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It's dusty and the dirt clings to the eaves of Cherri's place - Poison lingers for a moment before knocking, feeling a sense of appreciation for the fact that, from the outside, the place hadn't changed in ... how the hell long had it been? They aren't sure and they don't care.
Thinking about this makes them realize that there are questions unanswered, and they swallow those questions down just as Cherri swings the door open.
He looks like a fucking mess. Poison takes a half-step back - a sort of shifting of their hips that puts their weight on the foot farther back - and cocks an eyebrow in an expression that is, they think, far too visible without their mask.
They don't actually have shit on them, unfortunately. BLI must have taken it all when they'd been ghosted. The memories of that stir up those same unanswered questions. They'll have to come up soon enough, but for now, Poison shoves them back down again. They shove their hands into dirtied jeans and cock their head a little, taking Cherri in.
"You look like you're about two steps away from the dust, Cola," they say, and Cherri nods absently, but he's staring at Poison like - well, like they're a ghost.
“Come in,” he says, finally, his voice sounding like he’s swallowed sand. He steps aside and Poison nods, sliding in past him.
Cherri’s place hasn’t changed much on the inside, either. There’s a desk with a scattering of radio equipment on it - tapped into the station Dr. D does his broadcasts on. Normally if Cherri wasn’t spinning, Poison would hear Dr. D on low volume, but the broadcast they hear now has an entirely different cadence and tone. It’s too low to really listen to, so they turn their attention elsewhere.
There’s dirt and trash and broken shit everywhere - but that’s life in the zones. Cherri has a mattress on the floor he’s wrapped in a blanket against the far wall, and a fucked-up looking couch, but the place is so small that Poison feels cramped in it and they want to be back outside already.
Maybe part of the reason is because it’s smaller than the last time they were there. There’s a tan curtain cutting off view of an entire corner of the room, and now that Cherri’s got the damn door closed and locked, he stands awkwardly beside it, not quite looking Poison in the eyes.
“The reunion’s shiny as fuck and all, but you said you had something of mine,” Poison prompts, and Cherri nods quickly.
“Yeah. First— here.” He crosses the room to a cabinet, a busted-looking dented metal filing cabinet, and yanks open the first drawer. Reaching inside, he retrieves a ray gun - it’s yellow, but Poison can tell on first glance that it isn’t theirs. One of those Battery City vending machine ones, the ones that come out white, that’s been painted up to look alike, but it doesn’t have any of their mods. Still, they can feel their trigger finger itch already - the walk over to Cherri’s place had been all nerves without it. Cherri hands it to them and Poison goes to slide it into their holster without thinking, but the holster isn’t there. They stop the motion with a jerk, looking almost sheepish, then annoyed.
“Gonna have to get new stripes,” they say, sighing.
“That’s— actually—“ Cherri fumbles with his words, and Poison gazes up at him again, surprised. Cherri’s never had this much trouble talking before. Words come out smooth as water from a tap (pre-Danger, of course) when he’s got those headphones on and the mic in his face.
“What the hell’s hopping you?” Poison asks, flat. They're not gonna tiptoe around Cherri and whatever the hell he’s doing. Cherri just shakes his head, then takes a handful of the tan curtain in his fingers and tugs it aside. It rattles on a rusted tension rod, but Poison gets a full view of what’s behind it.
Four mannequins standing side-by-side, each wearing the Killjoys clothes. These ones are authentic - Poison’s eyes go to the frays they know are in the front corners of their jacket’s waistband and the cigarette burn in Kobra’s collar and the streak of blood in Jet’s sleeve cuff he’d never bothered trying to wash out. For a long moment, Poison just stands there, staring at the display, and then they turn, their hand curling, and punch Cherri as hard as they can.
Cherri isn’t expecting the blow - he stumbles backwards with a shout of pain, loses his balance, and topples to the ground, a hand going to catch himself while the other one automatically cups his jaw. He stares up at Poison standing over him with very little expression on their face.
Poison turns, reaches out, and snatches the collar of their own jacket on display, pulling so hard that the mannequin it had been on crumples to the ground. The arm of it hits Kobra’s, and it wobbles for a moment before stilling, but a well-placed kick from the heel of Poison’s boot lands that one on the ground, too.
“What the fuck,” Poison says, and they throw the jacket at Cherri’s form, but they're stripping, hands going to the unfamiliar belt around their waist. Cherri watches Poison’s hands work, trying to focus on the pain in his jaw - until he realizes that isn’t really helping after all. When did he get this fucked up?
Poison’s stripped down to their shorts and pulling clothing off the mannequin - it fits perfectly - and they turn back to Cherri, shirtless, tugging the pants up over their legs. “How the fuck long has it been, Cola—“ they growl, almost violently snapping the belt in place around their waist. “Two years? Three?”
“Four,” Cherri says, and the movement of his jaw causes a fresh burst of pain through his face. Poison stops for a moment, their fingers stilling, before they're on their knees, grabbing Cherri’s lapels and tugging him forward.
“We move forward,” they say, almost through their teeth. “We got all this space in the zones and there’s still no fucking room for nostalgia. Thought I taught you that.”
Cherri tongues the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. “Needed it.”
Poison wants to punch him again, but they exhale slowly instead. “How’d you get them.”
It’s hardly a question. Cherri figures Poison’s already figured it out, but he knows he has to explain himself anyway. “Back then… at BL/ind. They’d drac'd me and—“
Poison releases Cherri’s lapels and gets to their feet. They don’t want to watch Cherri’s eyes during this conversation, and they busy themselves with retrieving their shirt from the broken mannequin, their eyes on their fingers.
“When you pulled the mask off, that— that broke it for a second, I swear it did. They were gonna put me in the tube, try to reprogram me - not sure why they didn’t ghost me, maybe they were too happy with what me being there had done. To— to you and everyone.”
Poison’s jaw is set.
“Woke up in a room and the four of you were there. Your shells, anyway. They’d stripped everything and they were gonna torch it but—“ He swallows, then shrugs, sitting up from his elbows. “I packed up the lady and split. They weren’t looking for me. You were dead - security was lax. I got outta there and met up with D and the Missile Baby.” He shakes his head, looking away as Poison pulls the shirt over their head. “Took a while for anyone to trust me. Didn’t matter, everything was costa rica after the Killjoys were gone.”
Poison takes in a loud breath. Cherri knows why - they don't want to be a fucking symbol, they never thought “the Killjoys” meant much, they especially didn’t think they were any kind of leader. They’d always say everybody was a Killjoy as long as they were bright and loud and fought the dracs.
“Doesn’t explain why you decided to open up a fuckin’ statue graveyard,” they say, but they're already zipping the jacket in place (despite the heat - covering up helps keep the radiation at bay) and Cherri’s good at reading body language - maybe his second best skill, after shooting - and he knows Poison already feels more comfortable in their own skin.
Getting to his feet, Cherri wipes at the corner of his mouth (even though it’s dry) and sizes Poison up.
“There’s one more thing,” he says, finally. “Got it off a crashqueen trying to fuck the world. And not in the way you’d like.” He goes to the cluttered desk, pulls open a drawer, and takes out the mask.
Poison watches passively.
“Was being sold in a trade shop,” Cherri says, hand outstretched. “Motorbaby found it.”
Poison’s eyes soften at that. It’s the real one, alright - everyone must have thought it was another shitty repro. A Batt City mockery sold in vending machines around the lobby like a mass produced joke.
“I don’t want it,” they say, finally. Cherri’s expression changes, confused. “Burn it.”
“Why the hell—“
“Like the Youngbloods say. Let’s Phoenix this shit.” Poison turns, staring out the dirt-smudged windows into what little they could see of the desert beyond. “That Killjoy’s been ghosted. I took that mask off for the last time. I’ll make something new.”
Poison takes the ray gun from the desk where they'd set it earlier and slides it into the holster, now in place on their thigh. “See you later, Cherri.”
Cherri’s surprised at that - he kind of thought Poison would stick around. No Battery City, no BL/ind, no dracs - what's keeping him out in the zones? He opens his mouth to ask and closes it again. As if anticipating the question, Poison shrugs.
“Gotta get a lay of the land. Keep the airwaves warm, I’ll be listening.”
Cecil would be ending his broadcast soon, probably - and Cherri nods. He’ll take over. And Poison will be back. This time, they'll come back.