Author's Note: Well, unsurprisingly, this took longer than expected. However, I have good reasons! I work seven days a week. *groan*. no worries, this will end as the summer ends and i'll be switching to normal schedule and will therefore be able to write. I'm really really excited about the direction of this story and i have friends nagging me to write, so hopefully i'll grow more consistent. i'll also update utter chaos at some point (i've got five pages and i'm not sure the chapter's half-done yet, whimpers). anyway, there's a lot to cover here, so if you have questions let me know. i hope you enjoy and maybe give me some of your reaction.
also. it's fun to torture poor virgil.
Virgil stood silent in the cemetery. The sun shone brightly—not a cloud in the sky.
Virgil felt as if the weather was mocking him with its cheeriness.
He was sweating in his black suit and tie, but he still refused to move. The preacher droned on and even though his father and sister stood beside him, he felt alone. Despite the heat, he felt cold. A fly buzzed near his ear, but Virgil simply ignored it.
The sweat dripped drop by irritating drop down his forehead and through his chunks of hair. Still, he didn't move, knowing that even small movements caused his bandages to chafe under his clothes. Honestly, he wasn't even listening. He wasn't talking either and he didn't plan to. Sharon had been a bit disappointed, but his dad understood.
There was too much hate, too much rage for him to grieve. His dad suspected that with time, Virgil would talk about it and release some of those feelings, but Virgil seriously doubted it. He looked across at Hotstreak, who was actually dressed in a suit for the occasion. Hotstreak had the same fired determination in his eyes, though Virgil know it wasn't as strong as his own feeling on the matter.
The only other people present were Richie's parents, Daisy, Frieda and Bruce Wayne as a representative of the Justice League. It seemed wrong that the only attendants to Gear's funeral would be close family and friends. But only those who knew Richie's secret identity (or didn't, really) could come to his funeral. Otherwise, it'd be a dead giveaway what Static's secret identity was. Virgil wasn't certain he cared, but perhaps vengeance would be easier this way.
There was no body to bury, but Richie's parents knew the truth. Well, they didn't know about Gear, but Virgil had told them as much as he could. As much as was bearable.
A fine, nearly invisible shimmer of electricity skimmed over the surface of Virgil's body. It was getting harder and harder to control his electric abilities ever since—ever since then. He wasn't entirely certain, but it seemed as though his unstable anger was wreaking havoc with the electric fields at the most inopportune times. Luckily, no one was looking at him during the funeral.
The preacher's voice rose higher, more forceful, as he worked his way to the end of the speech.
Virgil had heard almost none of it and didn't feel as if it mattered. All he could think about was that the coffin was empty. He hadn't even been able to bring back the body for Richie's parents—his mother anyway. She'd reported Richie missing to the police and though the police were surprised at how quickly they'd given up on finding their son, they accepted the decision.
Virgil just burned and simmered in the heat.
The preacher finally brought his speech to an end. "Though Richie is gone, we know the place he now rests is safer and better than the path we walk now. His spirit may offer us comfort but we, at least, can take comfort in his joy."
Virgil slowly walked forward, each step a milestone as he reached the front of the crowd. One of the funeral parlor employees handed him a shovel and he took it gratefully. Behind him, Hotstreak selected a shovel as did Virgil's dad. Mr. Foley reached over to take a shovel but Virgil whipped around and held a hand to stop the employee.
"No." His voice was like steel.
"Virgil, Richie was his son," his Pops interjected.
Nothing but contempt filled Virgil's eyes and another skittering of electricity trailed down his skin. "No he wasn't. You were more his father than this man was. This man is nothing. He doesn't deserve to even be here. Your son hated you and so do I." Throughout the slew of words, Virgil's voice only grew colder and lower, and only more emphatic.
With each enunciation, Mr. Foley's face turned redder and brighter, gleaming in the sun as a brilliant cherry. "I know I wasn't perfect Hawkins, but I loved my son and I was trying. Despite myself, I was trying. Let me bury my own son!"
Virgil merely snarled his lips soundlessly and maintained his outstretched hand.
"I think he means he found your efforts wanting, old man." Hotstreak took a step to stand even with Virgil. "Too little, too late."
"Boys. Let him have some peace, here at the end."
Virgil angled his stance to face both his father and Mr. Foley simultaneously. "Always the peacemaker, aren't you Pops? Not this time. This coffin's empty, but that doesn't mean this scum has any right to it. For every dirty look he gave me, for a lifetime of depreciating Richie—" his voice broke a little on the name— "for every time he wasn't there for his son and you were. I don't know what made him change but it wasn't enough. Now it'll never be enough."
"I don't care what you think, Hawkins, not about this. This is my son's funeral and I will be a part of it!"
Virgil wrenched the shovel out of the employee's grip as Mr. Foley made a grab for it. "You gonna have a keep away fight with your son's best friend at his funeral? I don't think even you are stupid enough to let this turn into an actual fight." He threw the excess shovel behind him. "And I don't care how long I have to stand here, you are not helping! As far as anyone important here is concerned, you weren't even here!" With each word, Virgil's voice rose another decibel until he was screaming. "Are you just too stupid to realize the truth is that it? He hated you! Hated! And you think you deserve to stand here? Just because you dedicated some sperm and had a few last minute regrets?" Virgil shook his head rapidly, fists clenched painfully tight at his sides. "He hated you and so do I." He turned, nodding to Hotstreak as he gripped his shovel.
Throughout Virgil's outburst, every funereal eye was fixed on the two of them. Mr. Foley seemed to lose his momentum and will to fight as Virgil turned, ignoring him. He slumped as he realized the futility of action and his whole face crumpled. The show of emotion lasted only moments, before the angry mask slid back into place and he turned, signaling his wife and exiting the cemetery.
Virgil let the anger wash over him and drown out his thoughts. He shoveled into the pile of dirt and dumped the chunks onto the empty coffin with a terrifying echo sound. The sweat built along his shoulder blades and beaded down his neck. The bandages chafed against his skin and he used the moment to merely feel, blocking the array of self-recriminations, doubt and hate. Each shovelful, each ache and pain, served to cement his emotions into truth.
Whiteout would not escape him.
~*BREAK*~
Sharon sat at the café alone, sipping at her coffee. Adam had just left her, dripping apologies, to run off saving people as an incident had started up down the street. She pondered the last few weeks in silence while pretending to taste the now lukewarm beverage. Ignoring the heat filming the air and the myriad customers scattered at surrounding tables, she thought instead of her little brother.
Virgil had been acting strangely lately. This was nothing terribly unusual, as her brother always acted strangely, especially in such a way as to directly contradict her authority as eldest. Indeed, when adding in the events of Richie's mysterious disappearance and his parents' strange acceptance of it, it shouldn't have even registered on her radar as odd.
The truth was, she was worried about him. Losing his mother and his best friend? As a studied psychology major progressing further a field, it seemed logical to pay more attention to him. She'd never really watched him as much as she did now.
"Virgil, why are you so angry lately?" she'd asked him.
He whipped around startlingly quickly to face her and she took a step back at the heat flaring from his eyes. "Me? Angry? Can't think of a single reason for me to be angry." His voice oozed acidic sarcasm almost painfully.
She folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the kitchen counter while she tried to think of how to break through the wall of irritated bitterness. "Baby bro, I know you're upset about what happened—well, you know, but you can't just—"
"Oh you know, do you?" She didn't even notice the way his fingers curled tightly into fists or how they sparkled just a bit in the reflection of dim kitchen lighting. A trickle of harsh laughter escaped before he continued. "You know just how upset I am? I'm sure you know just what it's like to lose someone close to you—like when your boyfriend dumped you or when Adam lied to you. Those things are all very similar."
"Virgil, don't—"
"Don't you tell me you understand! Don't tell me how to feel about this! You tried to do that to me when Mom died and I won't let you now. You couldn't possibly know—" Virgil cut himself off abruptly, breathing heavily and looking away. "You couldn't." His shoulders slumped and all the fight seemed to go out of him for a moment.
"Virgil—"
"Shut up, Sharon, just shut up." He turned and nearly ran out of the room, yanking the front door shut behind. She couldn't see the bit of moisture that formed, even if briefly, before it slid down his cheek and disappeared.
Well, the words abysmal failure came to mind quite readily.
She took another sip of the coffee as a stranger approached her table. He was tall, standing a bit taller than even Adam, his skin quite dark. His hair was hidden beneath generic brown hat, but the white dreads peaked through the bottom, just topping his shoulders. His beige trench coat attempted to hide his bulky physique, but only served to emphasize it instead. He slipped easily into the chair across from her, coffee in hand.
Sharon gaped as she stared at the man, transfixed by the white mask obscuring his face. He wore basic jeans and a shirt while sporting no facial hair. What kind of guy would randomly walk up to a girl in a café decked out in deliberately nondescript garb but wearing a mask?
"Hello, Sharon." His voice was even, sprinkled with just a hint of evil.
"Uh uh, no way, how do you know who I am? I am too young to have you as a stalker." With each word, she shoved more layers of attitude into her voice until she was waving her head and gesturing to match.
"I'm not a stalker, Sharon. I'm here to tell you that you're very special."
"I'm not a kid to be lured away by strangers and candy. I don't know who you are or what you're talking about, but I'm not sticking around to find out. Weirdo." She stood up as she was speaking, snagging her purse and stomping off with a sway to her hips.
He stood too, half-turning to watch her weave past tables. "Sharon!" He called after her, loudly enough that several customers turned to stare and Sharon herself even glanced backward. "I'll be seeing you." His face remained expressionless.
"Creep!" Sharon stalked off down the street only feeling more and more irritated that Adam had left her there. Well, it wasn't as though it was his fault for being a superhero. She was proud of him for saving people. But he didn't have to keep doing it at the expense of their time together! When he did, stuff like what had happened at the café would happen to her. All those interruptions and the crazies that talk to her.
That hadn't exactly been how she thought she'd end up using her psych degree.
She wondered what the guy had meant—seeing her again. It had definitely sounded bad. She hoped he didn't know more than her first name.
~*BREAK*~
Hotstreak hadn't thought of himself as Francis in a long time. He'd never even really thought of himself as F-stop. F-stop hadn't really been a name anyway—it'd been more of a warning. So it was weird that, all of a sudden, people only ever called him Francis. It irritated him. He hated that name.
"So Francis, you dropped out of high school. You ran away from home. Several incidents of assault, petty theft, vandalism, bullying, gang fighting… The list goes on and on." The officer decked out in uniform blue glanced up from the extensive file set on the desk between them. "I don't think I've ever seen a file this huge from someone not even eighteen yet."
"Yeah?" He cracked his knuckles to his palm. "If I had my flames I could help you with that. How does that sound?"
The officer, Bates according to the tag over his pocket, flipped the papers down into file and pulled the folder closed. "Do you mind if I ask why you did those things? It is, of course, up to you how you respond, but cooperation can only help you in the long run."
"You threatening me? No one threatens Hotstreak." He snarled a little bit at the cop.
Bates merely raised an eyebrow. "I was merely stating a fact. Cooperation helps you."
"Yeah, well, I don't like it." He scratched at his hands absently, wishing he had access to his flames so he could explode his way out of here. It was boring and stupid and there were many more things he could be doing. Like ripping off that little kid down the street from his place. He grinned, thinking maybe he'd do that later once he busted out of this stupid place.
"Let's skip to the end where you threaten me and either book me or let me go. Either way, I'm out by tomorrow." He loved the fact that he was still under eighteen.
"Oh no, Francis. I'm certainly not going to make it that easy on you. You've been floating through the system for far too long without being truly dealt with. And so, I'm going to force you through what you hate most—"
Francis laughed a little to himself, thinking how little the cop knew of him and what he could take. Prison didn't scare him one bit.
"—therapy."