Title: While You Were Gone
Author: Xilvrin
Rating: R for this chapter for VIOLENCE and DARK THEMES, a few semi-censored swears
Pairing: Richie misses Virgil. Virgil misses Richie too, but not in the same way.
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 4

2 MONTHS SINCE STATIC WENT MISSING

Gear, 20 feet in the air to the glassy side of a skyscraper, dodged another flare. 'Why couldn't he have gone into exile like Ebon, the ungrateful…!'

"WHERE'S YOUR BOYFRIEND, ROLLERBOY?" Hotstreak may not be an Einstein, but he sure knew how to push all the right (wrong) buttons. A new and improved zap trap was lobbed at him at 90 miles per hour, expanding into cables which bound him from head to toe.

Richie had gone from a scrawny nerd to having arms worthy of a World Series MVP in the matter of a few short years. All that working out had been to keep up with Static and to be strong enough –good enough- to stand on his own. He never tried out for baseball, partly because it would draw too much attention to him (better to keep up the secret identity of puny geek) and partly because it would make his father TOO happy to see his son have a sudden interest in sports beyond casually shooting hoops with Virgil at the community center.

Gear zipped down the side of the building as quick as he'd thrown the device. He came to a skidding stop then straddled the well-muscled redhead. Behind the green visor of his helmet, there was a mischievous glint in his eye. "Boyfriend's out of town, but you'll do. The body's not bad. Can't say I'm fond of your face, or getting singed by those fire-fists of yours. A paper bag and some oven mitts should fix that."

Hotstreak's mouth hung agape. He was thoroughly horrified. "F*** you… you… YOU PERVERT!"

"Is that a threat or a promise?" Gear cackled evilly.

"That's NOT how we interrogate the suspects," a female voice scolded from above. She-bang swung down from a flagpole, landing as perfectly as an Olympic gymnast beside the two young men on the sidewalk.

"I was only kidding," Gear got up to face her, dusting off his knees. "Besides, you threw him out of his pants once. Hypocrite."

"Into a fountain… to extinguish the flames… and for comedy," she countered.

"It was funny to me."

"I heard," she shot him a disapproving look.

"What?"

"We need to talk."

They made a call to police for pick-up (of the incapacitated Hotstreak) then found a nice flat rooftop to sit on and have a private chat. They watched the clouds roll by for an awkward silence for several minutes.

"A bunny," he gazed upwards.

"A BUNNY ?"

"And that's the Titanic," he pointed

"You really have lost it."

"You never found shapes in the clouds when you were a kid?"

"My parents were scientists that made me in a lab then stole me away from it. I didn't get to play the games other kids did."

"Oh... right. Yeah."

More awkward silence.

"You miss him," She-bang accused. "You haven't been yourself. The longer he's gone, the weirder you get. I'm worried about you."

"You don't know this, but I had a persona before this. 'Push'. It was only temporary... the power wore off. I told Static he could retire; I was the new Hero in town. Now, years later, my powers are permanent and I have Dakota all to myself. If I need help, I can ask you on your free-time. Who needs him? He was holding me back."

"Whoo," she waved her hand in front of her nose, "I can smell the bullsh** from here. Layin' it on thick."

He turned to glare at her. She was right.

"You might have to accept that fact he left...or could be dead."

"No. Never."

"OK. What would you do if he came back tomorrow? Honestly."

"Honestly? I wouldn't know whether to EMBRACE him or PUNCH him. Happy to see him again... but peeved he up and abandoned me."

"Kiss him then slap him." She winked, her last bit of advice before she bounced off over buildings.

MEANWHILE, AT THE DARK SIDE CLUB

Fading in and out of consciousness for the past two months, Static nonetheless had come to learn a bit more about his predicament. He was at a place called "The Dark Side Club" that was originally run by Boss Darkside, the one he had seen talking to Clock King. Boss Darkside was dead now, though how or when this happened, he wasn't sure. The club was now run by a committee, including Chairman Vundabaar: the one who performed a Caesar act in the arena giving the thumbs up or down, Desaad: a sleazy used-car-salesman looking guy with slicked back hair and a cheap suit, Steppenwulf (no relation to the band): a thin man with a goatee, a nameless bald black woman with a blindfold style eye mask who wore a catsuit, and Bernadeth: a woman scientist who's looks and mannerisms reminded him of Agent Skully from the X-files.

Their aim was to become "Dark Gods". The details of this plan he was unclear on. It somehow involved the arena, gathering as many young metahumans as they could, drugging them up, hypnotizing them, and having them fight eachother, sometimes to the death. It could be that as villains, this removed the future generation of heroes that would stand in their way. Or maybe their souls or bodies were being sacrificed for some reason. What was clear that the one being paid to do the gathering was Clock King. He put together the 'Terror Titans' team and they in turn would ambush whichever teen in the country he pointed them towards.

That's right, in addition to being a strange cult this was also a money-making operation. The idly wealthy, villains, and other morally bankrupt would pay an entrance fee and proceed to bet on the contestants. The more brutal the match, the happier they were. They even went so far as to sell the costumes of those that died during a fight as souvenirs.

Kids weren't the only ones who died during matches. Granny Goodness, the one originally in charge of programming was also slain. Bernadeth (the woman scientist who looked like Scully) was the one who took over for her. He knew from whispers from those who passed by his cell door. An "uncontrollable metahuman" was responsible, it happened in the ring, and for all he knew it could have been him.

Static was (emphasis: WAS) the champion. To be more precise, Static's body under the programming to pummel whatever was put in front of him after a trigger word was whispered in his ear WAS the champion. He drew the biggest crowds, inspired the biggest bets, and generated the biggest buzz. No one defeated him in a brawl.

Their brainwashing worked well… TOO WELL. His electrical powers had been an asset to him, burning through any past attempts to gas or drug him. So they Darkside Club had to ramp up the doses and subliminal suggestions and unleashed all of that mad fury into one spot.

"Knock 'em dead, champ," one of the hired goon slapped him on the back as he was escorted up the stairs from the lower levels into the arena. That was a major mistake. 'Em is slang for THEM (plural), which meant he had multiple targets.

His intended opponent was Hardrock whose body was exactly as the name implies- a hulking beast made of solid rock. Rocky's only vulnerable spots were the mouth and the eyes. He shot off shards of stone at Static but Static swooped to the side, avoiding every one. Hardrock was a minor, yet annoying, distraction.

A useful set of props were on the otherwise barren playing field. Static used them to his advantage. *CLANG! Grunt, stumble.* *CLANG! Grunt, stumble.* *CLANG!* Grunt, stumble. CLANG!* Even the mightiest of warriors can only take so many empty oil barrels to the face. With Hardrock dizzy, he returned to his main objective.

Around himself, Static formed an electric sphere. A BZZZZT sound filled his ears, and soon the whole space. All equipment went haywire, the announcer's voice distorted. Around and around, tendrils of charged air swirled, glowing brighter by the second. Soon, all that was visible of him was a crackling ball of lightning. The spectators stared upwards in awe and anticipation. With a snap, the circle burst outward. SHA-POW. The crowd was caught in the wave…ELECTROCUTED. The weaker suffered heart attacks. Many did not recover.

Should he regret it or not? He wasn't in his right mind. It was a feeling not a premeditated plan, a severe all-encompassing NEED to obliterate. And it's not like they were good people… they took joy out of watching live-action snuff without remorse. They deserved it. Or was that the drugs talking?

Hardrock stopped him, a bit too late, hitting him in back of the head with a rock. Static swayed, falling to the ground like a leaf in autumn.

They shot enough tranquilizers into him to keep an elephant slumbering for a week, dragged him off the field, and shut him in the cell without any plans to use him again in the near future.

He was so lonely, so confused, so crushed.

Virgil wanted to see the familiar face of his friend, see him look in the window of the door and free him, just like the time Richie had taken his newly invented rocket skates for a test run to rescue him from Ebon. HELP ME. At the same time, he was relieved Richie wasn't here. Madelyn and Brainiac invoked enough trauma. I don't think he could take mind control a third time. If I was forced to fight him, hurt him, KILL him… I couldn't deal. Could. Not. Deal.

Be safe, Rich.

He wondered if they would even want Richie. Word was that Robin was rejected. The Darkside Club coveted metahumans with physical manifestations of their powers… quick thinkers and handy gadgets wouldn't do.

There had been only one capture who had escaped: Miss Martian. He didn't know much about her other than that she had green skin and was affiliated with the Teen Titans. She had taken one other one with her. She'd left with the promise to return and free the rest. He prayed that she would return WITH REINFORCEMENTS. He prayed every night.

Not that he could tell night from day where he was, in this cell. It was all the same. They'd provided him with a bed which he rarely moved from. They'd kept him virtually comatose since THE INCIDIENT. Another TV was put in the cell. On mute. In the brief moments when he wasn't out cold, he could catch a broadcast of a match. One night (or day)'s would change the way the Dark Side club was run.

Fever VS. Ravager. Fever was still in the same clothes she wore back when he fought her (a tight yellow belly shirt, a pair or cargo pants, sneakers, and red gloves)… they all were in the same clothes since their arrival. They weren't granted the luxury of a bath, adding to the misery of their incarceration. Ravager was someone he hadn't seen compete before, thought the colors of her costume were vaguely familiar. Orange boots and gloves with oversized soft cloth cuffs, a shiny blue bodysuit with patches of metal scaling (much like a knight would wear between their armor only in a literal fish scale pattern), and a do-rag that covered everything above her nose that was half dark blue and orange with only a single white lens for the eye on the orange side. Her straight white hair stuck out from under the rag and spilled down to her back, yet she was visibly NOT an old woman. She looked to be in excellent shape. She wielded a long sword in each hand.

The mask and boots stood out the most… where had he seen that style…? Then it dawned on him: Deathstroke. He'd read all about Deathstroke, aka Slade Wilson, infamous assassin for hire and long time enemy of the Teen Titans. Was he involved in this Terror Titan business? He had formed alternates to the Titans before with villainous teens. What relation was Ravager to him? Did this make her a villain or a hero?

Only heroes were put in the ring, so she had to be a hero.

Fever formed balls of fire over her red gloves. The Bleach-blonde short haired Chinese girl didn't even get a chance to attack. With one flying kick from Ravager to the face, the match was over. Chairman Vundabaar gave the thumbs down. Though Virgil couldn't hear them, he knew the crowd was chanting "KILL KILL KILL." Ravager stabbed her blades… into the ground on either side of Fever's head. She then flipped Chairman Vundabaar off. A clear act of defiance… had the mind-control wore off… or was she never under it to begin with?

Clock King stepped into the ring, discussing something with Ravager. While he was doing this, two men seemingly made of silver in black formalwear (androids, maybe) walked over to Fever, carrying sawed-off shotguns. With one blow to the back of the skull, she was dead.

He couldn't watch any more after that. He turned his head to the side, preferring to stare at the wall.

Fever had been the champion. They'd named 'Fever Fridays' after her, yet they'd bored of her. How long would it be until they bored of him, also a former champion? They'd kept him locked down here, narcoleptic, for too long. He was certain the question was not IF they would come to finish them off, but WHEN.

"Dunno if you can see or hear me up in Heaven, Moms, but it looks like I might be joining you soon… or do I get to go to Heaven after this, after I… "

Throughout this whole ordeal, UNTIL NOW, he'd managed not to cry. But that… that did it.

Author's note 4: In the comic "Milestone Forever #2" Hotstreak calls Richie (Rick) a pervert out of nowhere for no good reason. I thought I'd give him a reason.

Sorry for the character overload. They were all either from the Static cartoon or Teen Titans related comics, so… yeah.

Sorry this is so depressing so far.

To be continued in chapter 5.