Chapter Text
The sun hung low over the horizon, glowing a deep red as the day came to an end, tinging everything it could reach with a delicate pastel red.
The radiant sky appears as though it was set alight; with the sun lying at the center of hues of dark reds and dramatic oranges that spill over the sky, along with the occasional star that is just visible in the dusk light.
The sun sets across the desert, light withdraws from the land and soon the only thing worth looking at is a lithe figure sat on the bonnet of an archaic Trans Am in the empty parking lot of an abandoned 80's diner.
The figure's head is tilted slightly upwards as they observe the night sky. Their posture is relaxed, body propped up by their arms, and legs that are crossed lazily over, with feet dangling off of the bonnet.
Even in the low light, their shock of red hair is still visible, red hair that can only belong to one man;
Party Poison, leader of the Killjoys.
He reaches over and grasps a hold of an old kerosene lantern, the pale blue paint peeling off onto the bonnet due to disuse.
BL/Ind. had scavenged the entirety of California, taking whatever technology they deemed useful, that meant torches, phones, computers, were all gone.
Food had luckily been ignored, meaning the killjoys could travel from abandoned diner to diner and motel to motel, and survive on the food they found there. The other option was to raid the supplies of BL/ind. but considering they were stashed within the walls of Battery City, that option was rarely attempted.
Party digs his hand into his jacket pocket and extracts a cheap lighter. Flicking it alight, he holds the flame against the cotton wick of the lantern until it catches fire.
He releases the catch on the lighter, replaces it within his pocket, then adjusts the vents of the lantern so he's left with a bright orange flame that casts a small circle of light around him.
In the light, he becomes more visible; grey skinny jeans hug his legs while a blue biker jacket with red and white accents across the sleeves, clings to his torso. On the right-hand side of his chest, a small patch reads 'Dead Pegasus' and bears the symbol of a crudely drawn red unicorn.
Adorning the back of the jacket is Party Poisons logo, a red pill with a red cross underneath, all within a red circle.
Boots of similar colours to the jacket cover his feet, while his ever-present yellow ray gun is strapped to his thigh.
A small half face mask sits on the bonnet next to him, mainly yellow with black triangles above and below the eyes along with three blue circles, one on the left side, one on the right and one on the forehead.
The silence that has fallen upon the desert is both suffocating and comforting, and is warmly embraced by Party, who is sick and tired of the fights against the Dracs he is constantly involved in.
Hate them as he does though, he thrives off the thrill of life as a killjoy: The quick and dangerous raids of BL/ind.'s temporary camps, the feel of the Trans Am's engine purring beneath him and his fellow killjoys as they make their way through the desert in a dramatic cloud of dust, the gratitude of the people they manage to save, and, strangely enough, the feeling he gets when he's with Fun Ghoul. Call him a hopeless romantic but Party is head over heels for him.
But of course, Ghoul doesn't know that. Or at least, Party hopes he doesn't, because he knows for a fact that whatever Fun Ghoul feels for him, its definitely not love.
And speak of the bloody devil, Ghouls voice echoes across the empty parking lot, calling out to Party.
"Oi Poison! Get your ass back in the diner!"
Party glances over his shoulder back towards the building in which the killjoys were temporarily residing. He could see the bright flare of a fire within the building, the only source of light visible, aside from the incandescent glow of kerosene lantern.
The once lurid, neon lights that adorned the outside of the building were unlit, due to electricity being a rarity. The front of the diner was dusty and unclean due to it constantly battling the harsh winds that were the only thing the desert could provide.
Old, metal signs advertising things like 'kids eat free after 3pm' and 'Limited Time Only! TDK Slammer', were scattered about the empty parking lot, blown over in said desert wind, and beginning to rust.
It was a beautifully depressing sight - A melancholic burlesque of what once was.
To be honest, as close as he was to the others, he preferred to be alone. Alone to think.
Thinking was something Party did a lot, whether it was looking back on the utter hell he'd been though, or simply how they were going to find their next meal, he seemed to always be deep in his own head.
Months alone shackled in a basement will supposedly do that to a man.
Party took one last look at the sky before sliding off the cars bonnet, grabbing a hold of the kerosene lantern as he did so, and made his way over to the other killjoy.
Subtly, his gaze raked up Ghoul's ever perfect form; A long sleeved yellow shirt with black stripes barely contained muscled biceps while a khaki army vest hung off Ghoul's shoulders just as slightly baggy cargo pants, held up by an old military cord belt, sadly covered up Ghouls fantastic ass. The black, leather shoulder holster that usually held his gun was empty, instead, the painfully green ray gun that never left Ghoul's side was loosely clutched in his hand – protection from the entities that lurked in the dark of the desert.
Black hair that was a similar length to Party's was messily pushed back, tucked behind Ghoul's ears, but a few strands had slipped loose, falling forward to frame his angular face; His soft cheekbones contradicted his structured jaw, of which Party was 90% sure could cut through glass, and thin, pink lips, that Party definitely did not want to kiss, were made even more desirable by a lip piercing that was a plain, black ring that matched the rest of his outfit.
But Ghoul's eyes, were, by far, the most intriguing; The inner circle of colour was a light brown which faded into a light green. Then, the outer ring, was a dark shade of green, so dark in fact, that it could be counted as black.
All in all, Party would never tire of looking at Ghoul.
And before Party could apologize for staring, Ghoul opened that pretty mouth to speak;
"The fuck are you lookin' at?"
Caught unawares, Party stumbled over his reply. "Uh, n-nothing."
Ghoul's eyebrows furrowed and he looked so adorably confused that Party's breathe hitched.
"Right." The other man said, with an air of doubtfulness coating his words.
Party didn't respond, and all of a sudden, a very tense silence sprung up between the two, and Party averted his gaze away from Ghoul's captivating eyes.
"Aw, don't look away, I know you were admiring my good looks."
Party tried to arrange his expression into one of disgust, to cover up the fact that he was indeed, admiring Ghoul's good looks.
"No." He said defensively, fist clenching around the handle of the kerosene lantern. "No, i wasn't."
"Whatever you say, pretty boy." Ghoul responded with a devilish smirk, as he turned and made his way back to the doorway of the diner, leaving the other man behind in shock at the nickname.
After regaining his senses, Party let out a shaky breath and followed the small killjoy to the door of the diner whereupon Ghoul held open the door for Party before following him in.
The vintage style of the place; booths, neon signs, bright in-your-face colours, had long since been ruined; Covered in many a layer of dirt, grime, and even blood from previous fights could be seen around the place. The smashed-in-windows were covered with alarmingly bright blue tarpaulins to hold off the worst of the weather, while the missing glass had been brushed into dangerous heaps to later be constructed into some form of bomb. In the centre of the diner was a fire, which looked like it was actually a small chunk of burning table. It was being watched by the 'mother' of the group; Jet Star.
Jet Stars clothes, consisting of a leather jacket, skinny jeans, boots that reached his mid-thigh, a simple tee, and an astronaut style helmet, were all black apart from his blue ray gun that was strapped to his thigh just like Party's.
He sat absently by the burning table, staring somewhat into space.
"Hey Jet, you okay? I thought Party was supposed to be the one who's stuck in his head" Ghoul questioned.
Party threw him a look before walking over to Jet, squatting down, and placing a hand upon his shoulder.
"Anything wrong Jet?"
Jet lifted his gaze to meet Party's. "No, I just miss the kid."
Party's gaze softened in sympathy, he knew how much Jet cared for the kid. They were practically family.
"I'm sure Dr. D's looking after her just fine" Party reassured before standing back up.
"I know, I know, I just, miss her, ya know?"
"Well we're expecting a broadcast from him soon, so he can give us our next job, we can drop off at his on the way to check in on her." Piped up Ghoul.
Jet smiled at them both, happy to be given the chance to see the kid.
"Oi Party!" Called out a voice. "Catch!"
Party turned around quick enough to catch the small black object that had been chucked his way. It was an electronic razor.
Silence fell over the people within the diner; they all knew the story behind the simple razor. Even Ghoul - who Party was pretty sure hated him with all of his being- was aware of the significance of the story that went right back to the first years of the end of the world. Of the story that went right back to when Party had been captured by BL/ind.
Party looked up from the razor, to see his brother, Kobra Kid, lying on the long 80's style counter.
His bright red, signature leather jacket was slung over one of the few remaining bar stools that stood next to said 80's counter, that also seemed to double as a bar.
He was wearing a shirt that looked like it could've once been a garish yellow and black tiger esque pattern but was now covered in so much grime that the former pattern was now undetectable.
Lanky legs clad in black skinny jeans were nonchalantly crossed over on the counter and laced combat boots were tapping out a rhythm, along to the faint song emitting from the headphones on Kobra's head. The white headphone wire meandered across the counter-top, till it reached its end, where upon a decrepit, dusty Walkman lay discarded amongst the other detritus that had been impetuously relinquished there.
On his hands were fingerless gloves, the leather worn smooth from plethoric use, of which one was propping him up, while the other held an old bottle of Jack Daniels.
"I know you hate it big bro, but your hair's getting too long"
"Right" Party replied, through gritted teeth.
It was typical of killjoys to have drastically cut and colourfully dyed hair. (Except from Jet because he's the responsible one)
Kobra had bright blonde hair, Party's was red and Ghoul's was atramentous.
Party's boots thudded against the tiled floor as he made his way towards the small dilapidated bathroom at the back of the diner.
The door to the bathroom creaked as he pushed it open.
Once he was within the stall, he turned around, shut the door, then locked it.
His hands grasped the side of the sink, the razor lay forgotten on the side.
One shaking hand reached out and turned on the tap before both hands cupped under the flow of water and splashed it on his face.
Out of instinct, his hand stretched out to grasp a hold of a towel before it froze as Party realized his mistake – there was no towel to grab, the few remaining towels had been taken by either BL/ind. or the Killjoys to be used in replacement of bandages. Medical supplies were sporadic and often had to be substituted for things unsuited for the job.
You may be wondering why Party seems to be afraid of a simple electric razor.
Well, there's a story behind his fear.
And that story begins when Party was taken captive by BL/ind.
In the beginning, BL/ind. seemed like the good guys, offering safety to dying civilians.
They operated at the heart of Battery City, and the residents of the city became used to their presence and ruling.
People believed that the world would slowly go back to normal, that humanity would restore itself – that BL/ind. would simply help towards the rebuilding of society.
But alas, they were wrong.
In the year 3024, BL/ind. decided that they wanted more than just brainwashed civilians, they wanted soldiers. Or weapons, rather.
And thus, began the abduction of those who hadn't joined BL/ind.
Within just a few months, thousands had been deported to research labs where they would be tested on or changed into Dracs. Often enduring months upon months of severely harsh punishment before they went one of two ways: Brainwashed Draculoid or dead.
Once people realized that the people taken weren't being given 'a better life' but were, in fact, being essentially murdered, they began to flee the city.
BL/ind, intent on stopping the now refugees, did what China and Germany had done and what Donald trump intended to do, and built a wall surrounding the city.
The wall was a ten-foot-tall, two feet wide concrete slab and on the outside, was a secondary barbed wire fence.
In between the two was a patch of land, which was known as dead-man's land, due to it being vacant except from watch towers every 300 metres and the deceased bodies of those who weren't lucky enough to make it over.
This wall stopped the evacuation of many innocent people, as Dracs were stationed on the watch towers, along with an elite weapons amnesty, and the order to shoot on sight.
-
3026 - Battery City
"Mikey, c'mon, we need to go now. It's the only chance we've got."
"No Gerard! We can't just up and leave Mom and Dad like this!"
"Yes, we can."
"No, we can't!"
"Mikey, they're a part of this. They're part of the reason as to why my back is a scarred, bloody mess!"
"The hell do you mean?!"
"Does the phrase 'repressive government' ring any bells?"
"They're not repressive Gee! They're simply trying to help civilization get back on its feet."
"They whipped me for being gay, Mikey."
Mikey stilled. His countenance changed from an expression of pure rage, to one of disbelief.
"They-"
"Yes Mikey, they did. And yes, it was for being gay."
Mikey let out an exasperated sigh.
"But Gee, we can't just leave Battery City, we have no idea what's even past the walls."
"How could it be any worse than what's inside the walls?"
"Don't be so damn despondent, it's not even that bad here."
"Oh, I'm sorry, did you miss the part where I got publicly whipped for being gay?"
"No, I just-"
"You remember Luke?"
"Yeah of course, he was yo-"
"He got deported for being trans. God knows where he is now."
"That's where he went?"
"No, that's where he got taken. With force. Against his will. And there's been countless other cases like that. And like mine. Battery City isn't a good place Mikey. I mean, everyone has exactly the same life, for God's sake; Same haircut, same clothes, same house, same food. Everyone is just a carbon copy. This entire place had become completely homogenized. Battery City is a world of utopian uniformity. A metropolis of few risks, but even fewer rewards. We're safe, but we're bored. There's no danger any more, but there's no daring either. Fear has been eradicated, but so has freedom." Gerard eyes had fallen victim to a feral look of sporadic fear, and his angry words were emphasized with wild gesticulations.
"And at the head of this tedious existence we now call reality? Better Living Industries! They promise a better life, but only within strictly defined parameters." Gerard paused, and a chilling silence hung in the balance between the two brothers.
"And I don't fit into those parameters, Mikey. I don't belong in Battery City. None of us do."
By now, Gerard had made his way across the dirty room they called home, and was staring longingly out the window, gaze fixed upon the distance grey strip that was the wall that stopped them all from leaving the godforsaken place.
"But out there?" Gerard gestured out of the window, and he turned to face Mikey with a soft, hopefulness in his eyes. "There's something different. Its wild and untamed."
With effort, Mikey swallowed past the lump in his throat and spoke into the cold, unwelcoming atmosphere of the room. "Exactly Gerard, it's unpredictable, we wouldn't survive out there."
"But there's a resistance Mikey." The feral look had returned to his eyes. "A group of people fighting back against BL/ind. A gang of outlaws known as the killjoys. They're building an army."
Mikey looked dubious. "And you want to join them?"
"Yes" Gerard nodded, and his eyes pleaded with his brother.
Mikey sighed again, and a fragile quiet fell over the room as the two stared at each other from across the room.
"When do we leave?"
Gerard's face lit up as he grinned wolfishly. "Tonight."