the screen. Ivan looked closer, scrutinizing. Then he too, gasped. There in the photo was a scene of a police investigation of Fisher's lab, and in the picture was Serendipity, held inside a glass sphere, wires running all over her body. And when Ivan looked closer, he saw Hotstreak off to the side.

"This picture was taken shortly before Hotstreak was arrested and put away for his twenty-year sentence. After getting out, I think he was…"

"Lashing out," Cold Case nodded. "Getting back at The Man for what they did."

Ivan shook his head wearily. "Teenagers and their love for conspiracy…"

"Don't forget revolution," Pixie added. "Speaking of which…when are we going back in there?"

Gear called Backpack back to him. Once the robot was in place, the hero handed Pixie a shock vox. "Call the cops. We can't bring him down all alone. He knows how to fight meta-humans. Ivan is the only one who might have a chance—even then, you can't fight single-handedly against a psychopath."

"Madmen are too strong," Ivan agreed. "Pix, call the cops. Ice-man, you stick with Gizmo here."

"That's Gear."

"Whatever. I'm checking the perimeter—every building has a weak spot. There has to be a way to get in without too much…"

There was a sudden explosion from the warehouse, flames pouring out of the windows, shattering the glass. The fire shot out through the open windows wildly. Even from their position, the four of them could feel the heat of the inferno. Gear's heart stopped for a second. Virgil and Francis were still in there! He felt like he was going to be sick.

Ivan swallowed hard and finished his statement, "…trouble."


A/N: Again, another cliffhanger. I'm sorry guys, but I go by the writer's numbah one rule: always give them enough to keep them wanting more. Since you all asked so nicely, I put this all together within two days. Aren't you all lucky? Remember to R/R.