Um...yeah. So...wow. Been a while, eh? I'm not going to post any long winded author's notes or anything. I'm not going to try and apologize for leaving this story so long...truth be told, I'd pretty much thought it was just going to remain unfinished. Real life moved on and took me with it and fanfiction has really fallen to the wayside these past few years. I still receive reviews on this story almost daily, though, still receive requests for it to be finished, and Cypher keeps poking at me and demanding I write it...so. Here I am. I don't think this will be as long as I had originally planned the ending to be. And I'm sorry, but it's been so long since I wrote these characters, I don't think it will be as good as it was intended to be, but it WILL be finished. So thank you to all who are still hanging around this story. I am truly bowled over by your continued responses to it. I hope this doesn't disappoint.

The makeshift door was little more than a few wooden planks nailed together and crookedly hung from rusty, salvaged hinges. The privacy it offered was illusory, at best, and it did hardly anything to drown out the steady buzz of voices and activity in the base's main chamber. Still, Virgil was grateful for even the illusion of solitude. He sat on the worn, lumpy couch in what this world's Sharon and Adam optimistically termed a living room, alone for what had to be the first time in days.

Days. Only a few days since he and Richie had chased that bang baby into the sewers in their Dakota. Days since they had found themselves tossed into a world that seemed constructed of nightmares, trapped in what surely had to be some version of Hell. Mere days since Virgil had so spectacularly failed the person he would have gladly given anything to protect. How could it only have been days since he and Richie found themselves in this terrible place?

It felt like years.

Virgil swallowed heavily, running one hand back through his dreadlocks before letting it fall to rest with his other hand in his lap. Slowly, he flexed his fingers, allowing a spark of blue-tinged power to race over his knuckles, briefly illuminating the shadowy recesses of Sharon and Adam's dwelling. His expression hardened as he allowed the electricity to dissipate, his gaze darkening as his thoughts turned to what he was about to do.

He was not leaving his partner in the hands of the other him one minute longer than necessary. He was freeing Richie tonight, whatever the cost…and he had no doubt the cost would be high. Sharon, Adam, and the others had all pledged their support, but as much as he didn't want to think about it, Virgil knew that Tech had brought up valid points when he had protested their rescue mission. The other Static's people would be tired from the afternoon's battle, and Virgil knew that there had been injuries, but the fact remained that he and Sharon's people would be launching a full-scale assault on the enemy's home turf. And Static had to know they were coming.

"Virgil? You okay?" He started at the soft voice, his eyes darting to the doorway and landing on Sharon. The other version of his sister was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, regarding him with an expression of concern. Despite the glaring differences between this Sharon and his—for a moment the resemblance was so strong it made his chest ache. He laughed humorlessly, and the concern on Sharon's face melted into a rueful grin. "Sorry, stupid question."

"Shouldn't you be with Adam?" Virgil had left them in the war room about half an hour ago, pouring over city maps and diagrams, trying to choose the best route for their assault. He was under no illusions that he'd be any use in planning an attack in this version of Dakota, and Sharon had insisted he try and get some rest.

As if.

"He's arguing with Hotstreak over where we're gonna surface. Adam thinks Darcy Street's the best way to go, and Hotstreak wants to come up over Fifth."

"Who's gonna win?"

Sharon snorted indelicately. "Doesn't matter, we're going through Pearson Square. I'm the boss around here."

Virgil laughed again, more genuinely. Sharon moved over to sink down on the couch next to him, leaning her head back to rest against the faded yellow cushions. They sat in companionable silence for a few moments. Finally, Sharon sat up again, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees.

"You sure you're ready for this?" she asked quietly. There was no censure in her voice, no doubt, only a soft warmth that his Sharon only ever showed him when she was truly worried. Virgil felt one corner of his mouth quirk upwards in a small smile.

"I am. I have to be," he replied. "I have to do this…I have to get him out of there."

Sharon pressed her lips into a thin line, nodding shortly. "You know we've got your back."

"I know," he said softly, knowing that there would never be enough words to express his gratitude. Still, there was a small part of him, no doubt fueled by the memory of the crying, exposed Sharon he had held in his arms only a couple of hours ago, that still stubbornly clung to doubt. "Sharon, I—this is gonna be dangerous. Like, crazy dangerous. I just…I need you to know I understand if—" His words were arrested when Sharon gently pressed one hand over his mouth.

"It's okay, Virgil. I get it." She smiled sadly at him as she moved her hand to cup his cheek. "But we have to do this, too. This is our best chance, and he has to be stopped." Her voice lowered, becoming barely more than a whisper. "And I-I have to do this. I have to help you save him, and get you home. I know you're not really my brother. Your Richie isn't my friend. But I-I need to know that somewhere, you two are okay. That somewhere, I didn't let you down…and you can have the life they were supposed to have, be everything they could have been. I need that, Virgil."

Virgil swallowed around the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat, reaching up to curl his fingers around Sharon's. He squeezed her hand lightly. "You didn't let them down, Sharon," he said, his voice a rough whisper. "It wasn't your fault. None of it was."

Sharon shook her head. "Maybe someday I'll be able to believe that." Abruptly, she took a deep breath, the vulnerability draining from her expression to be replaced with the brisk determination he had come to associate with this version of his sister. "All right, we'd better get back to the boys-even the rubber duckies can only take so much of Hotstreak's temper."

Virgil nodded shortly, rising and offering a hand to the young woman, helping her up with a gallant flourish. She chuckled a bit as she levered herself to her feet, as had been his intention.

"Clown," she muttered affectionately.

"You know it," he replied, with a fair approximation of his usual cheeky grin. The two of them moved towards the door... as Carmen's voice suddenly reached them from just outside, raised in a shout.

"Sharon! Got a situation here!"

Sharon sprinted for the door, a loaded pistol appearing in her grip seemingly from nowhere, even as Virgil summoned a ball of electricity to his hands. The two of them boiled out of the small dwelling, ready to face down whatever had found its way into the refugees' sanctuary.

They skidded to a halt as they were met with absolutely no evidence of a threat, and Carmen standing in front of them. Slowly, the animal-like bang baby raised his hands raised in a universal "surrender" gesture.

"Yeah," he said slowly, "possibly, I could've phrased that better."

"Carmen," Sharon gritted out, shifting her grip on the pistol to flick the safety back on. The gun vanished into the waistband of Sharon's black jeans, and Virgil let the energy of his powers disperse. Sharon's eyes narrowed as she planted her hands firmly on her hips, and Virgil found himself tempted to take a step back out of range.

"Sorry," Carmen said sheepishly, ducking his head a bit. "But you really need to come and see this."

Richie bit his lip as he carefully slotted the metal panel at the bottom of the security center back into place. His hands were shaking badly, and sweat was pouring down his face in little streams. The salty sting of it in his eyes was distracting, and more than once he'd had to stop and wait for a distressing bout of double (and in one case, triple) vision pass. He'd been half sure he wasn't going to be able to finish—that his body just wasn't up to the work he was asking of it. Even now, he was sure that terror-fuelled adrenaline and sheer stubbornness were all that were keeping him upright.

He pushed himself away from the console, a raw sound of pure pain working its way from his throat. God, everything hurt. He couldn't remember ever being in so much pain, feeling so much despair. He scooted awkwardly across the carpet until his back hit the couch, collapsing limply against the cushions. He closed his eyes and breathed shallowly against the nausea and his swimming head, swallowing harshly as the sour smell of vomit hit him anew.

He done everything he could do. All he could do now was trust that Virgil would arrive in time for his last, desperate effort to be some kind of use. Virgil had to come. That was all there was to it. Richie wasn't sure he had anything left in him to give towards surviving this nightmare, anything left to give towards his own rescue.

He knew he should try and move himself back to the bedroom. The puddle of sick on the floor would alert anyone that he had been in the living room, but the thought of resting his body on a soft surface sounded like heaven at the moment. It was just as well he couldn't find the strength to move, though. Falling asleep was probably not in his best interests.

He let his head fall back to rest against the couch cushions, still panting as hard as if he'd run a marathon and not just made a few adjustments to some circuit boards. He closed his eyes, even the relatively soft daylight streaming in through the windows too much to bear. A sort of haze settled over his awareness and he gladly let himself drift, unaware of how much time was passing until the soft sound of a door opening intruded on his senses. His eyes snapped open, and he ruthlessly bit down on another spike of nausea. Shakily, he raised his head from the couch.

It was Deimos.

Richie clenched his teeth as the taller youth strode into the main room. He paused as he came around the couch, obviously not having seen Richie from the angle at the doorway. Except for a single, arched eyebrow at the mess Richie had made on the floor, the other man didn't react at all to seeing Richie out in the main living area. He merely stopped by the edge of the couch, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared down at Richie's prone form.

Richie stared back, some small spark of remaining defiance refusing to let him be the first to speak. The silence stretched between them, thick and interminable, and even the minimal effort of tilting his head back to focus on Deimos's face was almost too much for him. Finally, though, the other youth's lips thinned.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"Trying to catch Oprah," Richie spat. His tongue felt heavy and thick in his mouth, and he really, really didn't like the way his words were slurring. "It's Favorite….Things week."

Deimos's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he glanced between Richie and security console. Despite his bravado, Richie felt a new thrill of fear course through him at the consideration in the other youth's gaze. After a moment, though, Deimos sighed heavily and held up one hand.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked.

"What does it matter?"

A low sound that was almost a growl rumbled in Deimos's throat. "Because if you keel over from an aneurysm, I'm the one that has to clean it up. How. Many. Fingers?"

Richie blinked tiredly, trying to force his wavering vision to focus for a moment. "Three?" he finally hazarded.

"You asking or telling?"

"It's a…useless test anyway. Blurred vision is a common….symptom of all three grades of c-concussion. My brain could….be bleeding out into my skull for all I know."

Deimos snorted indelicately. "You're too coherent for a skull fracture."

Privately, Richie wasn't too sure about that.

Deimos sighed again, raking one hand back through his hair before he leaned down. Despite himself, Richie flinched backwards, instantly regretting it as the abrupt movement jarred his head. For a moment, just a moment, he thought he saw an expression of discomfort flash across Deimos's face. It was gone in an instant, though, the other youth's features dropping back into a blandly disinterested mask, and Richie was left wondering if he had imagined it.

"You puke on me, you will regret it," Deimos muttered darkly, before he slid one arm around Richie's shoulders and smoothly pulled him into a standing position.

The world tilted alarmingly at the change in altitude, and a strange popping noise filled Richie's ears. Black spots started to swim across his vision, and he couldn't bite back a groan. Surprisingly, Deimos's grip became stronger as the taller man took almost all of his weight. After a few moments, the vertigo settled into more manageable levels, and Richie forced his legs to bear up under him. Deimos waited until he steadied himself before slowly moving them towards the door to the bedroom Richie had woken up in.

"You know, you'd make things a lot easier on yourself if you'd just stop fighting him," Deimos said almost conversationally as they hobbled across the short distance. Richie tensed, but remained silent. He felt more than saw Deimos shake his head ruefully. "You're not that much of an idiot. Sharon Hawkins and her rats haven't managed to breach this place in three years. Do you really think your Static is gonna make that much of a difference?"

"What…what d'you care?" Richie mumbled finally. They crossed the threshold of the bedroom.

"I don't," Deimos said bluntly. "But bloodstains are a bitch to get out of the carpet." He helped Richie over to the edge of the bed, lowering him down onto the mattress. He took a step back once Richie was settled, regarding him critically. "You really don't know what Static can do to you. You think the basement was—"

Richie laughed suddenly, cutting the other man off. The sound was like the grate of broken glass in his throat. Though wholly unaware of it, he presented a ghastly picture—one eye swollen nearly shut, blood painting his split lips and still trickling down his chin, hair falling in his face in matted clumps.

"What?" Richie gasped. "What's he gonna do, kill me twice?"

The irony of the words didn't strike him until he saw Deimos recoil slightly. For the second time, that strange expression of unease chased itself across the youth's pale features. Richie laughed again, bitterly, and slowly lay down on the mattress, curling himself into as tight a ball as he could. "Leave me alone," he muttered, shutting his eyes. "Just leave me alone."

Deimos stood over the bed for a few moments more, then slowly turned and left the room. Richie followed the sound of his steps, refusing to open his eyes and watch the other man leave. At last, the sound of the bedroom door sliding shut echoed through the room. Richie lay still, just breathing through the pain that was still radiating from what seemed to be every part of his body.

Virgil would come. He had to. That was all there was to it.

"Please," Richie whispered softly, not really sure who he was even pleading with at this point. "Please…"

Virgil would come.

Even more so than the broken and blistered shell of the city, the outlying areas and neighborhoods of Dakota were a no-man's land. The north side of the city limits, closer to Gotham, was still home to a few stragglers who were either too stubborn to give up what little of their lives remained, or genuinely had nowhere else to go. There were not even stragglers, here. A few of the smaller gangs of bang babies had set up operations in the area after Static had taken over, but they hadn't lasted long.

Most of the houses and buildings had been destroyed in turf wars, or were the casualties of clashes between the Justice League and its allies and Luthor's minions. The parks and small pockets of natural forest, once a beautiful, peaceful respite from the bustle of the city, had begun to go wild in the intervening years. Brush and new saplings were beginning to swallow the streets and foundations of buildings. Though it would be years, yet, before the traces of the battles that had been fought here would disappear, if they ever did, there was something hopeful in the presence of the growing things...something that seemed to suggest that not everything in this world was destruction and darkness.

Just for the hell of it, Nightengale threw out one hand, effortlessly forming a cloud of dark matter at her fingertips, and sent a wave of pure shadow at a small stand of flower bushes, razing them to the ground.

Stupid flowers.

The crunch of her boot heels on the glass and debris strewn across the remains of the road leading back into Dakota proper was the only sound in the otherwise eerily still night. Nonetheless, the girl's eyes darted continuously over her surroundings, and the dark tendrils of her power swirled around her in a restless halo. These parts of Dakota had been abandoned by the residents almost immediately after Static had consolidated his power base, and by the remaining gangs after Ebon's ill-fated bid to take Static out. That did not mean there was no one left, though.

A soft noise reached her ears, suddenly, from somewhere to her left. A grim smile twisted her elfin features, and she paused in the middle of the street, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I know you're there...you might as well come out and talk to me," she sing-songed into the night. Her smile widened into an unpleasant smirk as seconds later, she was rewarded by the sound of slow, deliberate footfalls drawing closer. Silently, she grabbed the pair of cheap sunglasses dangling by one arm from the neckline of the thin, black tank top she wore and slipped them on. Protective gear in place, she at last turned to face the owner of the footsteps, widening her stance slightly and planting her hands on her hips. An intense purple glow, the hallmark of the Bang, lit up her immediate surroundings.

"What do you want?" The words were growled out, suspicion and dislike dripping from every syllable.

Nightengale lifted a single eyebrow, the smirk deepening on her features. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?" she tsked, raising one hand to wag her index finger in a mockingly chiding gesture.

"We're not friends. Crazy bitch. What the hell do you want?"

"A little favor. Nothing major-well, not for you. We just-"

"Not part of the deal, Birdie. I helped you root out the rest of your NightBreed freak friends...I help you, Static leaves me alone. Those were the terms. I kept my end of the bargain."

"And now Static wants you to help him again. Last time...honest." Nightengale smiled nastily. "Two days work, tops. And then you never have to hear from us again."

Her proposal was met with a rude snort of amusement. "I don't have to hear from you now. I'm leaving. Find someone else to do your boss's dirty work."

The smile vanished from Nightengale's face. "Oh, you really don't want to do that," she said coldly. "Deny it all you want, but you know we can make life very, very hard for you."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Doesn't have to be that way. There's no reason why we can't all be friends. No reason we have to ever bother you again. But honestly, what are you going to do? You can't leave Dakota...you'd be killed on sight."

Her words were met with icy silence for a few moments, and then came a heavy sigh. "What do you want me to do?"

Nightengale tilted her head, the smile returning full force. She giggled sweetly, the cloud of dark matter twining around her body. "I knew you'd see things our way, D-Struct."

TBC...no, for real. I've already started the next chapter. Promise! Aaaaaaand...the showdown is finally happening!