Title: While You Were Gone
Author: Xilvrin
Rating: pg-13
Pairing: None for this chapter (unless you count Static looking at girls)
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from Static Shock or DC comics, they belong to their specific creators/DC/Warner Bros. I make no profit, this is only fanfic for fun.

Chapter 3

1 MONTH SINCE STATIC WENT MISSING

A heavy downpour revealed an object that had been shallowly buried in the mud of a ditch on the side of the road just outside of Dakota's city limits. The yellow and black stripes, in the style of caution tape, gave it away. Gear fished out the Shock Vox. He now knew why it had no signal. A gash in the middle rendered it useless… the plastic bubbled up, the metal melted, the circuits fried.

Back at 'The Abandoned Gas Station of Solitude', where the moniker had taken on a literal meaning these days without the chatter of his best friend, he ran the Shock Vox through a full C.S.I. analysis. He'd catalogued each bang-bay's power type, level, and the kind of damage they usually caused. There was no exact match. The shape of the indentation was that of an axe, but axes don't melt what they cleave. Shiv, perhaps? He could form a variety of weapons. But no, this wasn't his energy signature. This was RADIOACTIVE.

"What kind of trouble did you get yourself into, Bro?"

There were search parties with blood hounds through fields and forests, divers through the lake and local rivers, but no body was found. Whomever Static had been fighting, he followed or had been kidnapped by them.

1 MONTH AGO…

Virgil Hawkins, a.k.a. 'Static Shock', was having a delightful day, as days went. Granted, it was only 6 AM. He was out on an early morning patrol before school. Not that there were many felonies at this hour, mostly traffic jams if anything, it was really just an excuse to fly up against the pastel colors of the dawn. He enjoyed the feeling of the breeze through his hair. It made his coat blow out behind him, enough like a cape to suit his tastes. The sun of the new day sparkled off the glass of the skyscrapers and warmed his dark skin.

Life was good.

He stopped to rest on the gigantic minute hand of the city's tallest clock tower. It was his and Gear's favorite break spot. It offered excellent views of the city day or night.

"No major crisis*. The people go about their business. You wouldn't know it to look at it that this was the same city that had those riot almost a decade ago. Yep, a job well done if I say so myself." And he did say so, smugly.

A white card stuck in the spoke caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He scooted down the minute hand and plucked it out. It was addressed to HIM.

"An invitation from the Titans?" Batman did say I'd meet them some day. No invite for Gear, though… hrmmm…" He pondered this "Well, no harm checking it out, right? Could say 'hi', shake a few hands, take a tour. Networking." He nodded to himself. "Man, I KNOW how he's gonna react. I know he'll think it's a raw deal, but maybe he's better off stayin' here…" More than half of their quarrels were over him telling his friend to stay put. "I'm not telling him not to fly too high because or to watch out because I don't think he has the ability, it's because I don't want him to get hurt." But whenever he tried to explain that, the words never came out right and Richie/Gear would take offense. "He should just KNOW that by now… I don't take losing people I care about very well…"

He stuffed the card into his pocket.

"No way I can tell him. If his got lost in the mail, I can always get a hold of him. If not… well, I won't be gone long."

THAT NIGHT

Storm clouds gathered overhead. That should have been his first sign. Water was his kryptonite. It wasn't information he shared. The pitter-patter of rain hit his hood. Gear had weather-proofed the costume as much as allowed with in confines of current innovations. Static was usually an optimist and was more concerned that he wouldn't be able to show off and prove to them that he was indeed STATIC, rather than thinking he'd need protection.

In the middle of an empty field was a sight he couldn't possibly miss: a blonde girl with her hair back in a ponytail, a shiny pink bathingsuit of a costume, knee-high boots to match, and the kind of curves you only saw on women on the cover of a men's magazine. She waved to him, the lower half of both arms engulfed in jumbo glowing pink fistigons. He flew closer and jumped off his disc, folding it neatly into a triangle and putting it in his pocket.

"Heyyy…" he should have been focused on her eyes, which were hidden behind the kind of mask robin wore only in that same hot pink. His eyes wandered to the distinct lack of cloth in the cleavage area.

"Hey yourself." Oooh, he LIKED her.

"So, uh, you're a Titan?" His tongue nearly forgot how to talk. Damn hormones.

"Sure am. Disruptor." She hit him with an energy discharge from her fistigons. "A TERROR TITAN!"

He was knocked backwards. "Whu…?"

The silhouettes of the three other Terror Titans strolled out of a lime-green shimmer in the air behind her. There was a big body-builder of a guy in mostly dark blue with gold embellishments including gold sunglasses and lightning bolt insignias. 'Copyright infringement,' Static thought, trying to get to his feet. He was tripped by the reptilian tail of a lithe man in a cobra costume.

He still didn't feel as threatened as he should have been at that point. He was more embarrassed than anything. 'Man, Rich'll never let me hear the end of this. Tricked by my own ego and a pair of boobs, jumped by a bunch of freaks.' He reached for the Shock Vox dangling from his belt loop to radio for backup. 4 on 1 wasn't fair odds. 4 on 2 wouldn't be much better, but it was an improvement.

Before he could say a word to his partner, the last Terror Titan stepped over him. The fourth member was the most intimidating. Not the outfit so much…( a mismatch of brown army boots, navy Capri pants with a chunky rivet studded leather belt and a tight midriff bearing jacket), it was more the metal executioner mask clamped to her face with only two holes for her eyes and a slit for her mouth. She swung down a glowing blue atomic axe, effectively destroying his communicator.

He stared up her expressionless visage for a second that felt more like hours before it occurred to him, 'Metal! I can flip her on her head!' Current emitted from his fingers began to bend her over against her will.

Her three teammates proceeded to kick the ever-living crap out of him. You can't expect baddies NOT to fight dirty.

AN UNDETERMINED TIME, AN UNDETERMINED PLACE

Static woke up with a splitting headache.

"FREEDOM IS SLAVERY. COMPASSION IS CRUELTY. EVERYTHING IS DARK SIDE. FREEDOM IS SLAVERY. COMPASSION IS CRUELTY. EVERYTHING IS DARK SIDE. FREEDOM IS SLAVERY. COMPASSION IS CRUELTY. EVERYTHING IS DARK SIDE. FREEDOM IS SLAVERY. COMPASSION IS CRUELTY. EVERYTHING IS DARK SIDE." The three phrases were on an endless loop. He couldn't pinpoint the location of the speakers. The sound came from all directions.

One stone wall of the cell (he quickly realized it WAS a cell) was plastered with TVs. Normally he would have found that cool (if they were perhaps broadcasting The Superbowl). These TVs projected images of war, violence, faces of men and women whose identities were a mystery to him, and psychedelic nightmares (such as distorted children's characters and seizure-inducing flashing patterns).

"What, are you trying to CLOCKWORK-ORANGE me?! Ain't gonna work!" he shouted over the mantras of his captors. Though sore and bruised, he got up and paced every inch of the square room. He tested every crack, looking for a sign of weakness. There didn't seem to be one. The TVs weren't hooked into anything. The door, a heavy STEEL door, should be the obvious choice. There was some force-field around it- magic or technological- he couldn't be sure.

A fat woman appeared on one of the screens (with an uncanny resemblance to a lunch lady from his old elementary school) dressed as a sad attempt at gangsta (a grey hoodie, sideways cap, and gaudy medallion on a chain) announcing, "Greetings from Granny Goodness. My child, won't you fight for me? Won't you show granny your loyalty? Make the ultimate sacrifice…"

He cocked one eyebrow. "Yeah, I don't THINK so."

The TVs he could destroy with his power and did. The glass blew and shattered outwards with a dazzling waterfall of sparks. The husks of the machines smoked… then nothing. Silence.

Deafening silence and darkness.

He flicked his powers on and off. Played a riveting set of tic-tac-toe with and against himself (and won and lost).

Time passed. It was hard to tell how much time.

This was the worst of prisons. No food, no water… no bed, NO BATHROOM.

No idea where he was…. Or why… or who did this to him…

He'd sit, he's think too much, far too much. He'd get up, pace, run, bang on the door, yell…

"WHO ARE YOU?! LET ME OUT! YOU CAN'T KEEP ME HERE!"

Then sit back down again.

After who-knows-how-long, there were two men's voices outside the door. Through a tiny window in the door, he could see them. One (the boss) was a blad headed large and imposing African-American in fine suit. The other was a scrawny pasty fellow with shoulder length blonde hair in a tan trenchcoat. The second man wore round glasses with a second and minute hand painted on the lenses in a permanent 3 o'clock.

"Feisty, isn't he?" grinned the skinny one.

"Maybe TOO defiant… Clock King, are you sure you get him under control?" The boss folded his hands behind his back.

"Most certainly. He'll be a fine addition to your club."

AFTER ANOTHER UNKNOWN STRETCH OF TIME

When he woke up again, fireballs were being hurled at his head.

'Hotstreak' was his immediate instinct. He lashed out with an arc of electricity.

A distinctly non-male scream reached his ears. 'What poor girl did he take hostage now?!' His vision was still fuzzy. The scene slowly came into focus.

Hotstreak was nowhere in sight. He was in an arena… the kind bullfights were held in, with stadium seating in an oval and a dirt stage dotted with empty oil barrels. Yet, they were also underground. It was a packed house. Some of the crowd was cheering. Others were booing.

He was hovering over the girl, the one who screamed. She was twitching, sprawled out on the dirt, but alive. She'd been a girl with boyish short hair, street clothes, no one he recognized…

A sports commentator announced, "STATIC VS. FEVER. FEVER IS DOWN FOR THE COUNT. STATIC WINS."

"Wait… I did this… what the..." It had to be a nightmare, it had to be.

The audience heckled him. "Go for the kill!" "FINISH HER!"

Fever, whoever she was, couldn't be the bad guy here. Even if she was, murder was NOT his thing. He went to her side to protect her from the angry mob.

The audience turned their attention to a portly old man in a toga. "What will chairman Vundabaar decide? Will it be Mercy? Or Death?" The set-up was like the Roman coliseum of old, with teenaged heroes and sidekicks instead of gladiators and lions. Chairman Vundabaar gave the thumbs-up. The contestants' lives were spared- FOR NOW.

Fever was mumbling something. Static knelt down to hear.

"Must sacrifice to show love... for Granny…"

At that moment, both fighters were shot with tranquilizer darts and subdued.

Author's note 3: I guess it will take more than one chapter to cover 'Terror Titans'. Actually, the events here were more connected to "Teen Titans: On the Clock" graphic novel. In it, KidDevil and MissMartian are captured by the Terror Titans and meet Fever, who says she's not sure how long she's been there, but vaguely remembers being beaten in the ring by someone with electrical powers. Static himself doesn't appear in person until the middle of TerrorTitans, he's only allusioned to.

*= the irony of the "no major crisis" line is that at the time this story starts, an event called "Final Crisis" was going on in DC comics. I tried reading it and didn't understand a bloody thing about it. So I'm not having it affect the story.

To be continued in chapter 4.