I'd been considering writing a Comic Retcon for a while. Many characters interested me but my lack of familiarity with comics was a bit of a damper, having been raised with either novels or the Tubesitter. My leading candidates were The Shadow, The Lone Ranger, and Static, my selection of a character was formalized in February when I came across the obituary for Dwayne McDuffie, creator of the character Static Shock. I realized that I wanted to do my Static stories as an homage to his creator, so this story is dedicated to the God of Static's universe...Dwayne McDuffie.

Prologue — Mom

The rattle and clatter of pans on the stove had always been a soothing sound for Virgil Hawkins. At ten years old, that sound coming from the kitchen told him all was well with the world. Alternatively, the simultaneous ringing of the house phone and the bleating of the pager his Mom had placed in a charger on the hall table were sounds to be dreaded.

“Virg. Be a dear and grab the phone for me,” Jean Hawkins called. “SHARON! I NEED YOU IN THE KITCHEN.”

Loud thumps crashed down the row-house stairs as Virgil's 14 year old sister stomped unhappily from her bedroom.

“Hawkins residence.”

“Virgil? Hey, it's Charlie, can I speak to your Mom?”

“Hang on, she's in the kitchen,” he said and then lay the receiver on the table.

“Okay Sharon, just stir the sauce occasionally. The noodles and garlic bread should be done in 10 minutes,” she looked over at Virgil. “It's my boss?”

Virgil nodded and followed her back into the hallway. The volume on the phone not loud enough that he could hear both ends of the conversation.

“Are you sure, Charlie?”

Jean looked around, seeing Virgil standing there. Looking at his face, her eyes teared up.

“Okay Charlie,” Jean sighed. “I'll be at the station in 15 minutes.”

Hanging up the phone, she steered Virgil into the kitchen. “Robert, Sharon. The station is calling in every available EMT. It looks like a gang fight has turned into a riot downtown.”

Kneeling she turned Virgil to face her. “I want you to finish your homework and be in bed by 9. Okay?”

The young boy smiled up at her. “Sure Mommy. You go be a hero!” Then he leaned in and gave her a sloppy, ten year old boy kiss.

Dinner had been very quiet, and the Hawkins children had followed their father into the den to watch the news. The hum of the television served as background noise to the two kids sitting at the coffee table doing their homework.

“In business news, ALVA Industries has formed a research alliance with LexCorp. ALVA Industries founder Edwin Alva had the following comment.”

“ALVA and LexCorp's areas of expertise have amazing potential to change human life for the better. By combining our research efforts, there is no limit to what we can accomplish.”

“And now we return to tonight's top story. Gang violence has turned into a riot in the city center.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Robert pulled himself out of his chair to answer the door. The knock repeating as he reached for the nob. At the door stood a uniformed police officer.

“Mr. Robert Hawkins?”

Virgil looked up as his father's tentative yes drifted back to him. His eyes locked briefly with those of the uniformed young woman. Years later, the look of sadness in her eyes would be one of his few clear memories of that evening.

“I'm Lieutenant Joletta Stewart, Detroit Metro Police.” Her eyes flicked over to the two children now staring at her from the den. “I... I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

Detroit: October 20th Present Day

Fifteen year old Virgil stared at his hands. Specifically, he stared at the Saturday night special that Wade had just placed there.

“Dude,” the gravel pit of Wade's voice drew Virgil's eyes upward. “I'm not gonna be there next time F-Stop decides to use you as a punching bag.”

Bile rose in the back of Virgil's throat. F-Stop was out there. Hell, every gang-banger in greater Detroit was in the warehouse district tonight. As gang-banger's went, Wade's crew wasn't so bad. They rumbled to protect the little guys in their turf, but if they protected you, even if you didn't ask them to, they expected payment.

Virgil's payment was to be here tonight.

Holding a gun.

“F-Stop is here,” Wade's deep voice growled. “You solve your problem.”

Loud metallic banging started up from the direction of the rail yard and Wade's crew faded into the shadows. Virgil looked again at the firearm in his hands. A gun. A gun at a major gang-fight.

“Mom!” The words escaped his lips as an anguished cry.

Tears filling his eyes, he ran half-blind to the end of the street, where it overlooked the river. Fighting down dry heaves, he threw the gun as far into the water as he could. The sounds of violent clashing rose above the background noise of the cool October evening, breaking free from amongst the buildings and the crates stored in open yards. Virgil started working his way back across the district. Maybe Wade's crew would accept that they saw him here and would not want anything more later.

Sirens screaming up from behind him caused Virgil to duck into a stack of crates bearing the Lexcorp logo. As the car roared by Virgil saw, illuminated by the headlights, a large mass of people brawling. Too involved in their fight to realize that the cops were coming, the violent noise seemed to intensify. The distressed cry of tire rubber reached his ears as the police car slammed to a stop and the two officers leaped out. Other cars were doing the same thing all around the periphery of the fight.

The senior officer on scene gave an order and a mix of tear-gas canisters and flash-bangs were launched into the melee. At first things seemed to be going exactly as the officer intended. The brawlers stopped under the onslaught of noise, light and gas. Then one of the flash-bangs went off underneath a mixed stack of LexCorp and Alva crates. The confined space giving the overgrown firecracker enough force to breach the container in the crate.

For a moment, the gas within merely leaked out, then it reached the smoldering remains of the flash-bang. The glowing ember ignited the gas causing the bottom crate to explode violently, breaching more containers all around. Some were flammable, like the first. Others were not, but those gasses mixed together to form something new and unexpected.

The explosions, the wind off the waterfront and the heavy weight of the gas drove it amongst the gang-bangers. The cops quickly retreated, digging out the masks they carried for protection against the tear gas.

Coughing, Virgil swam though the pinkish fog until he ran up against a chain-link fence.

“Skate park,” the teen muttered. “Yeah Dad, I went to the skate park with Richie after school.”

Richie had been planning this a long time. He knew he was good enough to pull it off without anyone being the wiser. Besides, he was really really good on his skates, so if someone wanted to be a problem, he could get away very quickly.

He heard sirens not too far away and smiled. One of the reasons he felt safe doing this tonight was because the Big Bang was supposed to draw all the bangers away from the skate park. He'd pretty much have it to himself. With a sliding stop he pulled up in front of a darkened window, admiring the vision he saw there. Inline skates, knee pads, elbow pads, helmet all were just the basics. What made the look complete was the long brunette wig, flawless makeup, long-sleeved dark green leotard, tights, and denim mini-skirt. His deep breathing causing the birdseed breast forms under the sports bra to dig at the skin of his chest.

“Hello Frieda,” he whispered to the window. “I've missed being you.”

Frieda was skying on the half-pipe under the argon-vapor lights when she saw the movement near the edge of the park. As expected, she was here alone, and enjoying herself immensely. With suspicion, she watched the dark figure move toward the benches, then fold up and collapse on the hard concrete.

The boy's collapse made her forget about the secret she had to hide. She forgot even that she had a secret as she skated over to the boy curled up on the ground. A pinkish miasma seemed to cling about the familiar figure as she knelt down to roll him onto his back. As Frieda saw his face, her voice broke.

“Virgil?”

Groggy, the young African-American teen looked around blindly. “Richie? I don't feel so good dude,” his eyes squinted. “Oh man, what was in that gas, you look like a girl.”

Reaching down, Frieda locked the wheels on her skates, helped her classmate to stand, slipped under his arm and started the long, slow walk to Virgil's house. With luck, she could get Virgil inside and into bed before Sharon or his father got home from the community center.

The pink gas seemed to cling to Virgil's clothes as Frieda struggled to keep him upright. Not content to merely cling about, it seemed to want to get in her face constantly too. She hoped it wasn't going to make her as punchy as it had clearly made her friend.

Chicago: Late November

Stress often does strange things to people, and when it does, those people seek out others who can understand and will help them. So much is said and shared in confidence that it is pretty much a given that every therapist is in therapy with someone else. Every therapist, that is, except her.

After years of training and active practice serving as the receptacle of other people's trivia and trauma, Harlene had come to the conclusion that 'Sanity' was both relative and highly over-rated. Even worse for her was the issue of morality, or rather her complete lack of intuitive internalization of the concept.

Sitting behind her desk, Harlene Quinzel, Doctor of Psychiatric Medicine let her eyes drift closed after the departure of her last whining sheep of the evening. She felt the itch building again in the base of her skull and the brilliant idea that flashed through her cortex nearly made her orgasm. Scrambling through the journals in the bin behind her desk she pulled out a recent one with an article detailing psychological issues in dealing with the new meta-humans.

Events in Detroit had made it a microcosm of the global meta situation and all the juicy details were there for exploitation. Impressionable kids, strange new powers, minimal qualms about criminal activity, insane glee overtook Harlene's features as the madness slipped to the fore.

“Oh, look at all the lonely metas.” Harley Quinn sang as she turned to her computer.

Detroit:3  ½ Months Post-Bang — February 10th - 11am

Turning the corner in the crowded hallway, Virgil spotted the mop of unruly blond hair trying to weave its way toward him. As the kid's hand raised above the crowd, Virgil's spine turned to ice and he quickly ducked into Ms. Bart's English classroom, sailing across the room and through the door that opened on the opposite hallway. Making a hard right, he hit the stairwell, banister sliding down to the first floor where he cut across the commons to the back corner stairs. The longer route had him running late and the back stairwell was empty by the time he hit the third floor landing. Or nearly so.

“Dammit Virgil,” Richie growled. “Stop avoiding me.”

Virgil swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. “Dude, I don't know you.”

“That is freaking obvious. But this isn't about me.” Richie glanced up and down the stairwell and out the little window in the door. Holding up a folded sheet of paper, he slapped it into Virgil's hands. “Static needs to look into this.”

Chicago: February 10th - 10pm

Virgil's fist closed around the paper, lifting the copy of the Sun to hide his face as he leaned against the wall of the Greyhound station. Bus 9947, one of their newer buses with the blue, 50's themed paint pulled up to the unloading area, the glowing Chicago in the upper side window flipping to read Detroit. Apparently, the company had them on a quick turn-around.

He continued to watch as the passengers milled around the side of the bus while the station staff began unloading their luggage. His position and the commotion almost caused him to miss the girl as she stepped out of the door and turned the opposite direction. Slipping around the corner of the building, he quickly reversed his coat and slipped the mask over his eyes. Tossing the mylar disc free of his pocket Static zapped it with a charge and then leaped into the air, drifting quietly above the buildings as he followed the teenager away from the bus station.

Static reviewed what he knew. Allie Langford. Sixteen. Cheerleader. Was dating a member of Wade's crew around mid October. His research had not indicated if she was present at the Big Bang, but the rumor was that she had recently begun showing signs of being a Bang Baby.

The explosion that night at the rumble had exposed a significant percentage of the kids in Detroit to the mutagenic gas. A half-dozen hard-core gang-bangers at the epicenter of the explosion had died immediately of exposure to the gas. Thirty more were institutionalized with powers that were completely out of control. Rumor had it that Homeland Security had contracted with LexCorp and spirited most of them away to some special facility in Nevada to work on a cure. That left no less than a hundred kids, like Virgil, who were far enough away from the explosion to not be overdosed on the gas. There were also rumors of secondary exposures among some friends and family members who had contact with the Bangers within the first few hours. Collectively, these new meta-humans were being referred to as Bang Babies, so as to distinguish them from the naturally occurring metas who had begun cropping up around the globe.

In spite of the cool powers, to be a meta in Detroit came with significant external baggage. People automatically assumed that you were a gang-banger, whether you were good, bad or indifferent. The stigma could be too much for some and they ran from society to hide their affliction, especially if it was difficult to hide the changes or powers that resulted from them. By the middle of November, dozens of families had moved from the Detroit area to places where their child's meta status would not be stigmatized by the gang association. But others couldn't or wouldn't leave. And then, there were the late emergences.

Static glanced down as Allie consulted a map she was carrying and turned up a dark side street. The thought of what she was going through brought back memories of the days immediately after the Big Bang.

Detroit: October 21st - 6am

Dim, blue light drifted through the curtains of the darkened bedroom. On the bed, the young teenager tossed and turned, lost in dreams that were half memory, half fear and all to be recalled only dimly under the light of day. Blue sparks merged with the dim lighting as he thrashed beneath the blankets. In the darkness he rolled to the edge of the twin bed where it met the wall. Briefly, the boy snored into the corner where the two surfaces met. After a moment, blue sparks crackled as he rolled again.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Reaching out, the boy slapped the wall.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

“Maaallright.” He slapped the wall again and a blue spark jumped from his hand, hitting the alarm clock on the nightstand.

Sunlight peeked through the curtains, casting an orange line across the teen's face. Throwing an arm across his eyelids he rolled over, his other hand slapping against popcorn textured paint. Half asleep, a puzzled expression wrinkled his brow. Cracking open his eyes, he looked over to see his hand resting against the textured surface.

Closing his eyes, Virgil turned his head the other direction then opened them again. And closed them immediately.

“No way.”

He opened his eyes again and stared at the bed from his position two-thirds of the way up the bedroom wall. Five seconds later his face accelerated toward the mattress at 9.8 meters per second. Squared.

“Well, gravity works,” Virgil muttered.

“I was wondering for a second there,” Richie groaned from the sleeping bag tossed across the bedroom floor. “Have to admit it looked pretty cool though. Why didn't you tell me you got bit by a radioactive spider?”

Virgil sat up in the bed, throwing off the blanket that had fallen with him. “What are you Mmmphfff.” The blanket sailed back and wrapped itself around his head.

Richie laughed. “Okay, forget the spider, you got bit by a radioactive prankster.”

Blue sparks arced from Virgil's fingers as he wadded the blanket into a ball and stuffed it beneath the mattress. As they touched various things they began floating and swirling around the room. Before too long had passed, everything in the room that wasn't locked down was part of the brownian parade, including Richie's half-open backpack.

“Uh Virgil,” Richie's voice drifted down from near the ceiling. “I think calm is in order right now.”

Virgil looked over toward his best friend from where he was sitting indian style on the floating mattress. “Oh, I am calm, Richie.”

Richie dropped halfway to the floor in a hurry, stopped, rose again and then was set gently down on a floating desk chair. Everything in the room drifted slowly to a stop, landing where Virgil wanted it too. Everything except for a green leotard, tights, denim mini-skirt and a long, brunette wig. “Care to tell me which of the bullies forced you into this outfit last night?”

Chicago: February 10th — 10:30pm

Allie ducked into the deep shadows of the narrow street, pressed her back against the rough stone of the building's wall and suppressed a shiver. She had felt it since getting off the bus. It was the same skin-crawling sensation she got at school and occasionally elsewhere around Detroit. Someone was watching her.

With a low scrape from the metallic skin on her palms, she pushed off from the wall and sprinted down the dark alley. Stopping at the next corner she consulted the map she had not let out of her sight since printing it out in the school lab 13 hours earlier. Turning to her left she spotted the building she was looking for. On her map it was marked 'Rooftop at 11pm -Thalia'.

Thalia. Allie's one true friend through all of this. Thalia understood what she meant when she talked about her fears of being different. Thalia stood by her when everyone else turned away. Thalia refused to let her turn inward and hide from the world. Thalia was her hope, her help and her salvation.

She had been at the crib when Sly had stumbled in after the bang. Allie had ignored the pinkish vapor clinging to his clothing as she had helped him over to one of the cots. He had gotten out some weird story about an explosion at the gang fight and a gas that had changed a bunch of the bangers. While he was talking he'd started growing larger. When he started absorbing the cot Allie had screamed and then run from the gang's hideout. She had not gone back and had not seen any members of Wade's crew around school, except for Virgil, the kid they had been recruiting.

That was almost four months ago. Shortly after New Years, she had noticed a grayish patch of skin near her right elbow. Over the first week, the patch would disappear and reappear in different places. Then it multiplied and the various patches began to grow larger. By the end of the month, the change would come over her entire body. When it did, she was invulnerable. It could flash on in an instant if she was threatened or just come on randomly for no reason. When it came on it would stay for hours. Allie had taken to wearing long sleeve hoodies and jeans. She had quit the cheerleading squad, which had alienated her from her friends. And in a cycle of vicious feedback, the mutual snubbing had spiraled out of control until she had gone from one of the most popular girls in the school to a nobody. Through it all, she had the skin-crawling, electrical, tingly feeling of being watched.

In the midst of these changes, she'd turned to the internet seeking answers. That was where she had met Thalia. Thalia, who did not twist her own words back on her like knives. Thalia, who promised to help her, free her from this curse or failing that, to stand by her as a true friend should.

Now it was early February and she was running through the dark alleys of Chicago, hundreds of miles from home, with someone unseen following her. She reached the side of the building where she was supposed to meet Thalia. The doors and windows were all boarded shut and the fire escape looked ready to fall on her head. With a bit of brief concentration, the nails of her hands and feet grew outward.

“Okay Nails. Lets see whoever's back there follow this.”

Jabbing the steel spikes into the ancient mortar of the building she began to climb.

Detroit: February 10th - 1pm

Virgil stopped at the window beside the library door and checked his reflection. Suave smile, shoulders back, dreads flat.

“Whoa, woah no.” His hands came up and started teasing the dreadlocks back into their usual disarray. A quick glance around and a burst of electricity later. “Dreads should never be flat.”

A quick tug and the USS Virgil Hawkins sailed through the door into the library all spit and polish and gleam. “Afternoon Ms. Ficus.” He threw his signature down on the sheet for the computer lab. “Got a paper going and need some e-search time.”

The matronly librarian shook her head slowly. “Why is it always an entrance with you?”

“Positive attitude Ms. F! Pops is a firm believer that a positive attitude is the key to success!”

“I can't argue with a father who cares,” she smiled. “Let him know I'll be by the center next week to help out with the reading room.”

“Sure thing.” With a jaunty wave he floated through the doorway beside her desk into the library computer lab. With a click, the door latched behind him.

“Okay Richie,” his voice became serious as he addressed the only other person in the room while holding up the note. “Allie Langford's a Bang Baby and she's in trouble. You have my attention.”

“Remember... well... before,” Richie swallowed. I promised to put together a spider to track mentions of Bang Babies to help Static protect new emergees.”

Virgil nodded.

“Well, a promise is a promise. I got the code up and running last month.” Richie turned the computer screen around. “This morning I got multiple hits from this machine.”

A couple keystrokes brought up the school usage log for the equipment and the web history.

Virgil let out a low whistle. “Bang Baby Support Network. Even managed to get a .org meta-tag for it instead of a .com. How come we haven't heard of this site before?”

“Because it's only been in existence for a couple weeks.” Richie typed rapidly on the keyboard and the screen dissolved into lines of letters, numbers and characters. Mousing over a section, he highlighted a string of numbers. “That's the address of a low-rent server farm in Eastern Europe. I'll tell you right now that nothing good has ever been hosted there.”

“So we've got an Eastern European crime syndicate trying to lure Bang Babies?”

“No, we have an Eastern European crime syndicate selling webspace to someone in Chicago who's trying to lure Bang Babies. Someone going by the name of Thalia. Allie Langford has been using this machine to communicate with this Thalia and they want her to meet them.” Richie looked up at his former friend. “Tonight.”

Silence filled the room as the lanky, blond haired teen sent the information to the printer.

Chicago: February 20th — 10:50pm

The orange glow of streetlights reflected dimly off the thin clouds obscuring the night sky, light pollution from the sprawling city washing out even the near-full moon. The watcher lurked in the deep shadows of the rooftops, using the forest of antennas, chimneys and vent pipes to hide her silhouette. The black trench coat was intended to help with that, swirling in the darkness, leaving only an impression of deeper darkness when still or distracting misdirection when in motion. It also kept the dirt off of her black leather pants and a thin, dark gray hoodie, custom tailored of course. For the stakeout, she had chosen soft-soled boots. She felt naked without her costume on, particularly the hood. However, it would have made her too obvious due to the publicly busy hour at which she'd hauled the stakeout gear to the rooftop. Shivering in the February chill, she slipped the hoodie up to cover her blonde hair and lifted the collar of the trench to block the breeze.

In the darkness behind the building's elevator machinery, the dark figure took a moment to check the equipment she had assembled an hour previous. The parabolic microphone and the video camera had both been aimed down at the neighboring roof and were recording to a custom computer box on the graveled tar beneath them. The box in turn, was transmitting its data with a mil-spec encryption routine to a secure server that only she and one other had the access codes for and location of.

Her partner had come across the thief's latest lure as a result of one of her automated search routines. The website's security had been amateur and she was able to quickly amass significant information on the mechanics of her plan. In underworld circles she went by Harlequin, they suspected who the target was, but until they had enough hard evidence to provide to their contact in the Police Department, there was little that could be done openly against a notable local psychiatrist. At least not without revealing their own secrets. She was an opponent of many skills who's plots interwove in maddening ways. The villainess' twisted schemes often landed her lackeys in hot water while she escaped amidst a pandemonium of laughter. Her sudden interest in the Detroit Bang Babies was disturbing on many levels.

Was Harlequin plotting some new caper with a need for heavier muscle and a plan to abandon them to the system's tender mercies? Or was the thief assembling a more permanent force that she would be hard pressed to counter on her own? The watcher knew a few of the new metas whom she might be able to call on if stopping the thief called for more muscle, some were even pretty good, but they were all, like her, young. Only one that she was aware of professed any significant police training, and according to her latest information, she was out of the country. The others would be good for a fight, but any evidence would likely be ruined. Her mind flashed to the 'admissibility of evidence' criteria that were spelled out in the latest text her partner had foisted upon her. Tonight's take was probably borderline, but hopefully it would lead to something that was more solidly usable.

Crouching at the edge of the roof, footfalls in the alley below broke the dark figure from her ruminations. The watcher reached to her coat pocket, pulling out a pair of heavy rimmed glasses and slipped them on, inserting the earplugs that were attached to the backs of the arms. Slipping the phone off her belt, she called up the custom app for the gear she and her partner had assembled. After activating the bluetooth camera, she logged the feed onto her partner's account. Fingering a control on the phone, she increased the gain on the directional microphones attached along the arms of the glasses. Slowly turning and tilting her head, she aimed the 'ears', pinpointing the sounds at the base of the opposing building..

“Okay Nails. Lets see whoever's back there follow this.” She heard the high clear voice of a girl mutter quietly.

A metallic shick noise was soon followed by a series of scraping of metal on brickwork sounds. In the far background was a low buzz, like a transformer under heavy usage. Reaching in her pocket the watcher pulled out a pair of low profile night vision goggles and clipped them to the magnetic linkage on the front of her glasses. Hitting the power automatically activated the blue-tooth link to her smartphone, sending the feed from the infra-red goggles back to her partner as well.

The watcher was impressed. Whoever this Nails was, she climbed the sheer wall without any special equipment. The girl was also nearly invisible to the infra-red goggles, her body appearing the same ambient temperature as the surroundings. She watched the cold, dark figure climb higher, the sparks and friction heating from driving the spikes in the wall marking her passage. She could see that the spikes seemed to extend directly from the tips of the girl's fingers and toes as she would drive each hand higher, then lift her legs, driving the toes and then standing up to raise her arms again. As the climber rolled over the lip of the roof and was silhouetted against the other buildings, the watcher could make out the petite form of a teenage girl.

Through the girl's entire climb, the buzzing noise had been getting louder in the watcher's ears. Shaking her head, the dark figure wondered if the buzz had something to do with the girl's ability to blend into the thermal background.

Suddenly, a blinding light washed out the night vision system leaving sparkling blue motes dancing before the watcher's eyes. Moments later, her ears were left ringing as a deafening teen male voice shouted from directly above her.

“Allie Langford!”

“Static!” Disdain dripped from Allie's lips as she spun to face the teen hero. The proximity of of his electrical field causing the girl's metallic skin to shiver. “So it's been you. Bad 'nuff you follow me all over Detroit but to Chicago too?”

All the grandiose speeches he had prepared flew out the window with the girl's opening volley. Luckily his high end mental skills did not leave him completely and he was able to enunciate a deeply articulate response. “Huh?”

“Eloquent,” Allie snarked. “I thought you were the master of the snappy patter?”

“I haven't been following you,” Virgil managed to find his tongue.

“So you say!” Allie rolled her shoulders. “I have a metal skin-crawling itch that says different.”

“Allie.”

“There ain't no Allie. I'm Nails.”

Virgil shook his head sadly. “Listen Allie, your friends back home are worried about you.”

“I said. The name. Is. Nails! And I ain't got no friends.”

“This isn't like you Allie.”

“And who are you to know what I am like?”

“You're smart, popular, a cheerleader, people care about you.”

“Oh yeah, I'm popular all right. You know what my friends did when they found out I was changing? My friends cut me out of every single thing that we used to do together. You know why?

“Because you're a bang baby.”

“NO! Because everyone in Detroit knows that all the Bang Baby's are Gang-bangers.”

“I feel you there sister...”

“SISTER! Don't you sister me you spark-shooting, pajama wearing FREAK! What would mister media darling supa-he-row know about my pain? Let me tell you about my pain!”

“Allie...”

“Shut up mask boy! Hiding your identity! I bet your so-called real friends don't even know about your powers. You can hide in plain sight and be normal.” The metallic ring of her knuckles rapping against her arm echoed off the buildings. “When I couldn't hide it any more, I told my friends. Every single one of them turned their back on me. Ooooh it was sooo cool for them when I was dating a member of Wade's crew, but me changing. Hell no, they wasn't gonna tolerate a gang-girl hangin with their crowd. You know what really gets me pissed off though. Someone seems to have told my crew before I did. When I look back, I see them shying away from me even before this change became noticeable.

“Every time I looked at them, I could see the loathing in their eyes. Oh, they'd deny when I called them on it. It's like they were afraid it was going to rub off on them and they'd be infected too. HA!”

“I know that can't all be true Allie. Your parents...”

“My parents are so embarrassed about my change that they are planning to move out of Detroit! Do you know how bad it looks for a hot shot Lawyer and an up and coming surgeon to have a Daughter who's a gang-banger?”

“You're not a gang-banger Allie.”

“Oh yeah?.” Allie clenched her fists and thrust the both up in front of her. “Well this here seems to say different!

“Fine!” Virgil let his temper slip in frustration. “That's still no reason for you to take off to join up with this Thalia stranger you met through a website.”

Fire lit up in Allie's eyes and her metallic skin seemed to darken. “How. Do. You. Know. About. HER!!! Oh no, it's not enough for you to follow me across three states. No, you have to go and snoop in my personal stuff too.

“I have had it with this crap,” Allies hands snapped open, pointing straight down beside her hips, the nails growing several inches long. “And I have had it with YOU!”

A snap of her wrists sent ten metal daggers zipping through the intervening space between the two of them, leaving Static barely a moment to bend their flightpath to avoid becoming a pin cushion. He felt the tug as several of them passed through the material of his coat. Concentrating, he focused on the nails and curved their flightpath around, launching them back toward where the girl had been standing.

“That's not going to work Allie.”

“But this might!” Her growling voice came from directly beneath him.

Leaping, the metal girl latched her fingers around the young hero's ankle, her weight dragging him down off of his hover-disc. “Tell me Static, what happens when a charge goes to ground?” Reaching a leg out, she hooked a foot around the base of a rooftop lighting rod.

A brilliant flash lit up the skyline and the crash of thunder echoed and re-echoed off the surrounding skyscrapers. The sudden flow of energy blasting the two antagonists away from each other. Virgil found himself slumped against the brick parapet of the building, the sound of maniacal laughter rising dimly above the ringing in his ears.

“Oh, bravo Sparky!” The strange sight of a lithe, female jester swam across his vision. “However, I'm afraid you've come up a bit short tonight.”

Virgil groaned as the nutcase leaned her greasepaint covered face in close to his. Sideways. The jingling bells of her jester-cap ringing on either side of his head. Violent, stabbing pains raced inward from all of his extremities, only to collide and begin fighting for priority to reach his brain. Like a sprawling movie brawl, the conflict spread and soon a splitting headache joined the litany of his ails.

“Hey! I like you Sparky.” She did a slow backflip and perched on a roof-vent staring at him. “Of course I also like cats as well. And Dachshunds. Ooo, but I hate Chihuahuas. If I could turn the moon into some kind of chihuahua magnet that made them fly off into the sky, it would be done. Can you do that? I'll take you ohm with me if you'll do that!”

“Who are y-you supposed t-to be?” Allie's shaky voice rose from the other side of the roof.

The jester rolled backward off the vent into a handstand. “Why Nails, surely I thought you'd recognize your partner in commiseration. But perhaps not.” The handstand folded into a tuck-roll that brought the jester up beside the girl.

“I'm such a romantic that some in our dear gotham here call me Harlequin.” The jester clasped her hands dramatically to her bosom as she spun away. “But you my dear. You know me as the muse of comedy.”

“Thalia.”

“The one and only!” Harlequin bowed deeply, falling into a roll that left her sitting at Allie's feet staring upward with her legs spread wide. “At least until that bunch of warrior priestess wannabes north of downtown wise up and catch a sense of humor.”

Rolling to her feet, Harlequin danced lightly across the roof to where Static was just beginning to get control over the violent shaking in his limbs. Kneeling beside his ear she glanced back at Allie and winked. “Confidentially,” she stage whispered. “I'm Xena-phobic.”

With that, she cracked open a phial under his nose, letting him inhale the gas.

“Beddy-bye time Sparky,” she patted his head. “The offer still stands if you can get rid of the chihuahuas.”

The watcher ripped the glasses from her eyes as soon as the clown had lead the teenager off the roof. Raising the phone to her ear, she growled into the microphone. “Tell me we got what we needed.”

“We got enough. Pack up our gear and get out of there.”

“Not until I check on the hero.”

“I've already called in a favor. He'll be looked after.”

“He might be dead.”

“Then there's no point in messing up the crime scene.”

“NOT going to happen,” the girl snapped as she turned off the phone and crammed it into her pocket.

Ignoring the vibrating phone, she took a run at the gap between the rooftops, sailing over the alley in a clean leap, landing on her feet and then jogging to a smooth stop beside the blue-coated hero. Kneeling, she quickly checked his pulse and breathing, confirming that he would be okay.

Her curiosity sated, she stood to return to her gear then paused and knelt beside him again. This time she rifled through his pockets. Pulling out a cell phone she flipped it open, scrolled through the menu and noted down the number. Checking his other pockets she came up with his wallet, flipping it open she chuckled and jotted down the information there as well. Replacing his phone and wallet in their pockets she stood again.

The phone in her pocket resumed its buzzing. Fishing it out she thumbed it on and raised it to her ear.

“Satisfied?”

“Yes.” She turned and stared at the camera, invisible among the shadows on the other rooftop. “Tell your friend that the hero is breathing easy. Harlequin appears to have used a knock-out gas on him.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah! It's damn cold out here. I'm RTB. Out.”

“When I look back, I see them shying away from me even before this change became noticeable.”

Virgil sat at the table in the High School cafeteria, idly pushing lumps of mystery meat around the nearly untouched bowl on his tray. Vaguely pea-like spheres swirled among orange disks that might have been carrots swimming in the thin gruel the school dietician's called lunch. It was three days now since the Big Bang. Virgil now knew how different he was and how much of an outsider that could make him if he let it. As he contemplated this, he looked up to see Richie in line for food. Richie, who's revelations that night were almost as shocking as the change Virgil had undergone.

He'd never noticed before, but now as Richie crossed the cafeteria, little things jumped out at him. The set of his hands holding the tray, the smooth way he walked, swaying his body to gracefully avoid the obstacles. Richie moved, stood and held himself more like a girl than a guy. How had he not noticed that before?

Richie's arrival at the table seemed to twist something inside of him. Staring at the bowl of stew, what little appetite Virgil had, left him. The need to be somewhere else overcame him and he rose. “I need to get something from the library...”

The clown killed the lights and turned down a tight alley that ended at an open roll up door. With a bump, the car crossed the threshold, the tone of the engine changing to reflect the enclosed space. “Well Nails, we're home.”

Allie slipped the sleep mask off her face and looked around. Dim lighting illuminated several parked vehicles. Her friend pulled their sedan up between a sleek sports car and an armored behemoth. A Lincoln stretch limo sat opposite them.

The confrontation with Static still bothering her, Allie quietly followed Harley to the cage elevator that rose at the far end of the garage.

“First floor,” Harley sang. “Hardware, transportation, tires.”

Ding.

“Second floor, minions, servants and sycophants.”

Ding.

“Third floor, weapons ranges and armory. Remember, when you set up your own lair, minions and mortars are fine, but sycophants and shotguns do not mix.”

Ding.

“Shut up mask boy! Hiding your identity! I bet your so-called real friends don't even know about your powers.”

“Dude, you gotta have a costume,” Richie was nearly bouncing as he straddled the desk chair. “By the way, I started work on the search spider we discussed.”

“Tell me again, oh great and powerful Oz, why a costume is so important?”

“Virgil, Virgil.” Richie shook his head. “Think about it. Even if you didn't want to be a hero, what if you needed to use your powers? What if someone saw you? Word would be out, mess with Sharon or Pops and Virgil's yours. Face it, you're vulnerable.”

“Seriously Richie?”

“Hey, I'm not the non-gang-member who got gassed at the gang-fight.”

Virgil sighed and slumped his shoulders. “Well then, what were you thinking?”

“I stopped by the Goodwill on the way over.”

An involuntary shiver shot down Virgil's spine as Richie dove into the backpack and started pulling out clothing.

“Y...you're not planning on dressing me up as a girl, are you?”

“Well, it would be a disguise!” Richie looked thoughtful for a moment. “Of course, the bad guys would be gone by the time you got your makeup done.”

Ding.

“Tenth floor. Teens, petites, ladies, lingerie and hyenas.”

Allie snorted as she stifled the laugh. “Hyenas?”

Harley turned to her and winked. As she reached to open the elevator cage the sound of clicking nails and high pitched giggles came from outside the door. Bright light flooded into the dim gray box and a tawny blur of motion caught her vision briefly before a mad cackle of laughter exploded beside her and Harley dove into the swirling mass of fur.

“Thalia?”

~~~***~~~

“Every time I looked at them, I could see the loathing in their eyes. Oh, they'd deny when I called them on it. It's like they were afraid it was going to rub off on them and they'd be infected too.”

The red light behind the figure slowly built in intensity then faded. Repeating with a metronomic implacability. The light would come on. The light would go off. Light, dark, light, dark. High atop the western tower of the Ambassador Bridge cold wind swirled around the under-dressed female figure. Mournfully, she gazed out over the lights of the two cities the bridge connected.

She took a step closer to the edge, looking at the water 390 feet below.

Bright light flared. “Richie, what do you think you're doing?” Static hovered several feet in front of the boy in girl's clothing.

“I'm doing what you want me to do Virgil. I'm going away so you can't catch what I have.”

“Richie, I know I can't catch that.”

“Are you really sure of that Virgil?”

Things suddenly felt breezy around his knees. Looking down, Virgil saw that his jeans had become a denim skirt that swirled in the wind and static electricity.

“See. It is contagious.” Richie shuffled closer to the edge.

“Richie...”

“Don't Virgil.” Fury lit Frieda's eyes as she stepped to the very edge of the drop. “If you can't call me by my true name, then don't.”

Leaping forward, she plowed into Virgil, knocking him off balance. With a kick, she wiggled free of him and arched into a dive, falling away from the hero. Righting himself, he turned and dove after his best friend. As they passed the road deck, he managed to wrap a hand around one of Richie's ankles, but as he pulled back, a sickening, slippery feeling coursed through him as the male Richie's skin peeled away, leaving a fully female Frieda falling naked toward the water below.

Virgil dove faster, knowing it was too late. “NOOOOOO! FRIEDA!!!”

At the sound of her name, she turned back toward him and smiled. Then the cold, dark water swallowed her.

Virgil slammed back first into the hard marble floor, eyes staring at the dimly lit acoustical tile ceiling.

“Frieda.”

The long day had begun catching up with Allie while she was still in the car. With a luxurious stretch she slipped onto one of the leather sofas while Harley romped with her pets. Letting her eyes drift closed she started to snuggle into the cushions, only to be interrupted by the lick of a cold, wet tongue against her cheek. Keeping her eyes closed she lifted a hand to push the hyena away from her, only to stop suddenly, her hand frozen against distinctly non canine features.

Laughter rang in her ears as the mad clown danced away from the sofa. “No time to be a sleepy-head Nailsey, we've got a job to do!” With a shrill whistle, the hyenas all rushed to the open elevator.

“Wha...” Allie tried to shake her head clear. “What are you talking about?”

“Why work, silly! Psychiatry and meta-human cures don't come cheap you know!” The insane patter dropped to a tone of deadly earnestness. “And I insist on payment in advance.”

With a quick tug, Frank checked the locked gate separating the African exhibit from the main hall of the museum. Budget cuts had come down from the board of governors and his former partner had never been replaced. The museum's security technology had been upgraded and now, the night guard position was a vestigial requirement of the standing insurance policy. Frank didn't mind, but on some nights, he missed talking sports with Mike.

The echo of his tug on the gate died away to be replaced by the tap of his highly polished uniform shoes. The taps echoing off the vaulted ceilings, glass cases, and concrete walls. Tap... tap... tap... tapclick... tapclickclick...

Frank froze. Turning slowly as he shined his light back down the open display hall.

Click... Frank spun to his left. Clickclick... He snapped the light back to the right.

Reaching up, he keyed his mic. “Joe? Joe it's Frank. You there?”

No answer.

“Control? Frank on one. Something's odd and I can't raise Joe.” A cold shiver went up Frank's spine. “Control?”

Clickclickclickclickhehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehe

Frank spun toward the sound of the giggles, his flashlight illuminating the glowing orange retina's of the pack of hyena's bearing down on him. They hit like a run-a-way freight train, bowling the guard off of his feet. The momentum of the hit spun him away from the canines and he fetched up against a wooden door. Not waiting for the animals to come at him again he reached up and twisted the knob, backpedaling through the opening and slamming the door as the creatures managed to recover their footing on the marble and charge towards him again. He released his held breath at their thud against the solid door.

Reaching up he locked the doorknob. As he used it to stand, his other hand brushed against a deadbolt and he threw that in place as well. To the left of the deadbolt his hands found the light switch on the wall. Flipping it on he saw a third lock on the inside of the door and he slammed it home as well before taking in the pink floral décor of the first floor VIP women's washroom. With second thoughts he reached out, turning off the light. In the darkness he backed toward the couch in the corner while reaching for the mace can that hung with his keys.

The mace can was gone, as were the keys. His hands snapped to his belt where the spare mace hung and he relaxed as his hand touched the pouch. Then the dangling rubber end of his microphone's cord brushed against the back of his hand. Reaching to his hip, he found the radio missing from its holster and nearly screamed in frustration. Throwing his hands up, he let them fall, his right hand landing against the hard object deep in his pants pocket.

Chicago — February 21st — 3:30am

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven... “Uuuughhhh.” Virgil gave up on recreating Descarte's higher math experiments and forced himself to sit up. Turning, he let his legs dangle over the edge of the... counter. Generating a spark between his fingers he was able to make out the antiquated features of an abandoned diner.

As he slipped off the counter, the phone in his vest pocket began buzzing. Glancing at his watch he noted the time was 1am. Pulling out the phone, he glanced at the caller ID on the screen but didn't recognize it. Expecting a serious wrong number, he finally decided to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Static? About time you woke up.” A mechanically distorted voice replied. “You're almost late.”

Virgil began scanning the room for possible threats. “Who is this?”

A friend, the text to speech voice replied as the words of the message scrolled onto his cell phone's screen.

“My friends have names,” Virgil challenged. “And I'm not calling you Mister Rhee.”

The phone buzzed as the new message scrolled onscreen without activating the translator. Very well, for tonight, I am your oracle. Tomorrow, who knows.

With extreme caution, Virgil made his way toward the twin, swinging, metal doors and peering into the kitchen area. “Okay Mister Oracle, what do you want.”

It's not what I want, it is what you need. Yes or no. You came to Chicago to prevent a friend from making a very serious mistake.

“Yes.”

Harlequin is using Nails' abilities to help her rob the Field Museum. Police and other assets are already on their way there. You need to get there first and get your friend out of there before she makes that big mistake.

Virgil swallowed hard and began moving toward the front door of the diner. “You say this is happening now. How do I know your information is accurate?”

Wonders Virgil Ovid Hawkins, Dakota Union High School Sophomore, costumed crime-fighter.

“Maybe you really are as good as you claim to be.”

Maybe you shouldn't carry your school ID when you're in uniform.

Virgil winced. Fishing his bluetooth headset out of a pocket, he slipped it over his right ear and pocketed the phone.

“Point taken. Obviously, you are party to where I woke up,” Virgil said as he zapped the front door of the diner. Charging his mylar disc the teen hero flew through the opening. “Turn that speech synthesizer back on and tell me oh great and powerful Ozicle, how do I get there from here?”

Things were wrong. Bad wrong. Worse than wrong, wrong.

Allie slunk down the corridor behind the clown-faced ne'er-do-well. How the hell had she gotten here? Harlequin's minions had scattered throughout the museum. Disappearing from sight immediately upon their entry. Only the whimpery giggles from the hyena's could be heard in the oppressive silence. Their hunting sounds echoing off the cold stone, coming at her ears from unexpected directions.

The eerie oppression of the atmosphere was well suited to the mood of her thoughts.

I didn't come to Chicago to be a criminal. Hell, if I didn't do that, I sure as blazes didn't come here to be some two-bit criminal's lackey!

The hyenas came scrambling around the corner, slipping on the slick marble floor. Their alpha running up to Harley and dropping a jangly set of keys into her open palm. The sound of crunching plastic came from the other two. Looking in that direction, she could see them fighting over what appeared to be a walkie-talkie. Their efforts shattering the case and crushing the delicate electronic interior. After a quick pat on the head, the alpha turned and joined its pack in masticating the night-guard's radio.

Allie could feel her skin hardening. The damn meta-infection, as she considered it, always got stronger when she was angry. And now, her anger was bordering on that of the righteous. She came here to someone she thought was a friend. Someone she thought wanted to help her. Someone who said she knew a cure for her malady. Instead, she found the same type of loser users she dealt with back home. The whole situation reeked and the more it stank, the more pissed she got, until she was mad enough to spit nails.

Harley danced over to a locked metal security grate, jingling the keys as she tried various ones until the lock fell open and she was able to slide back the fencing separating them from the Africa exhibit. “Time to pay for that cure Nailsey! Fetch me the statue of the Golden Jackal and all your dreams of normalcy will come true.”

“OH NO you did NOT just tell me to FETCH!”

Cavalry sabers grew from her fingertips as Nails turned and advanced on the clown. Sensing a threat to their mistress, the hyena's charged at Allie, only to be turned aside by a casual sweep of her hands that sent them sliding and whimpering to the far end of the main hall. Turning, Allie marched towards the villainess, the heavy metal clang of her feet striking the marble floor echoing through the entire building.

“I did NOT come to this town to become a criminal! I did NOT come to this town to be anyone's lackey! And I most assuredly did NOT come to this town to FETCH for some clown-faced bitch with delusions of sanity!”

Harley giggled nervously. “Allie, I'm sorry. We moved too fast. You have anger management issues. I can wo...” The cold solidity of a stone wall at her back and the sudden presence of a razor sharp metallic talon at her throat cut off her attempts at speech.

“Not another word clown-bitch,” Allie growled. “I should drive this nail through your throat for what you tried to turn me into.”

“I wouldn't recommend that,” spoke a deep male voice behind her. “Mistress Harlequin made clear that if you weren't with us, you were expendable.”

The back of her neck began to tingle as the immediate clicks of automatic weapons being cocked came from the surrounding crowd of Harley's minions.

Oracle's directions got Static to the museum ahead of the first police cars. Swooping low over the roof, Virgil jogged off of the mylar disk, collapsing and stuffing it into his pocket. Peering down through the skylight, he could just make out movement on the ground floor. As quietly as possible, he jogged over to the roof access. Feeding a shot of voltage into latch, the door sprang open and he slipped inside.

Grinding down the rails in the stairwell, he pulled to a stop at the door to the uppermost mezzanine level. Stepping through the door, he clearly heard Allie's outraged confrontation with the shyster who had lured her here. Relief colored his step as, like a ghost, he glided along the upper balcony. By the sound of things, he no longer had to convince Allie not to take up a life of crime.

Then he heard the deep voice of Harlequin's lieutenant followed by the unmistakeable metallic sounds of weapons being brought to the ready.

Guns.

He hated guns.

A gun had taken his mother away from him.

Holding a gun just once told him more than enough to know that there were certain people who should never be allowed to have them.

Foremost among them.

Criminals.

Allie was tough, but Virgil had no idea if her metal skin was bulletproof. That uncertainty drew at his mind. He watched as she turned to face Harlequin's lackeys while keeping one bladed hand at the villainess' throat.

Virgil reached deep into his power, controlling it in ways he had not previously stretched to achieve. He felt it brush against Allie and he pulled it away from her. Instead, he focused it on the metallic objects that the clown's minions were pointing at her. Reaching out his hand, he grabbed the field lines he had woven with his power.

“You do know that it is not polite to point weapons at a lady!” Static quipped as he yanked the guns out of the criminal's hands, pushed them together and arc-welded the barrels together. A few bends, a twist, and he dropped the now vaguely plow-shaped, yet useless, mass in the midst of the black clad muscle.

Harley's lieutenant looked briefly at his now empty hands then sneered at the gray-skinned girl who still held a blade at his employer's throat. With a growl, he charged. In Nail's momentary hesitation, Harlequin slipped out from between the blade and the wall, punching, chopping and kicking at the steel-skinned teen as she did so. Back-flipping free of the developing melee, Harlequin spun a pirouette atop one of the gallery benches.

“Well, if it isn't Kid Kilowatt,” she drawled. “Patron scourge of the machine dried laundry.”

Virgil leaped onto a bench beside the rail. “Ha. Ha. It seems the clown princess of crime has forgotten that one should never come unarmed to a battle of wits!”

A rush of footfalls on the marble floor drew his attention. As he turned, a black-clad minion lowered his shoulder, ramming it into Virgil's stomach and driving the two of them into the glass rail, which shattered under the impact.

Allie dropped into a split as the man in front of her threw punches at her face. Hitting the ground she swiftly rolled to her stomach, scissoring her legs through those of the guy she had just ducked. Spinning on her hands in a move her former boyfriend had shown her, she raised her legs into the air, clearing a space around her then sprang off her arms and back to her feet. Sliding into a forward karate stance she smoothly transitioned straight into a sweeping kick that launched Harley's Lieutenant backwards, where he landed on two of her other minions.

The crash of breaking glass drew her attention. The fight paused as everyone turned to watch the two figures falling from the upper balcony. The pair twisted through the air, surrounded by a glittering rain of glass. As they neared the floor Static threw his blue, glowing hands behind him, his fall slowing under the influence of his power. With a meaty thud, the hero hit the floor, his opponent landing across his chest a moment later.

Light glinted off the red and black leather of Harley's outfit, the white face paint giving her head a disembodied appearance in the darkness of the museum. “Ooo. Sparky fall down and go BOOM!”

Allie ducked another punch, launching into a gymnastic series of springs and tumbles punctuated by moments of intense violence as she landed steel hard punches and kicks on those who attempted to engage her. Sliding to a stop, she yanked the unconscious minion off top of Static and flung him to the side.

“Metro one one seven two,” Static groaned.

“What?!” Nails hissed as she turned to face the advancing goons.

“The bus that hit me,” he rasped. “Metro 1-1-7-2.”

Nails reached down, grabbed Virgil's arm and pulled him upright, holding him steady as he struggled to get his feet under him.

“Hey Nails,” Virgil coughed. “We should get out of here before this gets any further out of hand.”

He watched Allie's eyes scan the room and lock on the Harlequin. “Not until I've settled my score with the user.”

The young hero took her firmly by the arm. “You already have Allie. You refused her.”

“But...”

“No buts. We go back to Detroit and make sure that she can never run this scam again on any of the bang babies there. But to do that, we need to leave now.”

Cackling laughter echoed through the atrium. "So sweet, but too late Kid Kilowatt. I'm one step ahead of the game." Harlequin's goons formed a circle around them, staying out of the girl's reach. Several of them were now sporting swords and other assorted weapons from one of the exhibit halls.

“Oh, ouch! I think you've just broken the first rule of improv,” Virgil snarked. “Never repeat a line. And as to your goons stopping us from leaving? I don't think so sister, cause me and my home-girl are busting through.”

With that, Static reached out, taking a firm grip on Allie's arms. Sending a charge into her metal skin, he swiftly levitated the two of them to the uppermost balcony and through the roof access. Spinning, he zapped the lock with an electrical jolt that melted the mechanism, making it impossible for Harlequin's goons to follow them to the roof.

Pulling the mylar disc from his pocket he charged it, guiding Allie to crouch in front of him on its surface. As they ascended above the skyline, red and blue flashes became visible surrounding the front of the museum, with more converging from all over the city. For a moment, he thought he saw a dark shadow leaping a narrow alley a few blocks over from the museum, but his phone chose that moment to ring.

He tapped the blue-tooth earpiece. “Hello?”

The high-pitched roaring whine of a foreign made motorcycle, probably some yahoo on an old Ninja, briefly drowned out his ability to hear the other end.

“Hello??”

The phone buzzed again in his pocket. Fishing it out he read the message scrolling up the screen.

“Nice work Static. Your friend came here looking for help, and help she will find.”

The phone made a weird beep in his ear.

“I've just uploaded a number to your phone. Call it and tell them I sent you. They can help.”

Virgil looked at the number displayed on his phone. Briefly he wondered how Oracle was able to do that kind of thing, then he thought better of it. Sometimes, gift horses are better admired from afar, but as soon as he got back in Richie's good graces he was going to get him to tear the programming on this phone apart.

Highlighting the number on the screen, he punched send.

“Doris Zeul.”

Chicago — Warehouse District: February 21st — 5:00am

"Not one step further Zapmeister Fuller!" Lena stood firmly in Virgil's path, fists on her hips, glowering as brunette hair haloed her face like the sparks on a plasma wheel.

"What?"

"Typical boy. Hello, delicate electronics. Teenager with electrostatic powers. Unless you're wearing a number 4 gauge wire grounding strap... You. No. Touchie."

“Static!” Allie growled. “Stop pestering Dr. Zeul's roomate.”

“All I said was that it looked like it was an awesome game system.”

“And you made a beeline for it like she had the new Metal Gear loaded and playing.”

Doris looked up as she snapped her phone shut. “Okay, my friend who does phlebotomy gets off shift in an hour, she's stopping by on her way home with her stick kit. In the mean time, why don't the two of you come over here and lets talk about how this 'Bang Baby' situation in Detroit came about.”

Reluctantly, Virgil pulled himself away from the end of the room containing the computer system. The room's occupants gathered in an office style seating alcove tucked away in the corner beneath the first balcony of the multi-story, apartment that took up one corner of the warehouse. Leaning forward, Doris flicked the switch on a recorder then sat back, crossed her legs and balanced a yellow legal pad on her knee.

“Assuming that Static doesn't inadvertently fry the recording device, this is Dr. Doris Zeul, interviewing subject A, known heretofore as Nails and subject B, known heretofore as Static.” Doris tapped her pen against the pad. “You are both aware that this session is now being recorded.”

“Yes,” chimed the subdued voices of the two teens.

“Lets start with how each of you were exposed to the gas. Static?”

“Me? But I don't...”

“If I'm going to be able to help Nails, I need as much information as possible on how this gas affects people, whether they wish to be changed back, or not. Don't worry, this is under full doctor/patient confidentiality.”

Morning was wearing on as Doris began to go through what they had found so far.

“So Nails, it seems that your emotional state is one of the triggers for your power. The more calm and relaxed you are, the less likely your steel skin is to manifest. Inversely, it will manifest if you are frightened or angry.”

Allie nodded slowly, her mocha skin having re-emerged following a session of deep relaxation.

“Meanwhile, Static's powers seem to have emerged with almost instinctive control.” Doris tapped her pencil against a stack of papers Lena had gleaned regarding the incident in Detroit. “Based on this data, it appears that volume of exposure is a critical element in strength of mutation and level of control, to a point. Beyond that point, the mutation dominates the individual up to the point of causing their death.”

Virgil swallowed hard. Earlier, Doris had shown him a map of the storage yard where the gang fight had occurred. His hiding place had been way too close to the indicated line for that.

“Initial indications in these reports also point toward no more than an average number of those involved in the 'Big Bang' as having the meta-gene. This means that what we are dealing with here is not a meta-gene activation event, but something entirely different, though further research may yet indicate it to be related.”

“So,” Allie stretched. “You're saying that I wouldn't have developed this ability at all without exposure to the gas.”

“There are never any hundred percent certainties, however it is extremely unlikely.” Picking up one of the reports, she flipped it open to a long chemical formula that took up the better part of the page. Grabbing a highlighter, she circled a particular section. “This tells me that whoever came up with the components of this gas had access to work that I was doing for LexCorp before my own emergence. Work that I since have discovered to have been badly misused.”

Turning, she took Allie by the hands. “I cannot promise you that there is a cure for what has happened to you, but I will do what I can to find one.” She tapped the formula. “This is my work, that means that I'm partly responsible for your condition.”

Allie leaned in and hugged Doris. “You I can forgive. Besides Giganta seems to have a fair amount to do now-a-days.”

Still holding Doris, she turned to face Static. “Him on the other hand. Following me everywhere in town and all day at school too...”

Static stared at his feet. “Allie, you're going to have to believe me when I say that up until last night, I was not following you. I think, over the last several hours, we've all come to trust each other here, but you need something more, because that tingle of yours isn't going away soon.”

With that, Virgil Hawkins pulled off Static's mask. “You see, we kinda go to the same school.”

For several months after the Big Bang, the Dakota Union High School lunchroom had been a quiet place. Well, not quiet, quiet, but normal high school quiet. The lower echelon gang-bangers had faded into the background, returning to their non-gang friends for a while. Only recently had the school gangs started to stake out their corners of the cafeteria again as new leaders rose to fill the gaps left by the disappearances of so many back in October.

Virgil drifted through the lunch line, watching his tray be filled with supposedly nutritious gloop in an industrial assembly fashion. Stepping out of the alcove that fronted the kitchen he scanned the room. In the no-mans-land of tables between two of the reconstituting gangs he spied his target. Dodging moving chairs, oversized backpacks and the odd airborne Unidentified Foodlike Object he made is way to the near-empty table.

With a screech of metal chair legs on faux marble flooring, he crashed to a seat across from the scruffy looking blonde kid. “Ya know Richie, I'm beginning to think we need another Big Bang around here. Thin out the pretenders and get us a more peaceable lunch environment.”

Richie slowly looked up from the UFOs on his tray. “So, we're back to buds,” the sarcasm dripping from his voice melting holes in the table. “Just like that.”

“No Richie, not just like that. I was an ass.” Virgil slumped in his seat. “I was afraid, and as a result I refused to try to understand. But, well, some things a new friend of mine said struck home in a way I'm sure she never intended.”

“Virgil!” Allie waved from the lunch line that wound through the cafeteria.

Virgil waved back then gestured to the empty seats surrounding them. Allie, grinning hugely nodded back, flipped a wave and disappeared through the door into the serving alcove.

“Richie, you've been my best friend since elementary school. That is important to me. The only way that I can make up for how I treated you is to try to understand and accept both parts of you. I can't promise that understanding will be easy but I will try. I owe it to you as my friend”

Richie sat there stoically, taking in Virgil's expressions. “Is this supposed to be an apology?”

“No, this is a promise to my best friend. The apology comes Saturday when Frieda lets me escort her to watch this weekend's competition at the skate park.” Virgil looked up in time to catch the shock in Richie's eyes.

“Are you...”

Virgil shook his head vigorously. “Uh uh. Nope, but I do owe her my thanks for that help she gave me back in October.”

Richie sat there a moment, his fingers wrapped around a suspiciously breadroll shaped UFO. “Can she let you know later?”

“Sure.”

A tray landed on the end of the table. “She who, Virgil? And who's your friend?”

Virgil stood. “Allie Langsford, I'd like you to meet Richie Foley.”

Unlike some of our writers, I neither live nor die by my comment count. If you like this story, please 'kudo' it using the 'Good Story' button. This story is complete and stands alone, however I will probably be writing additional adventures for Static and his compatriots. Constructive criticisms, of the writing, the style and the story are always welcome and will help me make future work even better!