Short Static Shock/Justice League ABW meander
Freefall
CATEGORY: AU – ABW. Static Shock/Justice League, Spoilers for ABW, and Static Shock’s A League of Their Own., okay and the first few Static Shock episodes.
RATINGS/WARNINGS: It’s ABW-verse, beyond that, actually not much beyond the P of the G.
SUMMARY: Stream of Consciousness Static. Waste not want not.
DISCLAIMER: I own none of the above.
And I’m making the assumption that Virgil/Static, who has made comments about Pyrrhic victories, has read at least that book of the Divine Comedy in which Virgil the poet kicks major posterior.
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With six eyes he was weeping
Well, except Virgil doesn’t have six eyes. Two eyes and some goggles. Cracked. Fallen. Two eyes then. With two eyes Virgil was dry and watching.
Blink.
Virgil’s wrists itch.
Well, actually, all of Virgil itches. Crackles of ghost ants over skin and out and away. Gone. And they all fall down.
Down.
That would be nice.
Staring the monitor’s display of the blue marble passing mildly by. White capped and surge protected.
Blink.
Hell has frozen over. The angel beats six great bat wings, flap, flap, flap. Freezing the river. Trapping himself in the ice. Stupid angel. Trix are for kids.
Stupid Virgil. Thinking to just sail on down nine levels of dark and insert inspirational “This is whacked” speech here. Heroics are for clay and they all fall down.
Down.
His feet are cold. Tingly.
Giggle.
Boys don’t giggle. Boys dry eyed Gear. All blond and fly and roller jetting white cement wet red smack. God knows if even a robin falls to earth. Spinning. Round. Round. Round.
Virgil wonders how long time flies when you’re hangin’.
The white door in the white wall opens. Oh.
He walks in. A dark blot in a white blurring glare.
Blink.
He looks at some panels that Virgil can’t see. Clicks some buttons that Virgil imagines are red and green and color. White room. Black Knight. Black Bruce. Giggle
He looks up, “You’re still going through a growth spurt. That’s another inch in the last month.” He taps several more controls. The ceramic cuffs around Virgil’s wrists and ankles move a few microns of comfort.
Virgil tries to think of something that he hasn’t already. Virgil’s mouth is dry.
Tantalus. Virgil gets all his liquids these days from an I.V.
Sisyphus.
Virgil and Octavian sitting in a tree.
“Pyrrhic.” It’s a sand paper of a croak of a whisper.
He looks Virgil in the eyes. “You of all people should understand what we’re trying to do.” He moves around Virgil where dry eyes cannot see. Probably examining wires and nodes and ceramic buffering bits that drain snap and crackle and pop away into Watch towered displays. Whispers back into view. “You could be out there saving lives right now instead of playing battery.”
He touches some more controls. The monitor behind the thick plastic clear shifts from a blue marble to an aerial shot of silent mom waiting. So, it’s that time of year again. There are red roses next to dad and sis’ carnations. Sisyphus. Tantalus. Bastard.
Virgil swallows, waits, swallows, says, “Back.”
He switches the monitor back to the sun is setting. Lights coming on in the eastern seaboard. Boarded seas and boys with crackling fingers and blink.
He’s gone. Whatever. He’ll return. Dials to check. Channels to flip. “Hubris.” That’s it hubris. Next week. Hold the word. World. Watch. Towers in Jericho crack and angels fall down and don’t get up.
If Virgil can just get the amperage right.