Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If Jet-Star was going to die, she was going to go down fighting.

The thought consoled her somewhat as she reloaded the battery of her zap, sliding the new cartridge effortlessly into the gun, and heard the satisfying click of it fitting neatly into place. She was relieved – although it had never happened to her, jamming her zap during a reload was an anxiety that lived in the back of her mind. Right now, with a laser beam clipping her right ear and singeing her curls, Jet was more grateful than ever that she kept on top of her zap maintenance. Even if it made the others laugh, waving their own shoddy, unkempt guns around as if they were toys, she understood the importance of being prepared. She could imagine Ghoul’s snicker: yeah, yeah, Jetty – save it for the Girl Scouts.

Back pressed against the door of the Trans AM, Jet rubbed the bead bracelets clasped around her wrist and murmured a quick prayer to the Phoenix Witch that she’d be able to get out of this mess. The heavens didn’t immediately open up and dump a deus ex machina in the sand, but she hoped the Witch heard her call. While the baby carriage was strong (Party liked to claim it was “bulletproof”, neglecting to mention the holes in the hood and the dents in the doors), it only provided temporary cover in a clap. If Jet had been quicker on her feet, she could’ve made it back to the driver’s seat before the draculoids got within firing distance. Now, though, there was no way to make a getaway without getting her head blown off in seconds.

Still, she couldn’t crouch behind the Trans Am forever. The dracs were getting too close for comfort.

Clutching her zap close to her chest, Jet ducked out from behind the baby carriage and stumbled to the left, quickly extending her arm to fire a shot at the nearest drac. There were six of them, too many to be a coincidence, and Jet had only managed to take down one before she’d crawled behind the car. Five were still on their feet, armed, and one was close enough for her to hear the strange inhuman growling sound that seemed to come from deep in their chests. It wasn’t human. Jet could imagine the heat emanating from underneath the mask, stinking of halitosis, and blowing across her face. The intimate burn of a zap being fired close to the body, burning a hole straight through the flesh. But she couldn’t let herself go there.

Two quick shots, boots slipping in the powdery sand, and Jet was closer to safety than she was a few minutes ago. The nearest drac took a hit to the shoulder and grabbed sluggishly at the wound with their right hand, dropping their zap into the sand. Bouncing off the tailend of the Trans Am, the other crippled a drac at knee-level and caused them to keel over as if they were made of flimsy paper. Physics, baby! While the creatures didn’t have any empathy for their allies – not rushing to check if their fellow draculoids were okay – they seemed to be confused by the sudden bursts of light. As Jet had expected, they weren’t intelligent enough to calculate where she would be emerging from as she jumped out from behind the baby carriage. Taking advantage of the moment, she darted towards the Dead Pegasus, which had seemed so close just a few minutes ago. If only there had been a decent parking space by the gas pumps.

She had no idea where the owners of the other baby carriages were, the ones that had been abandoned right outside the gas station. Had they already encountered these dracs and been less lucky than her? Or (and this thought filled her with a sense of dread) were these same draculoids all that remained of the killjoys who had come to Dead Pegasus before her? Stuffed into a mask and brainwashed to kill?

That would explain why Jet hadn’t seen any bodies littered in the sand.

Her mind elsewhere and the dracs in her peripheral vision, Jet was completely unprepared to feel the full weight of a body slamming into her and sending her sprawling to the ground. She hit the sand hard, not having time to break her fall or roll away, and the air was knocked out of her. When she tried to scramble to her feet, the mass of another body pressing down on top of her kept Jet from getting up, only managing a weak squirm. A kick of her legs. It reminded her, strangely, of when The Girl had been learning to crawl and was working on pushing herself up off her belly, only managing to flail her legs before falling back down. Back then, Jet had been gentle: oh, querida, did you fall? My poor bebê… Let me see those little hands. On the other hand, Ghoul had been encouraging, yet persistent: fuck yeah, Girlie, ya almost got it that time! C’mon, ya got this. Get ya ass off the ground an’ let’s get movin’, kiddo!

Now, Jet strained to pull her arms from underneath her and pressed her palms into the sand, thinking of her boyfriend’s stitched-up smile. Get ya ass off the ground!

There was a grunt from the other body, digging an elbow between her shoulder blades stubbornly.

“Shit, idiot–! Stay down!”

If it wasn’t for the flash of light indicating a laser beam passing over their heads, Jet might have ignored them completely. But she nodded and lowered her head, hair escaping from its ponytail and obscuring her view of anything other than the sand. There was also something recognisable about the gruff voice, which kept her from going against their orders: nobody from her crew, obviously, because they were all too far out to have made it here, even if they’d been alerted to the firefight early on. But it was somebody she knew, somebody she’d be able to place immediately if Jet was able to glimpse their face.

Head down, she only had a faint sense of safety to rely on. The fight was no longer in her hands, one-on-five, and her life wasn’t hanging precariously in the balance like it was a few moments ago. Somebody she trusted was here and, finally, letting her up off the ground. A hand grabbed the back of her nametag and yanked on it hard, pulling her upwards like a puppet on its strings, and ordered her to run!

Blindly, Jet did so, and trusted the other to push her in the right direction. Throughout the mad dash, the large hand didn’t stray far from her back and occasionally pressed between her shoulder blades to continue urging her forward. As if she needed encouragement.

They had covered most of the ground towards Dead Pegasus, the cheerful ‘open’ sign visible on the swinging door, when Jet’s hair was blown back out of her face and she was finally able to glimpse her saviour: a tall, broad man, dog tags dangling around his neck and blue streaked through his overgrown hair, grinning as they charged towards the gas station. The hot pink mask covered most of the damage the radiation waves had done to his face.

“Cherri Cola!”

The man glanced back at her, amused by her cry of surprise, and dodged behind the baby carriage parked at the gas pump for cover. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as his breath caught up with him, but still Cherri let out a soft laugh and turned to grin at her. It didn’t look like the draculoids had landed a single shot on him – but that was often the way with Cherri Cola, the best shot in the zones.

“The one an’ only, Jetty.”

She grinned back at him, despite the situation, and grabbed hold of his outstretched hand without hesitation. Darting out from behind the car, the two of them ran towards the building of the gas station and Cherri crashed through the door unceremoniously. The bell announced their entrance to the empty room. As soon as the door swung shut behind them, (and Cherri had dragged the magazine rack in front of it for good measure), Jet felt some of the tension leave her body and her shoulders slumped a little. For the first time since she’d left the lighthouse that morning, she was able to draw a full, deep breath.

Checking herself over quickly for injuries, Jet was relieved to find that she’d made it out of the fight unscathed, aside from a little blood where the laser had grazed her ear. She looked at the stark red that came away on the tips of her index and middle fingers with a sigh, then wiped them clean on her shirt. It would heal by itself. There was a fresh tear in the knee of her pants, but it would be easy enough to stitch up once she got back to the lighthouse. Nothing to worry about.

Cherri slid his zap back into the holster on his hip.

“Ya okay?”

Even though they weren’t the closest of their little group, Jet and Cherri had been good friends for over a decade now and she knew that the concern on his face was genuine. He was a great guy, who stuck to his principles and helped those in need, and Jet understood why half the zones fell for him. It didn’t do any harm that he was roguishly handsome, like he’d stepped straight out of an action movie.

She nodded. Echoing her body language from a few minutes ago, Cherri exhaled a sigh of relief and seemed to relax too, hand moving up to scratch at his sunburnt neck. Both of them had made it out of the clap without injuries: in the zones, that was a miracle in itself and Jet rubbed thoughtfully at her bracelets again. Thank you.

Maybe it was just a coincidence, but she swore the sun seemed to light up the room a little more.

“So, where’s ya back-up?”

There was a thump, as Cherri dumped his messenger bag on the counter and began to peruse the bruise-coloured shelves. Obviously, any essential supplies had been pilfered from Dead Pegasus decades ago, but there was an unspoken policy in the zones to replace the items on the shelves with whatever you could spare. A trading system of sorts, strictly anonymous. If you could afford to leave something behind, it was common courtesy to replace whatever you took – the same rule applied to the magazine rack. Between the handful of capable killjoys in the zones, there was usually something to browse in the gas station, (although there were a few assholes that blew through on occasion and cleaned out the place).

“Kobra went down to the racetrack. He didn’t tell you?”

“There a race today?”

“No, he’s just practising.”

She watched as Cherri took something off the shelf and turned it over in his hands, studying the battered action figure with some interest. It was obvious from the expression on his face that he was weighing up whether or not it was worth taking. Jet took the moment of quiet to tug her hair tie loose and scrape her hair back, securing it in a knot at the nape of her neck. After a minute passed, Cherri came to a decision and shoved the toy into the pocket of his nametag, replacing it with a can of Power Pup from his bag.

“Girlie has plenty of toys already.” Jet reminded him, gently, even though she found it endearing.

Cherri shrugged her off.

Since he was always visiting their home, spending almost as much time there as he did at the radio station, The Girl had come to see him as an uncle figure. In return, Cherri played with her for hours at a time: he roughoused lightly, sat through countless makeovers, and showed her how to make a mixtape. The two of them were close. Unlike Party Poison, Jet wasn’t jealous of their special friendship: she had grown up in a house full of people, with both older and younger siblings, and knew family relationships weren’t interchangeable. There was more than enough love to go around.

Now the danger had been placated – the dracs were still wandering idly in the distance, waiting for anyone else foolish enough to approach the gas station, but seemed to have forgotten about pursuing Jet – the two of them could pause and consider their next course of action. There was the matter of rescuing the Trans Am, of course, because Party would never forgive her for leaving their baby behind. Especially where anyone could get their hands on it. But, with Cherri Cola (of all people) here to cover her ass, getting home didn’t seem like a pipe dream anymore.

She perused the magazine rack while she waited for Cherri to finish sorting his supplies, flicking through the old issues of Murder and Android Sheep. A few original zines littered the racks, ranging from Cherri’s old poetry ones, to a political piece about pornodroids, to the latest issue of M&M&M, an art collective which included borderline disturbing material. There wasn’t anything that Jet hadn’t read already, not that it surprised her. Ghoul liked to joke that she’d read every book, magazine, and zine in the zones a hundred times over and, although she would argue that she wasn’t the biggest bookworm out here, there was some truth to it. The zones had limited reading material, as any joy could tell you, and growing up as a sand pup meant that Jet had seen it all. It was her only way of learning about the world beyond the California desert, life before BL/ind had taken control of everything, which she yearned to know more about.

Of course, her parents remembered what things had been better, having watched things grow from bad to worse throughout their lifetimes. And their parents – Jet’s grandmother and grandfather – had come to this country when BL/i was just a small start-up company, like any other business, and saw the desert for the first time when they were in their early 20s.

Hearing about her grandparents’ childhood, even if it was through secondhand accounts from her mamãe, was like reading a fantasy novel set in a faraway land. Jet struggled to comprehend that that other world could even exist, let alone that her own grandparents had lived in it. Six years old, curled on her mother’s lap, she had asked in bemusement: but what did they eat if they hadn’t invented Power Pup yet?

Her mamãe had looked at her with a sad, grown-up look that Jet hadn’t understood until later.

Usually, Jet told people she was Puerto Rican because most killjoys, with their limited geography, knew what that meant. But it was a little more complicated than that: her mother’s family hailed from Portugal, which was why Jet spoke Portuguese first and (due to her Puerto Rican father) Spanish second. English, despite being the one she spoke most often, was technically her third language. Jet had never been able to fathom why any of her grandparents had moved here in the first place. Although, she supposed, she wouldn’t have been born if they hadn’t: her parents were sand pups, just like Jet and her siblings.

Jet loved her life out here, unlike many of the joys who had been forced to flee Battery City. But she longed to learn about the world outside of her small, starved one. She’d heard her mamãe’s stories enough times that she could recite them from memory and had already demolished every piece of reading material that was available. Whenever she met somebody new, Jet wanted to hear about their experiences: what they’d seen, where they’d been, who they knew. She kept notes about the most interesting things she’d learned in her journal. While the others might tease, she couldn’t help dreaming of more than this. A bigger world. Maybe that was the reason she loved outer space so much.

“Ready to head back? Y’all are still at the motel, righ’?”

When she looked up from the magazines, Cherri was buckling his bag shut and slinging it over his shoulder again. He was devilishly handsome when he was in full ‘killjoy mode’, Jet had to admit, and, on occasion, she caught glimpses of what made joys of all ages mail in lovestruck poetry to his radio show. There was something about his expertise, combined with his age, and the old scars displaying how the zones had hardened him. But it disappeared in a flash, like a schoolgirl crush, and Jet nodded to him.

“Ya can take the lead, Jet-Set. An’ I’ll cover ya.”

Another nod as she moved the magazine rack away from the door, so it was no longer obstructing the exit, and checked that her zap was ready for action. Reliable as ever.

Some people said there was no closer relationship than that of a killjoy and their zap. While Jet wasn’t as obsessive about hers as others were, she thought the idea held some water. Jet had a respect for her old gun, which had stuck by her for years now, even if she refused to give into the badgering from the others about giving it a name. She hadn’t given her favourite stuffed animal (an elephant, passed down by her brother) a name when she was a kid – she wasn’t about to name a weapon.

Sliding the door open, the cursed bell jingled again and Jet caught her breath, wondering if it would alert the draculoids to the fact their prey was leaving the nest. But, if they were smart enough to make the connection, it didn’t show. Two of the three remaining dracs were wandering aimlessly in the sand – if they had been killjoys before, there was no spark leftover from their rebel days – and the other seemed to have mistaken a rat for a target. It kept shooting blindly into the sand, too sluggish to hit the skittish animal. As the two killjoys crept towards the Trans Am, Jet could only pray that they remained distracted.

When they were close enough to read the graffiti scrawled on the vehicle, one of the dracs jerked towards them suddenly and Cherri fired without hesitation, nailing it directly in the chest. As their comrade crumpled to the ground, it alerted the other dracs to their presence and Cherri fired again, his laser hitting another in the shoulder without taking them down. Jet felt a heavy hand on her back, shoving her forward, and she took the cue to bolt towards the baby carriage. She heard a third shot being fired but didn’t get to see where it landed, too focused on running across the sand without slipping.

Pointing her own zap backwards, Jet shot blindly and heard a gurgle that indicated she’d hit something inhuman, although she didn’t get the chance to celebrate. Relentless, Cherri gave her another push and she tore her gaze away, back to the car.

As they reached the Trans Am, Jet wrenched the door open and dived into the driver’s seat, jamming the keys in with the expertise of someone who’d been a getaway driver many times before. It wasn’t exactly the first time she’d needed to flee a scene quickly. She turned the keys and the engine grumbled pathetically, refusing to start up. Cherri, who had leapt over the door and into the passenger seat, shot her a frustrated look as if she was doing it on purpose. She tried again.

“Start the car, Jet!”

Equally as frustrated, she jiggled the keys: “It does this sometimes!”

“Whaddya mean?! Get ya damn baby carriage fixed!”

“Kobra’s working on it! Shit–”

“Drive, drive, drive!”

Thankfully, the car started this time without any problems (four really was her lucky number) and Jet peeled away from Dead Pegasus quickly. A drac, lopsided on a broken leg, lifted their gun and pointed it right at the windshield, preparing to fire. Expecting Cherri to fire his zap, Jet was startled when a hand grabbed the wheel and yanked it hard, causing the car to veer violently to the left and ram directly into the remaining draculoid. There was a sickening crunch as the body crumpled on impact: Jet expected it to bounce off the hood and go flying, like Kobra hit other cars on the race track, but it sank to the ground and made a worse noise as it was crushed by the wheels. She thanked the Witch they’d gotten the tires reinforced.

Once Dead Pegasus was fading into the static, Cherri pumped his fist in the air and let out a victorious whoop. His enthusiasm was contagious and Jet smiled, letting out a shaky laugh.

Despite the number of near-death experiences they lived through every day, she was grateful for each victory. Surviving a clap was always something worth celebrating. She made a mental note to head to the mailbox soon and say a quick prayer for the lost souls turned into draculoids, though she doubted their masks would turn up if she went back and combed the scene. Maybe the Witch would make an exception. Either way, Jet would do something to ease the guilt in her stomach.

“I mean, tha’ shot was fuckin’ phenomenal! Ain’t seen anythin’ like it!”

“Hmmm?” She had a tendency to tune out Cherri’s rambling.

“Ya takin’ down that drac wi’out even lookin’! Best shot I ever seen!”

The other joy slapped her triumphantly on the leg, eyes bright with the adrenaline of making it out of yet another fight alive, and laughed loudly. Cherri Cola was the kind of guy who earned a high from brushes from death, seeking out danger just for the sake of it. Jet never commented. Of all the highs Cherri chased, playing hero was simultaneously the most reckless and the least detrimental to his health.

He continued to jabber (Cherri never cared whether the other person in the conversation was listening) as he switched on the radio, fiddling with the dial until he found a decent station. It was playing something upbeat and don’t care-ish, although Jet didn’t recognise it, and it boosted Cola’s good mood even further.

Jet focused her attention on the route, eyes fixed on the road ahead, and hoped Ghoul would be home when she got there.

Chapter Text

When they pulled up outside the desolate motel building, there wasn’t anything immediately out of place or different. Live in the zones for long enough and your eyes become trained to notice the smallest changes: signs which have been knocked askew, a few more sets of tire tracks than there should be.

Jet was accustomed to casting a cursory glance whenever she arrived back at the lighthouse, making sure nothing had changed since she had set off that morning. She had learned how to spot the early signs of trouble before she had learned how to talk (although the latter had admittedly taken her a while).

Luckily, it didn’t seem like anything was amiss. The cracks climbing up the walls, the sign (which had been a victim to years of graffiti by now) advertising a long-dead business, and the thick layers of dust on the windows were all as Jet remembered. Ghoul’s neon green paint still decorated the lobby door. Despite Jet’s prolonged absence, nothing seemed to be wrong.

Just like there wasn’t anything wrong at Dead Pegasus? The small, negative voice prodded from the back of her mind, unable to let her forget how quickly and thoughtlessly she had driven up to the gas station.

“Looks like Kobes’ got back safe.” Cherri commented, unable to disguise the relief in his voice.

Turning her head further, Jet noticed it’s bike was leaning up against the side of the motel, the wheels coated in a fresh layer of sand. How had she not noticed it sooner?

Her eyebrows pulled together in a frown as she contemplated her second mistake of the day. Maybe she was getting sloppy in her old age – city folk might tease her for referring to 30 as old, but the life expectancy for killjoys was completely different – or maybe it was something to do with the recent hole in her vision.

It had been around six months since she’d lost her eye and Jet was still learning to compensate for the complete lack of sight on her right side. Never had jokes about her having a blind spot been so accurate. Especially when someone tossed her something and it soared past her outstretched hands, making all of them laugh. Recently, Jet thought she had finally adjusted to losing half her vision and most of her depth perception. But today’s developments worried her a little.

She killed the engine and jumped out of the driver’s side of the baby carriage, hearing Cola do the same across from her. In unison, the two of them walked towards the main entrance of the motel, a veritable stroll compared to the way they’d charged the gas station earlier. Jet pushed open the door and stepped into the main lobby, which had come to resemble a cloakroom-meets-supplies-store since they’d set up camp here.

There was laundry drying on the main desk, a radio set-up covered in hastily scribbled notes, and stacks of scrap metal in a lopsided pile. Ghoul and Kobra were always talking about setting up a real workshop for the two of them, but they were never in any one place long enough for it to be justified. The place was a mess – but Jet couldn’t help smiling as she stepped over a toy abandoned on the dirty rug.

“Kobes!” Jet called in the direction of the motel rooms, where she suspected her crewmate was probably fast asleep, “I brought you a present.”

There was a thump, followed by a groan, before one of the doors swung open and a zombielike Kobra squinted at her from the doorway. Judging by the fresh scar slitting its eyebrow in half, she guessed that he had fun down at the racetrack (it always joked that real racing came with a little hazard).

Kobra shot her an inquisitive look, questioning what his gift was, and Jet jerked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of his boyfriend, who was leaning against the reception desk. Whether Cherri was aware that his leg was resting against damp laundry (and that his camo pants were rapidly growing damp as a result) was up for debate. But it didn’t stop Kobra from grinning, pushing a hand lazily through his bedhead, and slinking over to plant a kiss on his lips. It would have been sickening, if it wasn’t so adorable.

Jet turned away from them, heart aching for her own boyfriend, and shrugged her nametag off to the murmured soundtrack of today’s races being discussed. She tossed it onto an idle chair and removed her sunglasses for good measure, folding them on top of her jacket. While Kobra might be able to get away with wearing sunglasses all hours of the day, due to its famously low vision, Jet suspected that wearing hers around the motel would make her look like an asshole.

“Any sign of the motorbaby?” Jet cut across their conversation.

She picked up the plastic toy car that was strewn across the middle of the room, waiting for somebody to slip up on it, and placed it safely on the desk. No doubt it would get lost among the clutter, leading to The Girl fussing later, when she realised that her toy wasn’t where she left it. But it seemed like a better alternative to somebody (she’d place her carbons on Kobra) falling and breaking their spine.

Cherri shook his head.

“She went with Party this morning. I guess they ain’t back yet.” Kobra offered, still fussing over his hair.

For somebody who was legally blind, it certainly wasted a lot of hours trying to make sure its hair looked just right. The whole thing was pointless anyway, since Cherri had seen him covered in a thin sheen of sweat and curled over a toilet with the worst hangover known to man, begging for the Witch to take him, and had remained firmly head-over-heels. Seriously. Cherri had watched him spout like a fountain from both ends.

“Did they leave a note?”

Without waiting for an answer, Jet wandered over to where their radio, plus the homemade additions Ghoul had fixed it up with, sat. She studied the collection of post-it notes. It was an easy way to communicate on days like today, when all four of them were running all over the place and didn’t manage to catch each other on their respective ways in or out of the lighthouse. They were all capable of reading and writing, impressive for a group of ragtag killjoys, so it was possible to roughly track each others’ whereabouts.

They had come up with the system early on, when Party had overslept and then freaked when they realised the motorbaby had gone AWOL. Since she had recently started to toddle around on her own two feet – spending hours stumbling from Jet to Ghoul to Kobra to Party, beaming with delight when they applauded her efforts – Party had become convinced she’d wandered away and straight into the path of some draculoids. By the time Jet and Ghoul had returned from the playground with the kid in tow, their fearless leader had worked themself into a fit of hysterics and insisted nobody touch their baby ever again. After they finally calmed Party down, they came up with the system of notes.

Unfortunately, what the proposed system hadn’t accounted for was the inability of a group of joys afflicted with ADHD to remember about the system in the first place. More often than not, Jet would find a nonsensical note scrawled in a hurry (after somebody remembered to leave one at the last minute) or, worse, a long list of mumbled excuses. She didn’t hold it against anyone, of course. But when one of the others had The Girl with them, Jet couldn’t help wishing that they’d come up with a better system than notes.

At least Ghoul was accounted for today, out scavenging spare parts for a new device he was building, and due back soon. There was nothing to indicate where Party had gone or when they’d come back.

“Hyper Thrust?” Kobra suggested.

“In the middle of the day? With a six year old?”

Waving a hand around vaguely, as if to question whether Jet had a better idea, Kobra turned his attention back to his boyfriend and peeled his obnoxious pink mask from his face. As much as Jet loved the two of them, both as individuals and as a couple, they could be incredibly easily distracted when they were in a room together. Cola has that effect on people, Ghoul had laughed when she pointed it out.

Turning her attention back to the matter at hand, Jet picked up the microphone they had hooked up as soon as they arrived at the motel and prayed that BL/Ind weren’t intercepting broadcast signals today. She wasn’t sure whether the fact she had been incredibly lucky so far today made her more or less anxious. Had Jet already used up all of her good mojo from the Witch? She rubbed her bracelets and pressed the button to broadcast a message across the radio waves:

“Jet to Party. Is the egg out of the nest? Over.”

It made her feel like a little girl playing at being a rebel when she had to use their silly codes, but it got the point across. Even if it did make Cola snicker a little. Party would know what she was talking about and, if they picked up the broadcast on the frequency they used, hopefully fire back a response soon. There was a crackle as she set the microphone down and took a seat behind the desk, letting a few moments pass before repeating the message again. After a few repetitions, to increase the likelihood of her crew hearing it, Jet switched off the broadcaster and waited to see if there would be anything from Poison.

She twiddled her thumbs in the meantime, itching for news about the kid’s safety, and half-listened as Cherri recounted what had gone down at Dead Pegasus. It had just happened – yet, the story had already been elaborated, doubling the number of dracs they’d taken on and making Jet’s (admittedly impressive) shot sound like it was the only reason they’d made it out of there alive. When Cherri was describing the blood and gore that had flown everywhere during the hit-and-run, Jet had to cut him off.

“Not that it isn’t a pleasure to have you here, Cherri, but weren’t you in the middle of something?”

It was a guess, but it was a smart one. Cherri Cola was prone to getting distracted in the middle of supply runs or scouting missions, wandering off to write a poem about a cactus he saw. It was unlikely he had happened upon Dead Pegasus by chance. As Jet had expected, his eyebrows furrowed for a moment and then shot up into his hairline, no doubt remembering whatever he’d been busy with prior to running into her. He swung his bag over his shoulder and turned back towards the door.

“Hey, Kobes. Are ya comin’ wi’?”

Immediately, Jet regretted her decision. She had no desire to hang around the silent motel, trying to find a way to occupy her hands and mind, until her crewmates returned from whatever they were doing. Although it was one of the better lighthouses – especially compared to the week that they’d spent sleeping on the sweaty, stained floor of Fuck Your House – the size of motel made it feel incredibly lonely. The rooms, lined up down the corridor, were a stark reminder that places like this were supposed to be full of people. The empty beds in each room were a reminder of the people who should be sleeping in them.

Jet had only been alone here for an hour or two previously but, even then, the hours had seemed to stretch out into days with nobody to talk to. Time passed differently in the desert. She had ended up wrapped in Ghoul’s bedsheets, grateful that they smelled like him, until she heard muffled voices entering the lobby.

Kobra shrugged and looked to Jet, his intense stare felt even through the shades.

“Wouldja mind?”

Swallowing her anxiety, Jet forced a smile and shook her head.

“The others will be back soon, anyway. Go on your date.”

It would have seemed insincere on anyone else, but the curl of Kobra’s lip was the equivalent of a genuine smile. He nodded in her direction, thankful. Couple time was something of a luxury when you rolled in a crew as close and invasive as theirs. Without another word, Kobra grabbed his nametag from the pile of discarded jackets and headed back outside, his boyfriend wrapped around him like he was nothing more than an accessory. Politely, Jet pretended not to notice the hand on her friend’s ass.

-

It was a well-known phenomenon that time passed differently in the desert. Some killjoys made light-hearted jokes about it around their campfires, not really taking the suggestion seriously. Others would ramble for ages (usually when they were a few drinks deep) about how no, dude, somethin’ is seriously wrong out here. Time’s, like, broken.

If Jet hadn’t experienced it for herself, she would be tempted to believe that it was nothing more than stoner talk. Or people beginning to lose their minds, after spending too much time with only the rolling dunes of sand and the occasional cactus for company. Or the heat. If her friendship with Cherri Cola had taught her nothing else, it was that waveriding produced one hell of a high. She’d once listened to him babble nonsensically about Wilfred Owen for five straight hours.

But, despite sounding like desert folklore combined with zoneweed, it was true that time out here was never consistent. It was erratic, untamed. Cola claimed that it was something to do with ancient magic and, as a descendent of the First Nation nomads that used to roam the California deserts, he should know.

As a woman of science, all Jet could say was that hours seemed to drip by slowly – like grains of sand in an hourglass – and spending them alone seemed to slow the flow even further.

When she had lived at home and ran errands for her mamãe, she’d once lost her way (how? She’d lived out here for her entire life and knew the zones like the back of her hand) and drifted aimlessly among the tumbleweeds for what felt like days. The sun had dropped in the sky, which she was grateful for because the sweat was leaking steadily from her pits and sticking to her shirt to her back, and there had been a hint of the evening stars beginning to bloom above her.

On returning home, frantic and close to tears, Jet had found that only an hour had passed since her mother had kissed her goodbye. Although her sisters had laughed and her brothers had teased, the experience had stuck with her. It made her uneasy. Recalling the memory was like a spider crawling up her spine and settling between her shoulder bladers, out of reach. Unshakeable.

Time wasn’t always slow, of course. Sometimes it felt like there was never enough time in the world and they – the Fabulous Four, as the other joys were starting to call them – were rushing towards… Something. Jet couldn’t say for sure what it was, but it felt final.

Time was running out at a rapid pace. They were racing towards some great final point, which only she seemed to be aware of. Everything was slipping away fast. Milestones seemed to come and go before she could process them: birthdays, anniversaries, the motorbaby growing into The Girl.

Jet had a strong conviction that she was losing time, missing her opportunity. She was filled with a throbbing anxiety that she needed to hurry up and do whatever it was that she was supposed to do, before it all blew up in her face. The End. Game Over. It seemed to be racing her. Or, maybe, she was just paranoid.

Sitting by the radio and waiting for Poison to shoot her something, anything, to let her know that they were alive and the kid was safe, fell into the former category. Time dragged its feet. She had to force herself not to look at where the radio displayed the time in mocking, boxy numbers or her nerves would grow worse.

Staring at a flirty post-it note Party had stapled to the desk, signed with a kiss, she reminded herself that there were plenty of reasons that they might not have replied to her broadcast. Maybe they didn’t have any way of replying. Maybe they had replied, just on the wrong frequency. Maybe they missed it completely. Maybe they would be home so soon, sending a message over the waves would be pointless.

But Jet couldn’t help the thought that kept popping into her head: she had the Trans Am.

Anywhere Party and The Girl could’ve gone, they would’ve had to make the journey on foot. Although she was a durable, strong kid, how far could a six year old realistically walk in the summer heat? They couldn’t have gone far from the motel, certainly no more than a few hours away. Yet, there was no sign of them on the horizon.

Soon, it was going to turn from day to dusk and the sun would disappear, meaning the desert would turn quickly from burning hot to freezing cold. Party knew how to survive out there, of course, and they would keep The Girl safe (if it cost them their own life in the process), but it shouldn’t have been something Jet even had to consider. There was no way that they had trailed far enough away, not on Girlie’s little legs, that they wouldn’t make it back by nightfall. Time continued to crawl onwards.

When the radio crackled into action, finally, it scared Jet out of her skin. She had been leaning against the palm of her hand, elbow resting on the desk, and dreaming up worst case scenarios for the rest of her crew: trapped. Ambushed. Captured. Tortured. Ghosted. Not necessarily in that order.

She was starting to drift into a drowsy, disturbed state close to sleep. At the startling sound, she snapped back into focus and straightened up in the old chair, removing her elbows from the desk.

“Come in, Lone Traveler–” That had been the name of the motel back in its heyday, when it was still functional and people stopped there on their way to Battery City. “– this is Dr D. The egg will be returned to the nest when Pony goes for a ride. Party in progress. Over.”

Jet snatched up the microphone: “Come in, D. What the hell do you mean, ‘in progress’?”

A few minutes of silence passed, while Jet imagined her words travelling up to the satellites on their roof and being flung into orbit, bouncing back down to earth. How fast was the speed of sound again?

Another crackle of the radio, followed by a snatch of stray piano music that must have been picked up from a city station, alerted her that a broadcast was coming in. She twiddled the dial between her fingers to make sure she didn’t miss a single word of it, watching the red needle spin and jerk like it was waving.

“Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Traveler. Keep your gun close. Over.”

As suddenly as it had come to life, the radio returned to static. The message was over. Still, Jet was reluctant to turn the device off completely, in case any more concrete updates came in.

It was obvious, more so from what Dr Death Defying hadn’t said than what he had said, their friend thought they were likely to be overheard. Whether it was scarecrows or other joys D was concerned about, Jet had no idea. But she was smart enough to know that inquiring any further might land them both in considerable trouble. Not to mention The Girl, who was safe for now, as well as the midnight runner escorting her back to the motel.

Jet hoped broadcasts being under surveillance was the only reason she hadn’t heard from Party, although Dr D’s words made her doubt it. In progress. She had no idea what he meant by that.

Pulling her zap from its holster, Jet rose from her seat and made her way across the dimly-lit lobby to peek through the windows that sandwiched the main doors. The glass was dirty, making it difficult to see much, but Jet didn’t think that she could see anybody (or anything) approaching them. Assuming any attackers would be blunt in their intentions, rather than sneaking through the back or one of the bedroom windows.

Not for the first time today, Jet wished that somebody was here with her. She couldn’t check any of the other potential entrances without leaving the most obvious one unguarded. Even turning her head to glance in a different direction was risky, due to her monocular vision.

She wished she hadn’t told Cherri to go, that she hadn’t allowed Kobra to go with him. More than anything, she ached for Fun Ghoul to return.

Nothing else came through on the radio while she was waiting, her entire body as tense as a guitar string wound too tight.

Eventually, she was drawn to the window again by a flash of light catching her attention. If she had blinked, Jet might have missed it – but she was on such high alert, her senses turned up to 100, she was hyper-aware of her surroundings right now.

Looking through the smeared glass, she spotted two figures approaching the motel and recognised the smaller, brightly-coloured figure right away. Even in the musky colours of dusk, Jet knew her motorbaby at first glance. The second one was taller, starkly white against the pink-purple sky, and seemed to glide along as if they were travelling on ice. Show Pony.

As the duo got closer to the door, she could make out the giveaway signs Girlie had been crying recently: red-rimmed eyes, tear-stained cheeks, and a soft pout (it made her look so much like Poison, Jet’s heart stung at the sight). She wasn’t wearing a bandana over her face, even though Jet had repeatedly told her it was important to do so in case of noxious air. However, right now didn’t seem like the appropriate time for a lecture, so Jet shelved the thought and opted instead to drop to one knee. She opened her arms wide.

“Tía Jetty!” The Girl cried out, sounding equally relieved to see her, and ran straight into her arms.

Careful of potential injuries, Jet wrapped her arms around the little girl and held her close, one large hand nearly covering the upper half of her back completely. She seemed so small in moments like this, so small and fragile it was borderline scary.

The Girl buried her face into Jet’s chest, creating a small damp spot on her t-shirt where she was starting to cry again. She downright refused to let her go, not even for the few seconds it would take to move inside. It was easier for Jet to slide an arm around her legs and pick her up with a small grunt, carrying The Girl inside as if she was an overgrown toddler.

Jet was reluctant to let her go either, still holding her precious cargo in her arms once they were inside.

“What the hell is going on?” She turned on Show Pony, baffled.

Now they were safely in the lobby, the radio assistant lifted xir helmet off xir head, shaking out a head of dark locks like xe was in a shampoo commercial, and tucked it under xir arm for safekeeping. Aside from the change of leggings – from blue polka dots to hot pink stripes – Show Pony looked exactly the same as the last time Jet had seen xem. Captivating features, tight clothing, and lip gloss that made xir lips sparkle in the murky, yellow lighting of the motel.

Well, Jet supposed that xe didn’t look exactly the same. The last time she had seen xem, Pony had been spread over the radio desk in the station with xir feet in the air (confirming xir painted toenails matched xir lipgloss), letting Cherri lick something off xir stomach. Dr D had been there too, although he seemed to be observing rather than partaking in the activity. Taken aback by what she was witnessing, Jet mumbled something about the bathroom sheepishly and bolted from the station.

Now, watching Show Pony pull a lip gloss out (of where?!) and look in the reflection of xir helmet to reapply it, Jet blushed as she thought of their last interaction. She wasn’t exactly prudish, but she hoped it was the last time she ever stumbled onto a threesome in the making. It would be a while longer before she recovered from the experience.

Pony smacked xir lips and let out a dramatic sigh:

“So, like D said, Poison’s totally missin’.”

“What–?!”

Jet’s surprise was twofold: firstly, that wasn’t what Dr D had conveyed over the broadcast at all. He’d said something about Party being ‘in progress’, which was clearly code for something (Jet wasn’t an idiot) but didn’t suggest any element of danger. There had been no obvious panic in his voice, like there should have been if somebody – if their leader – was missing. Secondly, how in the hell could Party be missing?

Sure, it wouldn’t be the first time they’d disappeared without warning, something they were prone to do after a joint or two. At parties held around a glowing bonfire, Jet often lost them for several hours before finding them sprawled in the sand, either with Ghoul or Kobra or a new joy they’d enchanted. But that was different: it had never caused her worry. It had never caused her fear. Because she knew, as well as she knew the sky was blue and rain was acidic, Party Poison would always return.

‘Missing’ was too passive a word to use. Too vague. It didn’t suggest somebody had kidnapped them, snatched up the leader of the rebels and forced them into the back of white BL/ind van. At the same time, it didn’t make it sound like Party had danced away with a joy (or several) and would be spending the night crashing at another crew’s lighthouse. There was zero sense of agency in the word ‘missing’.

It caused a sour taste in Jet’s mouth, a taste she had long ago come to associate with vomiting.

She swallowed hard.

“What do you mean ‘missing’?”

The Girl whimpered softly, pained, and Jet adjusted her arms so it was easy to balance the six-year-old on her hip. She gave the child a reassuring squeeze and shushed her gently, wanting to hear what Show Pony had to say. She couldn’t believe that Dr Death Defying had decided to deliver this news via one of his midnight runners, rather than issuing an urgent radio broadcast to the entire zones.

“We’re still gettin’ to the bottom of it, Jetty. Believe me – the station’s buzzin’ like a beehive right about now.”

Jet didn’t respond, waiting for xem to continue.

Tossing their hair back and popping a hip out, Pony seemed to take a moment to consider xir next words, as if xe was weighing up the reaction they might cause. Typical Show Pony. As long as Jet had known xem, (almost her entire lifetime), xe had always had a flair for the dramatic. Whenever Pony spoke, it was with the poise and drama of somebody delivering the lines in a cheesy television commercial.

“See, here’s what we know already. Pink Phantom picked up this critter wanderin’ around the zones, lookin’ like she was on the verge of a Britney Spears breakdown.” Xe gestured to the little girl, who let out another whimper and hugged Jet even tighter, “Says she got no idea what happened to Pois. They brought her down the station an’ we’ve been lookin’ for clues since then.”

“And you didn’t think to radio me until now?”

The sudden flare of anger caught Jet off-guard. She hadn’t expected to raise her voice like that, especially when it was directed towards Pony. Judging by the shocked expressions, nobody else had either.

Pony’s voice took on a defensive tone: “D radioed when he knew it was safe to. Witch, Jet, it ain’t like she was campin’ out at the Sisters of Mercy. She knows the station–”

“She should have been at home!”

Jet’s voice bounced off the walls of the lobby, echoing down the long corridor, and the complete silence of the building made it sound louder (and angrier) than she had intended. The Girl pressed her hands to her ears, not used to hearing her caregiver raise her voice like that. Although it wasn’t a brand new phenomenon, Jet didn’t like to yell unless it was necessary – to make herself heard over the sound of ricochet, to get someone’s attention before they stepped on one of Ghoul’s homemade landmines. She had learned to contain her anger until it was safe to release it. Out of Girlie’s earshot, preferred. The tight, hot fist currently clenching her internal organs in a chokehold wasn’t something that Jet was familiar with.

Now, she understood what Mamãe meant when she talked about her maternal instincts overriding everything else in the heat of the moment. This power had once given Jet’s mother the power to pull herself from under the wreckage of a car, fuelled by the thought that her babies needed her to come home. The same burning sensation made Jet want to scream at everyone who had endangered her baby.

She drew a deep, calming breath.

“I’m sorry, Pony. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”

Still dazed by the turn in the conversation, Show Pony nodded, as if to say ‘apology accepted’, and continued like nothing had happened. Although, if Jet wasn’t mistaken, there was a slightly sharp note present in xir voice that hadn’t been there before.

“D’s had us out combin’ the zones for any sign of ‘em. Usually, they’re pretty easy to find, y’know? Ain’t gonna miss the Party Poison – that obnoxious red hair of theirs is like a beacon for trouble. But there ain’t been a single sign of ‘em. And we’ve been turnin’ over every rock.”

“What about security footage? Drones?”

“Chimp an’ Newsie are workin’ on it as we speak.”

Despite their earlier disagreement, there was a sympathetic look on Show Pony’s face. Of course, xe was a friend of Party’s too – everyone in the zones was a current, former, or future friend of Party’s, they had the kind of magnetism that drew people in. Not to mention, Pony knew what it was like to lose somebody close to xem, even if it was temporary. Xe had taken it particularly hard when Cherri had been snapped up and brainwashed into draculoidisation by BL/ind a few years back.

Show Pony reached out and rested a hand on the shoulder that wasn’t currently occupied by The Girl’s head, giving it a comforting squeeze. When Jet met xir gaze again, Pony was smiling empathetically at her.

“We’re gonna find ‘em, Jet. Don’t you worry your sweet little head about it.”

Coming from anyone else, the words might have sounded a tad patronising, but Show had a habit of speaking to everyone like that. As if xe was a celebrity gracing the rest of them with xir presence. Or a strange (step?) motherly figure. Dropping in pet names like ‘darling’ and ‘sweetheart’, even if xe was talking to the gruffest old man Jetty had ever seen. It was no wonder that they’d managed to sweet talk the radio station into keeping xem as an assistant, despite their work seeming to consist of skating figure-8s around the DJs and flirting habitually with anyone who happened to drop by.

Jet exhaled.

“Let me know if you need anything.”

With a nod, Show Pony removed xir hand and slipped xir helmet back over xir head, skating smoothly out of the lobby. Jet supposed xe was rushing back to the station to give D an overdramatic blow-by-blow of their conversation and rejoin the hunt for Party Poison.

The whole concept of Party being missing in the first place was still difficult to grasp.

Jet wished she could race out the door and start looking for them straight away. It seemed so wrong for her to sit around the motel idly and wait for the radio to crackle with information, while the rest of her friends formed search parties.

At the same time, Jet was the only member of the crew currently accounted for and they had a six-year-old who needed looking after, one who had been on the verge of tears for most of the day.

It was too early to justify tucking The Girl into the bed, even though Jet felt exhausted from the whirlwind of emotions that had been taking her by storm. She doubted either of them would be able to rest anyway. So, she carried Girlie back to her motel room and plopped her down at the desk. Although it wobbled whenever someone leaned on it to write, the desk was in reasonably good condition and they’d found an entire pad of paper stuffed into one of the drawers. Jet figured it had been for guests to use back when this place was functioning. She took out the pouch of various pencils and pens they’d collected during their travels around the zones, setting them down next to the paper.

“Drawing a nice picture might take your mind off things.” Jet told the motorbaby, knowing that it wouldn’t be enough to distract her from losing a caregiver and being abandoned in the desert.

She sniffed: “Gracias, Tía.”

Picking up the red felt-tip pen she’d been favouring lately, The Girl began to draw on the top sheet of paper, taking such care with her lines that Jet recognised Party’s mannerisms in the habit. The ache of their absence only grew stronger in her chest. The cautious drawing showed how much the motorbaby had grown up since they’d taken her in too: she’d gone from scribbling nonsensically all over the paper (the floor, the walls, herself) to making deliberate, obvious pictures.

While the kid focused her attention on her drawings, Jet slumped in the drooping armchair in the corner of the room and tried not to take it personally that the chair wheezed, like Kobra having an asthma attack, every time she shifted positions. She half-watched The Girl, offering encouragement whenever it was needed, and half-zoned out, trying to picture what the rest of the crew were doing at exactly this moment.

She figured that Ghoul must be totally in his element, so caught up in whatever he was collecting or working on that he had completely lost track of the time. The thought was comforting. Kobra, she was certain, would be frowning as he traipsed through the sand and searched for its elder sibling, thinking… Well, Jet was never sure what Kobra was thinking. At least, she reminded herself, Cherri would be at his side to offer support and keep its hand in his, unwilling to let go in case they lost another Venom Brother. And then, there was Party: in her imagination, a giant red question mark hovered over Party.

“Tía Jetty?” The Girl’s voice drew her out of her thoughts.

“Sí, queridinho?” Jet lifted her head from her hands and looked over at the drawing, “What a beautiful rainbow! I love all the extra colours you’ve added in.”

Even to her own ears, the enthusiasm sounded over-cheery and fake. It seemed obvious she was forcing herself to be positive, even as she felt anything but. If The Girl noticed that her excitement was half-assed, however, she was polite enough to not say anything about it. She had learned how to read the mood of the room. Often, Girlie was far more intuitive than anyone gave her credit for.

Her orange pen continued to scratch at the paper as she spoke, squeaking a little as she forced the ink out of it. Clearly, the pen was on its last legs following her thoroughly-coloured picture of the sand dunes.

“When is Party coming back?”

Although The Girl’s voice was casual enough, there was an undertone of urgency and worry. Jet wasn’t too surprised that she was anxious about the situation. Growing up in the zones, as Jet knew, meant growing up with the knowledge that life was never certain. Anything could happen. Anyone could go missing. But that didn’t mean that a sudden event couldn’t pull the rug out from under you, leaving you to fall.

Jet sighed.

“I don’t know, cariño. I wish I could tell you.”

“Do you think it will be tomorrow? Or the next day?”

In spite of her brightness and bravery, The Girl was still very young. Her timeframe of events showed her age. She couldn’t imagine a world where Party didn’t come within the week. She expected her favourite guardian to come home soon, ready to play and read to her and take her out in the Trans Am. Getting through a day without them – let alone several days in a row – was completely alien to her. How could she even begin to imagine a world where Party never came home at all?

“I don’t know…” Jet didn’t want to get her hopes up too high, “But everyone’s working very hard to make sure they come home soon.”

The Girl chewed thoughtfully on the end of her pen.

“What about Uncle Ghoulie? Is he coming back soon?”

Jet felt more confident answering that one.

“Sí, bebezinha. I’m sure Ghoul and Kobra will be home any minute,” Jet managed a small smile, for her benefit, “How could they miss the chance to give you a kiss goodnight?”

“Party’s gonna.” She mumbled, half-way between hurt and bitter.

Unsure how to respond to that – especially since she didn’t know if she could reply without her voice breaking midsentence – Jet hummed noncommittally.

Without a word, she handed the green marker to The Girl, having noticed it was lacking from her rainbow. She took the pen and resumed her drawing without saying anything else, although Jet noticed that there was an odd tension hanging in the air that she didn’t normally experience around Girlie. Of course, she’d dealt with hundreds of temper tantrums (she had been particularly fussy as a toddler) and the occasional sulk. But this silence was different from that: it was charged, somehow.

Jet was about to suggest they pack up the colouring things and play with something else until dinnertime, when she heard the unmistakable sound of the door in the lobby swinging open. Both of them sat up straight in their chairs, exchanging looks. Jetty got to her feet. She held up her index finger to indicate that Girlie should wait, until she’d gone to the lobby and checked who the visitor was.

She wasn’t sure which member of her crew she was crossing her fingers for: Party or Ghoul.

Chapter Text

“Did you find anythin’, Uncle Kobra?”

The youngest of the Fabulous Four wasn’t even fully seated on the end of the bed, when The Girl raced to him and hopped up to sit on his lap. While he grunted at the impact of a six-year-old – who flung herself onto him at full force – Kobra’s lips quirked upwards and he rested a hand affectionately on her back. Unlike Jet, he had a tendency to be more reluctant about cuddling.

Girlie seemed to read his body language and realise that he wasn’t in a snuggly mood, electing to sit (legs dangling) on his lap, rather than wrapping her arms around his neck. She could be very intuitive, Jet thought proudly. To soothe her distress, Kobra rubbed soothing circles into The Girl’s back.

Yet, it looked puzzled by her question. He scratched its head with his other hand, bewildered.

“What do ya mean ‘find’?”

“Like, clues and stuff! About Party…?” Girlie trailed off, noticing his confusion.

For the first time, Jet realised Kobra might have been living in blissful ignorance for the last few hours, if he and Cherri hadn’t elected to drop by the radio station. Witch. She had assumed the pair would be heading there, even if they completed a few errands first. The station was both Cherri’s home and workplace, making it the place he frequented more than anything else. He was rarely far from the broadcasting booth. Why wouldn’t he and Kobra be heading back there, probably to his bedroom? (Gross).

Watching Kobra’s forehead crease into a frown, Jet realised that she’d been wrong to assume where he was going or what he was doing. After all, Cherri Cola tended to be something of a wildcard.

Jet turned to look at him, managing to catch its eye despite both of them having poor vision.

“Party… Well, Party’s missing.”

She was expecting an explosion of emotion, a combination of pure disbelief, outrage, and fear. It wasn’t like Kobra Kid was the most expressive person on the face of the planet – particularly compared to the missing sibling in question, who always wore their heart on their sleeve. But Jet thought that anyone would freak out if they learned their sibling was missing.

If she heard one of her brothers or sisters had disappeared from the face of the zones, she would have broken down in tears on the spot. She would’ve sobbed and demanded answers. But Kobra surprised her again by retaining the slight frown on its face, pinching the bridge of his nose where his shades rested.

Even for the Kobra Kid, who was frequently teased about his neutral expression, it seemed like an under-reaction. He would always be something of a mystery to Jet.

“What do you mean ‘Party’s missing’?” He asked.

“Well, Show Pony–”

Before Jet could catch it up to speed, The Girl burst into tears: “S’all my fault, Uncle Kobra!”

She started to sob, with hot, fat tears rolling down her freckled cheeks. Temporarily, Kobra was occupied with patting her back awkwardly. Even if he was an incredibly thoughtful and kind person, he wasn’t always the best at consoling people in times of crisis – and small children were difficult for him to handle in the first place. When The Girl had been a baby, Kobra had always handed her off to someone else whenever she started fussing or crying. It hated the noise.

Jet was about to step up and lift Girlie off his lap, rescuing him from the warm, damp patch starting to form on his shirt, but he waved her away. Leave it to Kobra to constantly keep her guessing.

Keeping his composure, he murmured comforting words too lowly for Jet to make out the specifics and continued to pat The Girl on the back, moving to do the same on her upper arm. It took a few minutes to bring down the bawling to normal tears – the kind that usually came with Girlie’s nightmares or when she fell over and scraped her knees – and a little longer until she was just sniffling quietly, the occasional sob breaking through. Kobra bounced its knee, the rhythm seeming to help calm the motorbaby down.

“It isn’t your fault, princesa. It isn’t anybody’s fault.” Jet reassured her.

She shook her head, curls bouncing defiantly, but settled back onto Kobra’s lap without shedding anymore tears. Six-year-olds were capable of crying themselves out in a significantly short amount of time, in Jet’s experience. It was something that she was always grateful for when The Girl, (or her little sister Inez, if she was at home), threw herself into a temper tantrum. At least it was over much faster than when Kobra or Ghoul went into meltdown. Once Girlie had her thumb tucked safely into her mouth – a habit that she hadn’t grown out of yet – Jet was able to resume catching her crewmate up to date.

“An’ nobody has any clue where they went?” Kobra raised an eyebrow, “That seems hard to believe.”

“Girlie said that she turned around and they were gone–”

Quickly, Kobra leapt to their sibling’s defence: “They wouldn’t leave her on purpose.”

“I know that, Kobes.”

“They care about her more than anyone. Maybe even more than you.”

Although Jet knew it wasn’t an insult, she couldn’t help taking its words like a zap wound to the heart. They had to suppress the urge to argue.

Maybe Party was the one who had insisted on taking The Girl, back in the day. Maybe they were the one who continued to insist on their crew raising her, despite all the problems that came with it.

But wasn’t it Jet who fed and bathed her most nights? Wasn’t it Jet who sat with her for hours and combed through her natural hair, rubbing the oils she made herself into it? Party had half-raised their younger brother, it was true, but Jet was the one with experience: she had five baby siblings and had always been her mother’s favourite little helper. She’d had to teach the others how to change a diaper.

The bitterness that came with those thoughts left a bad taste in her mouth. Jet didn’t like the person she became when she was upset. Even if Party did care for The Girl more than anyone else – more than her – what did it really matter? It didn’t do anything to change their situation.

“I know. I know they wouldn’t leave her on her own like that,” Jet said, “That’s what makes me think that wherever Party is right now, they didn’t go there willingly.”

“Party could take anyone in a fight.” Kobra retorted stubbornly.

It was untrue and they both knew it. Party wasn’t the worst fighter in the world, but they worked better in a team and had a tendency to panic if they were caught off-guard. Plus, Jet had watched them lose a fight with a vending machine once. If Ghoul hadn’t used his quick reflexes to yank them out of the way, Party Poison would’ve been squished into a Party Pancake several years ago.

However, Kobra was upset about its brother going missing and nobody could fault him for that.

Like Jet said, if it had been one of her siblings that had disappeared without a trace, she would have been inconsolable. In comparison, he was handling the crisis incredibly well. If Kobra’s way of coping with the situation was diving headfirst into stubbornness and denial, she couldn’t blame him for that. Still, Jet wasn’t in the mood to argue, not after the day that they’d had.

Instead, Jetty reached out and plucked The Girl (who mumbled reluctantly) off its lap.

“Dinnertime, then it’s straight to bed for you.”

Maybe it was a little earlier than usual, but Jet figured that she had a taxing day.

-

Her guess was quickly proven to be correct, as The Girl didn’t even make it through her bedtime story before she’d fallen fast asleep, snuggled in her motel bed. Jet tucked the extra blanket (a late birthday gift from her Uncle Cherri, which she absolutely adored) around her, making sure that she wouldn’t get cold when the desert’s temperature suddenly dropped in the night. She left the door slightly ajar. Just in case.

When Jet passed by Kobra’s room, the door was closed and she could hear faint, muffled noises coming from within. She suspected it might be the sound of somebody crying, although she didn’t want to ponder it, and elected to give her crewmate space for a little while. Reentering the lobby, Jet reflected on her earlier wish for anyone to return home and how she’d completely pinned her hopes of feeling better on it. She thought that the reappearance of her crewmates would fix everything right away.

As she sunk into the desk chair, eyeing the yellow light seeping out from under Kobra’s door, Jet wondered how she could feel worse with two of her most treasured family members (and they were family to her) safely at home again. Usually, the presence of those in her life made up for the absences.

But today, everything was out of sorts.

She glanced at the digital clock of the radio, the dim red glow of the numbers confirming the sun had set now, and felt the familiar squeeze of her stomach.

It had started a few hours ago, when Jet had realised suddenly it had been a long time since she had last seen Ghoul. There was a strong sensation of a fist closing around her stomach and clenching tightly, her organ being squished into a space five times too small for it. She felt like she should run to the bathroom. Sometimes, the squeezing was accompanied by a burning feeling around her oesophagus and an acidic taste in her mouth, like she had just finished puking. Taking deep breaths or a sip of water was usually enough to placate the bodily reactions to her anxiety, although it was getting harder to reason away Ghoul’s absence as the hours stacked up. The short bursts of dread were starting to come closer together, barely giving her a moment to recover between them, and Jet exhaled shakily.

The longer it took for Ghoul to return, the stronger her suspicions grew: whoever had swept up Party Poison, causing them to vanish without a trace, must have taken Fun Ghoul with them.

It would have been easy enough to sneak up on him, especially since he was working alone. Likely, he was enraptured with whatever it was that he was combing the sand for. Parts, he’d said. Parts for something that he was working on. Whenever Ghoul was deep into the zone, his mechanical brain whirring to life and the cogs spinning rapidly, it was impossible for Jet to capture his attention.

Now and again, his attention span had been the butt of their crew’s jokes: by the way, Ghoul, since you didn’t say anythin’ to stop us, we sold all your old junk to Tommy. Once, Party had convinced Jet to help carry most of the scrap metal up to the roof of the motel and spent the afternoon giggling away in an armchair, while Ghoul stamped around in irritation. Eventually, Jet had relented to the pressure and shown Ghoul that they hadn’t really sold his collection of scraps and bolts. He had seen the funny side.

Although Ghoul could hold his own in a fight, he wouldn’t have had a chance if somebody had snuck up on him and stunned him with their zap. Or gagged him with a cloth to stop him screaming. Or– in the past, Jet had woken up, sweating like a pig, from a million different versions of this nightmare. It wasn’t worth dwelling on it during her waking hours too, especially since it only made her insides writhe around more.

The creak of a door startled her. But it was only Kobra leaving his room.

If there was any evidence of it crying – Jet knew that she shouldn’t intrude on his privacy by looking for the signs, but she couldn’t help doing so automatically – then it was obscured by the sunglasses balanced on his nose. Kobra had changed out of its race clothes, which had reeked of sweat and petroleum, and was wearing one of its older sibling’s shirts. Jet recognised the old white shirt they’d begged from a Mad Gear and Missile Kid gig, down at Fuck Your House, a few years back. The fabric was barely long enough to cover Kobra’s stomach, given that he was the taller one of the Venom Siblings.

Approaching the desk with a casual air, Kobra hopped up and seated himself on the edge of it, twiddling the dog tags dangling around its neck. Stolen from his boyfriend, no doubt. Covering itself with the belongings of people it cared about seemed to grant Kobra some security when it was upset.

“Hey, Kobes.” Jetty said softly.

Wordlessly, Kobra nodded to her and turned its gaze towards the lobby doors, as if it was expecting the rest of their crew to come crashing through it any moment. Whooping and hollering. Laughing. Party teasing Ghoul about his victory, by holding the spoils of war out of his reach and making him jump to get them back.

Thinking longingly of their friends, Jet pinched the beads of her bracelets between her fingers and made a wish on each of them. Despite being a sandpup, born and raised, Party only half-believed in the Phoenix Witch and was inconsistent in their prayers. Ghoul had grown up in the Catholic church, but was a serious believer and had grown more so since meeting Jet. Still, prayers and visits to the mailbox slipped his mind more often than not. Did the Witch look out for those who didn’t believe? Those who didn’t practise?

Jet realised she had cupped her hands together without intending to, her face pressed into the leather gloves that clad her palms and fingers, and rubbed her eyes. Raising her head again, she found Kobra was looking at her expectantly, as if it was waiting for an answer to a question. Shit. Whatever it was that he had said, she’d completely missed it. So much for being a good friend… And older sister.

“Come again?” Jet asked, apologetic.

“I said, ya should get some rest,” She couldn’t fault Kobra for looking smug, “You gotta be exhausted.”

Although Jet wasn’t usually stubborn, she shook her head and gestured to the radio.

“Waiting for news.”

“I can do that.” Kobra replied, so fast that he must have pre-empted her argument.

In spite of her aching head and heavy eyelids, Jet spent a while longer trying to make her case: not only was she older than Kobra, she was their medic and might be needed when the others returned. Plus, she needed to be there if Girlie woke up from a bad dream and cried for her Tía. For all of these reasons, it was vital Jet remained awake and close to their only means of communication as long as possible.

But she had never been good at arguing her side of things.

Back home, she had been the mediator between her bolder and louder siblings, trying to resolve the conflict rather than playing any role in it herself. She had been on the sidelines, pleading for them to stop, (please don’t fight, you guys!).

Even now, she broke up scraps between Party and Ghoul, picking them up by the scruffs of their shirts like misbehaving kittens. She pushed Ghoul and Kobra apart when they bickered, one hand on each of their foreheads to stop them shoving each other. When The Girl shouted in frustration at a caregiver, Jet delivered the lecture on how it might hurt somebody’s feelings.

When Jet had confessed to being a middle child, it had made the others laugh and fondly slap her on the back because it was so obvious.

Arms folded across its chest and a stony expression on its face, Kobra was unconvinced by her pleading. He sentenced her to bed with a surliness beyond his years, (one day he was going to make an incredible dad). It promised to check on The Girl and keep its ear to the radio deep into the night, in case someone caught a glimpse of their missing crewmates.

Kobra even offered to bring a pillow in and sleep at the desk, to make sure that it didn’t miss any 4am transmissions. Although, with the Venom Brother’s shared history of insomnia, it was unlikely that he’d drift off to sleep any time soon. Adding in the fact that its older sibling and best friend were both missing, Kobra would probably be wired for the entire night. Usually, Jet was a fairly heavy sleeper, who had few problems falling asleep in any place or position, and she suspected that even she would spend most of the night tossing and turning. Resting seemed impossible at a time like this.

Pulling the door to her room closed, Jet cast a final glance back over her shoulder.

Swinging back on the desk chair – in a way that would’ve made her mamãe start talking about the stitches needed to close up a head injury – Kobra looked bored as he refolded his skinny arms across his chest. He always looked bored, though. Jet had learned years ago that the uninterested expression on its face didn’t reflect what it was really feeling inside. From here, she could almost see the intense fear radiating off him.

The red numbers on the radio cast a low red glow on his skin, the entire desk being reflected in the dark glass of his shades. It didn’t inspire confidence in Jet, at that moment, to know that it was just the two of them left in the crew. Their own numbers had been cut in half in one fell sweep.

Only Jet-Star and the Kobra Kid remained.

-

It was mid-morning when the news finally came through, long enough for the alarm clock radiation to have settled across the sand. Jet had finished styling Girlie’s hair into two puffs on her head like she’d requested. She secured each one with a hair tie, humming the Portuguese lullaby that her mother used to sing while working on Jet’s hair, and looked up with a frown when she heard the radio crackle.

Jet was sitting on the floor, with the motorbaby propped between her open legs, making her unable to leap up at short notice. So, Kobra abandoned fixing his tape-deck to attend to the radio. It adjusted the dial a little before the message started coming through clearly. While he did so, Jet bounced her right leg impatiently.

It was difficult to make out the entire message, but a few words came through loud and clear, like ‘Party’ and ‘foot’. Maybe it was the hearing damage from the rock shows Jet used to frequent in her youth but she swore she heard the word ‘monkey’ several times. It said a lot about the radio station crew that she wouldn’t be surprised if they had somehow managed to acquire a monkey in the middle of the desert.

Once the crackling sounds of the static had died down enough to understand the broadcast, the three of them managed to catch the tailend of Newsagogo’s cheery voice:

“- down at the station! See ya soon, starchasers an’ motorbabies!”

As the words crossfaded into a punk song Jet didn’t recognise, she turned her head deliberately so that she was able to look over at Kobra. She didn’t know why she bothered, since he was wearing the same unreadable expression that she was accustomed to seeing 90% of the time. Ghoul had once teased that it wore that face even more than it wore its Batman underwear (Witch, Jetty missed him so much) which was a seriously impressive feat if it was true. Also, gross.

Finally, Kobra swore under his breath and kicked the leg of the wooden desk in a rush of rage.

“Zie couldn’t have repeated the message?!”

 

“Maybe zie did… Maybe it was repeated while we were trying to break through the static.” Jet mused, tapping The Girl on the back to indicate that her hair was finished and she could go play now.

Beaten-up rocketship already clasped in her hand, The Girl leapt to her feet and zoomed down the corridor of the motel, making enthusiastic ‘whooshing’ noises as she went. Jet smiled, in spite of herself. The rocket had been one of her most treasured toys when she was growing up (and, if she was being completely honest, still was now) and it warmed her heart to see Girlie playing with it too.

“Besides,” Jet continued, “We already know where we need to go.”

“We don’t have a fucking clue!”

In silence, they listened to the remainder of the broadcast, which consisted of three more songs and a traffic report interspersed in the middle. They’d have to stay off-track when they drove down to the station, since dracs were patrolling Route Guano and a few sightings suggested a scarecrow – the balding one, who favoured frills and dramatics – might be accompanying them. It would make the drive a little longer than necessary, unfortunately for their gas tank, but Jet preferred spending extra time behind the wheel to having her brains blown out.

As Newsie signed off, signalling the end of the broadcast, Jet wondered why zie was doing the segment. It was obviously not a real show – just one to cover for the earlier message, so that nobody would think anything was amiss if they picked up the broadcast on their own radio – but Newsie, as hir name suggested, usually delivered the news. Was there a reason that zie was covering for Dr D today? If anything, it would make the broadcast more suspicious to listeners that the usual DJ was missing.

Dr Death Defying was the one who handled shows like this, the ones that blended spinning records with traffic reports and coded messages meant only for killjoy ears. He’d granted the responsibility to his midnight runners in the past, Jet remembered, but it had been when he absolutely had to. As the ‘local’ medic, she’d once been called down to the station to check up on him when he had a bad case of zone flu. He could barely sit upright in his bed to sip from a flask of water, yet had still insisted on being helped into his chair and wheeled over to the desk to warn the zones about a potential upcoming scarecrow raid.

She shouldn’t jump to conclusions: there were plenty of reasons why Dr D might have asked Newsie to appear on the radio in his place, most of which were nothing extraordinary. Still, it made Jet anxious how uncertain everything had been during the last 24 hours. Routine was important to her and she liked her days to be as consistent as possible, no matter how difficult it was out in the zones. So many things had changed rapidly over the course of a single day and it made Jet stress, not knowing what could happen next.

There was a thump as Kobra’s foot made contact with the desk leg again.

He wore a look of frustration, face scrunched up as if the sun was shining right in its eyes, and it seemed to consider whether it was worth taking out more of his annoyance on the innocent desk. He took a deep breath and the wave of anger seemed to pass as quickly as it had arrived. Nonetheless, he looked guilty when he realised that The Girl was watching him too.

She was clutching her toy in one hand, perched on top of an armchair, and had frozen midplay. Kobra managed to force a smile and waved for her to carry on playing, before it came over and dropped on the floor next to Jet. He had once confessed to her about the huge emotions that raged inside of him, too big for his body, and how they burst out of him unexpectedly. As well as how he didn’t want The Girl to see him like that, out of control. Kobra wanted their kid to think highly of it.

Letting out an empathetic hum, Jet patted his knee.

“We’ll head down to the station, like Newsie said,” She said, taking charge of the situation, “Whatever’s going on, they know more than we do right now.”

Wordlessly, Kobra nodded and she took that as a sign to continue talking.

“Besides, it might be good to hang around some other people right now. Hey, you can see Cherri–”

Needless to say, Jet wasn’t expecting him to jump for joy at the idea of visiting his boyfriend, considering they had seen each other yesterday. However, the reaction she got was completely unexpected.

Exhaling a weary sigh, as if seeing Cherri was an impossible task that it had no choice but to undertake, Kobra slumped his shoulders and ran a hand haphazardly through his hair. The slight crease on its forehead was almost discernable and would have gone unnoticed by anyone who didn’t know Kobra well. Fortunately, Jet had known him for decades, enough time to learn to pick up on the small changes in his expression.

Seeing its reaction took her completely by surprise. Like any couple, Cherri and Kobra had their ups and downs (unlike most couples, these usually depended on one or both of them abusing substances for whatever reason) but they still liked to see each other.

Once, after they’d had an argument over Cherri’s latest waveriding relapse, Party had found them sitting with their backs to each other as they sulked. They were sitting back-to-back so they could still hold hands, even though they didn’t want to look at or talk to each other for a while. Out of their little killjoy cluster, Cherri and Kobra were one of the more stable couples. Despite this, Kobra had reacted to the idea of visiting Cherri like Jet had suggested taking a midday walk, barefoot, when the sun and sand were at their hottest.

“Did you guys… have a fight?” Jet ventured.

Kobra shrugged his shoulders, giving nothing away as usual. It was ridiculously hard to pry information out of him, whether he was being particularly stubborn or not, because Kobra wasn’t a chatty joy by nature. Sometimes, Jet wondered it was a side effect of growing up with Party, who rambled nonstop about whatever came to mind and would chatter to anyone who was willing to listen. Maybe Kobra had spent the first thirteen (or however many) years of its life without being able to get a word in edgeways.

Or maybe, the quietness was more comfortable for him. Jet was less outgoing too, so she could understand that, and it was why the two of them were usually content to sit in silence without it being awkward.

But there was something about this silence that was different from their usual companionship, something that Jet couldn’t put her finger on. It was almost… blunted. Rather than the lack of words being due to them not needing to say anything to each other, this was more about not wanting to speak about something. It wasn’t a shared silence. It was Kobra building up his walls and withholding information from her, deliberately. This was a silence for Jetty to sit in, like a lukewarm, shallow bath, by herself.

“It’s normal for couples to fight, you know. It’s part of being in a relationship,” Jet said, pausing for a moment before she continued, “Me and Ghoul fight sometimes.”

Of course, Kobra would know this – given that it spent most of those arguments on the other side of the wall, from the other end of the room, or even politely pretending not to be listening right next to them. It would be impossible for Kobra not to know. His hearing would have to be worse than Poison’s.

All the same, Jet had hoped that the confession would make it feel safer opening up about its own relationship issues. Still, Kobra gave her absolutely nothing to work with, its posture and expression unchanging as if she’d said nothing at all. It was like talking to a brick wall.

For a moment longer, Jet remained quiet, in case Kobra was gathering his thoughts before he replied. She didn’t want to cut him off by being too quick to speak. After another minute or two of complete silence had passed, she nudged her companion gently in the side and offered him a reassuring smile.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, Kobes,” She spoke softly, “I won’t judge you. No matter what it is, I’ve always got your back. Just… if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

She wasn’t only talking about the conversation at hand. Usually, Kobra seemed to go straight to its sibling when it had something important that it needed to talk about, which was understandable. If Jet’s older sister had been part of their crew, she would have gone running to Izzy whenever she wanted to discuss anything. But, with Kobra’s usual confidante nowhere to be seen, Jet wanted to make it clear that she could fill their shoes if necessary. She was used to listening to Ghoul’s grievances and grumbles.

Kobra nodded.

“I know.”

It seemed the conversation had come to a natural close (though Jet actually had more questions than answers now) and Kobra held up a hand, which she tapped with her palm. It squeezed her hand and pulled her in for a quick ‘bro hug’, slapping her on the back with another hand, before releasing her again.

Not for the first time, Jet wondered if her crewmate had been a frat boy in another life – she’d read about them in a few of her books and seen them on the TV shows they had on tape. She shook her head with a smile, amused by the fact Kobra always managed to surprise her. Every time she thought that she had Kobra in a box, neatly categorised and labelled, it did something that threw her for another loop.

If asked, Jet would cite it as one of the many things that she loved about him.

Without discussing it any further, the two of them got to their feet and set about getting ready for the trip to the radio station. Jet prepared the motorbaby, making sure that she was reasonably clean and prepared for the perils of the zones, and strapped her safely into the backseat of the Trans Am.

Despite being their resident bike racer, Kobra liked to ride shotgun in the baby carriage and occupied himself with selecting a tape from his collection for them to listen to. The Smashing Pumpkins pumped out of the radio as Jet turned the key (a few times) to kick the engine into gear and turned away from the getaway mile, keen to avoid any more dracs. Any trouble at all, really.

Under his breath, barely audible over the sound of the engine, Kobra hummed along to the tape.

Chapter Text

From the outside, the radio station was an unassuming, lopsided building. Jet always thought the building looked like a rocketship, especially if you tilted your head and squinted. The ‘door’ was a sheet of metal propped against the building. Nearby, a sign was hammered into the ground indicating that the condemned building was due to be demolished by Better Living Services. There had been a thick layer of dust on the sign for as long as Jet could remember. The greys and browns that made up the outside walls were covered in graffiti, especially Hot Chimp’s vibrant pink tags. The neon paint looked alien in the desert landscape.

Already, the radio station was a buzzing hub of activity.

Out front, the satellite van and the worn Jeep, both vehicles used by Dr Death Defying’s midnight runners, were static beasts. Jet parked the Trans Am next to them. A shock of platinum blonde hair was visible inside the van, where Hot Chimp was tapping away on something that resembled a computer (or a games console? A combination of the two?) inside. Chimp’s face was obscured by his hair as she hunched over. But Jet knew it bore as many metal spikes as his hot pink jacket, which was tied around their waist in the hot weather.

The Girl let out a joyous scream when she realised where they were.

Startled by the noise, Jet clapped her hands over her ears. She watched The Girl charge into the radio station as if there was an emergency – which, Jet supposed, there kind of was. By the time they arrived, the makeshift door was slightly ajar, so people could slip in and out easily. Hot on their kid’s heels, Jet gave a small wave to Hot Chimp and Kobra nodded. In return, the midnight runner pulled a ridiculous face at them.

NewsAGoGo zipped past them in the doorway, about as tall as Jet’s elbow, and yelled something indiscernible as zie raced towards the van.

Hot Chimp and NewsAGoGo shared an insane amount of energy. It was partially due to their diet of energy drinks and candy bars, which meant they were always hurtling around the zones at full speed. The other half was just their personalities. No wonder the pair got along so well. If Jet thought hard about it, she could recall maybe one conversation she’d had with Newsie where zie hadn’t gotten distracted immediately.

Both of them had lived at the radio station since they were teenagers. NewsAGoGo, who was the baby sister of Cherri Cola, had followed her brother out of the city as soon as zie graduated high school. Due to Newsie’s education, the midnight runners always insisted that zie was the brains of the group. In truth, zie was more like a baby sister to all of them. Except for Hot Chimp, of course, who had been head over heels since they’d gotten her first glimpse of NewsAGoGo. He was more of a typical DJ, spinning at parties and organising raves, but with a passion for street art. Like Jet, Hot Chimp had never been anywhere but the zones.

Inside the radio station was an explosion of colour and technology. The desks were stacked high with all the gear they needed for broadcasting and twice as much stuff that they didn’t need for anything at all. A Black Flag album was spinning on the record player in the corner, with records piling up beside it to be played next. Underneath the desk, a box of brightly decorated cassette tapes was spilling onto the floor.

“- and then, Tía Jet told me a bedtime story about the time you and Uncle Cherri got into a boxing ring!”

The walls were papered with posters, flyers, and old zines, making it impossible to see the ugly beige colour they’d originally been painted. A noticeboard was clogged with sheets of poems, postcards, and photographs. According to Dr Death Defying, the building had once been slated to be BL/I’s office outside of the city. They’d had plans to expand further, which had been halted by the Helium Wars. Since dropping the Pig Bomb and destroying the majority of the desert, it seemed unlikely Better Living would try to branch out again.

“Oh, yeah? Remind me which crew we got mixed up with in this story of yours.”

Against the back wall, a chunky computer was blue-screening. The other monitors were flickering from image to image of grainy desert CCTV footage. Dr. Death was sitting behind the desk in his wheelchair.

“With that crew! Y’know! The crew with the… the Hawkins… y’know! Can I have a dog for Christmas?”

The Girl was perched on his lap, chattering his ear off without pausing for breath. To his credit, D was paying rapt attention and seemed genuinely interested in what the kid was telling him. There was a reason that he was one of Girlie’s favourite uncles. It pleased Jet to watch the two of them interacting.

However, it always felt weird to see The Girl playing with Dr D or splayed across his lap. Back in the day, Jet had been the little girl who tagged along behind him. She’d spent hours turning over every item on his desk, asking for stories. Watching now, as her kid did the same, was jarring. It made her feel old. Ancient, even.

Dr Death Defying always seemed to know when somebody’s eyes were fixed on him. Even as The Girl continued telling her story, he sensed Jet looking in their direction and glanced up to meet her gaze. When he smiled, the crow’s feet around his eyes deepened a little. Jet felt reassured.

Gently, without cutting her off, Dr D hushed the small girl on his lap.

“Heya, Jetty. Kobes. Y’all got the message?”

“We sure did.” She said.

To her left, Kobra Kid nodded in agreement.

“Although, I’ve got to admit: we didn’t catch all of it.” Jet added, as an afterthought.

With a wave of his hand, Dr D waved Show Pony towards them. How Jet had missed the DJ’s assistant leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, studying xir nails for potential chips, she had no idea. From the direction of the broadcasting booth, the glamorous midnight runner glided forwards (pausing to twirl around a pile of forgotten CDs left to stagnate on the floor) on xir ever-reliable roller skates.

“Pony will give ya the latest.”

Xe was wearing a pair of bedazzled jean shorts and a crop top which had once read ‘drac hunter’. The first word had been painted over and edited with a black sharpie, so that the shirt read ‘dilf hunter’. Jet wasn’t sure if she felt a begrudging respect for Pony’s commitment to zones’ fashion or flustered that she was going to have to explain the phrase to Girlie later. Maybe Jet even felt a little ashamed that she wasn’t so bold about expressing her preferences like that. She wasn’t embarrassed to be in a relationship with Fun Ghoul – she never had been – but she did prefer to keep it private from most of the killjoy population.

Obviously, Party and Kobra knew about them, as well as their other friends. But Jet was content to keep the details of her life among the people she knew best. It was no wonder that she was considered the most ‘boring’ member of the Fabulous Four. At least Kobra had the cheekbones and jawline to make his silence more ‘mysterious’ and ‘broody’ than ‘disinteresting’. Go figure.

“Before ya get ya hopes up, we ain’t found a trace of Pois.” Show told them.

Kobra swore underneath his breath and ran a hand through his tousled blonde hair.

“But we got Chimp an’ Newsie keepin’ a eye on security footage in case anythin’ turns up.”

Jet glanced towards the monitors that occupied the back wall of the station, watching dark, grainy images flicker across the screens. She wasn’t sure what it was about the cameras that made the zones look more like the setting of a horror movie rather than her home.

It was no big secret that they were under constant surveillance. Seeing the satellites passing overhead, easily mistaken for shooting stars, was a stark reminder that footage of their lives was being streamed directly to BL/I. While Jet had learned to be cautious of subterfuge, it had always seemed normal. After all, she didn’t know any different. But seeing the video feedback from various areas of the desert made it feel surreal.

When Kobra spoke, it was through gritted teeth:

“Tell me you didn't bring us down here to tell us you hadn’t turned anything up.”

There was a reason that it took its killjoy name from a venomous snake: he was dangerous when you made the mistake of pissing him off. Jet had seen him start (and finish) enough fights to be wary. On top of that, Kobra was always quiet. A nod or wink could always replace a spoken response. If something was important enough to draw a full sentence out of him, unprompted, it was enough to motivate a punch.

“There’s somethin’, alright,” Dr Death rolled closer to them, “Y’all recognise this?”

From the pocket of his nametag, he took out an object small enough to fit into his fist. Sitting on his flat palm was something that Jet could have recognised by touch alone, without even having to look at it: a length of cord strung with dark blue beads, about the right size to fit around a grown man’s fist. The reason that she knew the bracelet so well was because she’d made it herself. Slowly, as she watched, the cord retracted and the bracelet curled up in Dr D’s hand as if it was in pain.

A few years ago, Jet had stayed up late one night making it. She had worn her own good luck charm since she was small – even if it had needed updating every now and again. The first one had been made by her Papai to keep her safe. Rubbing the beads created a sense of calm, knowing the Witch was watching over her at that moment. Then, she secured it around Ghoul’s wrist to make sure he would be protected by the Phoenix Witch. Ghoul had rarely taken it off since, (although he claimed it was more to do with his love for Jetty than it was to do with the Witch). Seeing the bracelet lying limply in Dr D’s hand caused Jet’s stomach to twist violently. Goosebumps sprung up on her skin, despite the heat. It felt like stumbling across Ghoul’s grave.

If there had been any food sitting in her belly, Jet would’ve puked it up right there. She was grateful that she’d donated her portion of breakfast to Girlie. Even without anything lining her stomach, she tasted the familiar burn of stomach acid rising up into her throat and was forced to swallow it. Although the situation was drastically different from usual, and the reaction was involuntary, Jet resisted the urge to throw up. She didn’t want to fall back into her bad habits.

“That’s… Ghoul’s…” She said, in case anyone had any doubts.

Her voice sounded hoarse. It didn’t escape her notice that Show Pony was fixing her with a sympathetic look, as if she was wearing an ugly outfit or had an outdated hairstyle. Worse than that, The Girl was looking at her with big, dark eyes. They were shining a little, tears threatening to fall at any moment.

“Switchboard found it in Zone One, just outside the entrance to the city. Ya lucky it got picked up at all.” Dr D handed the bracelet back to her, though she was too stunned to do anything more than stare blankly at it, “Now, riddle me this: I thought Poison was the one who went missin’.”

Running her fingers over the beads (which were her signature colour), Jet couldn’t tear her eyes away from the piece of homemade jewellery. How many times had she held Ghoul’s hand, feeling their bracelets clink against each other? How many times had she laughed when he accidentally snagged it on the zipper of his jacket? It looked so alien now that it had been ripped away from her boyfriend’s wrist.

Her vision began to blur around the edges, becoming swimmy rapidly as her eyes filled up with tears. Until now, she’d been able to fool herself into thinking that Ghoul would be back any second. But feeling the weight of the beads in her hand made it impossible to ignore that something was terribly wrong here. She had to swallow another lump forming in her throat. It wasn’t that she thought crying was a weakness or something to be ashamed of. Despite the teasing she used to endure from her older brothers, Jet believed her capacity for emotion was a strength. But she had to hold it together, just until they worked out a plan.

Something had happened to Ghoul. No doubt, it was the same thing that happened to Party.

Kobra glanced sideways at her, waiting for her to jump in and either confirm or deny. There was a neutral, somewhat blank expression on its face. Unlike Jet, he didn’t let his feelings flow naturally. Kobra liked to bottle them up tightly, keeping them private, until the pressure became completely unsustainable. Eventually, there would be an explosion. When Jet didn’t say a word, Kobra fixed its gaze on the ground instead.

“Ghoul didn’t come home last night.” He said, “He never returned from collecting scrap metal.”

Dr Death Defying raised his eyebrows.

Although he had never scolded them, the DJ had a way of making Jet feel small and ashamed. Like she was a little kid he had caught scribbling on the walls with permanent markers. Knowing that Dr D was disappointed in her was infinitely worse than if he had been angry. Classic dad behaviour, Ghoul used to say. Apparently, Jet’s dad was something of an enigma when it came to parenting. Her mamaẽ did the majority of the scolding.

“An’ neither of ya thought to mention it? Honestly, y’all would forget ya butts if they weren’t attached to ya.”

There was a giggle from The Girl (because she was ten and there was nothing funnier than butts when you were pre-pubescent) who was perched on the desk chair at the back of the room and watching the security footage flicker. Her tears had already dried up, leaving streaks down her dusty face – but there was no doubt they would return later. Jet had forgotten that she was there and felt a surge of guilt. Maybe she should be attending to The Girl first? After all, she was very young and had already seen more than her fair share of trauma. Plus, she was Jet’s responsibility. It was hard to know how to balance the problems of everyone in the crew at the same time. Party Poison wasn’t flawless, but Jet was impressed they’d been able to manage it.

She cleared her throat, hoping that it would prevent her voice from breaking mid-sentence.

“Did Switchboard find anything else? A clue about where he went?”

If she was being realistic, Jet would’ve phrased the question a little differently: did they find any clues about what happened to Ghoul? Passive tense. But she knew better than to ask questions she wouldn’t like the answers to.

“Hot Chimp’s rakin’ through the footage we got of Zone One. The g–”

“Was Party with him?” Kobra interrupted.

Quickly, Jet’s eyes flickered to her crewmate. But, yet again, she couldn’t identify any obvious emotions from his facial expression or body language. Most people were difficult for her to read, but Kobra was in a different league altogether. She could guess that he was probably upset (or frustrated?) at the focus moving from his sibling’s disappearance. Another stab of guilt. Because whatever she felt must have been amplified for Kobra. While Party had always been like her sister, they were literally Kobra’s sibling. Poison had raised him. Since the Venom Siblings were orphans, they’d always clung to each other first and foremost.

“The good news is that BL/Ind ain’t broadcasted anythin’ about ‘em.” Dr D finished, “If they had the most infamous rebels in their clutches, they probably would’ve made a song an’ dance about it.”

“No news is good news.” Pony shrugged xir shoulders.

Kobra set his jaw. Judging from the fist clenched tightly at its side, it was resisting the urge to destroy any more furniture. Whatever he was thinking, the words were aggressive enough for him to bite back. They must have been venomous, if the dark look in his eyes was anything to go by – or maybe it was a trick of the light. Either way, Jet couldn’t blame him. If the biggest update on the situation was ‘no news is good news’, she’d rather have spent this time out there searching for her crewmates.

Before Jet could ask any follow-up questions, there was the telltale squeak of rubber soles outside as someone approached the station. She couldn’t help (half-heartedly) hoping that it was Ghoul, who had just been playing a bad prank on them. If you come back now, I’ll forgive you. Tell me it was a stupid joke.

If he and Kobra were in the midst of a fight, nobody had bothered to tell Cherri Cola about it.

He bounced through the doorway with his usual enthusiasm. Only at the last minute did he remember to duck under the doorframe and narrowly avoid giving himself a concussion. When Cherri reached the group, he slung an arm casually around Kobra’s shoulder and asked brightly what he’d missed. From underneath his arm, Kobra bristled a little. But he fixed his face and adopted his usual neutral expression, as if nothing was going on. Cherri didn’t even get so much as a shrug in response.

If Jet hadn’t been watching closely for signs of conflict, she might not have noticed that anything was amiss. It didn’t seem like anybody else had noticed the tension in Kobra’s shoulders and back. His entire body was tense like a predator about to strike. The juxtaposition between Cherri and Kobra was incredible.

“Jus’ givin’ these two the latest updates, Cola.” Show Pony said.

“Wi’out me?” Cherri pouted at xem, childish, and turned his head to plant a kiss on Kobra’s cheek, “Ya shoulda radioed ahead, Kobes. Coulda made sure tha’ I was here to meet ya.”

“To update me?”

The coldness in Kobra’s voice was visceral. Everyone felt the blow, not just Cherri.

Without a word, Jet straightened her spine to assume her full height. She had an inch or two over Cherri and wanted to remind him of it. Although she had no idea what was going on between the two of them, Kobra was her best friend; she would have his back, no matter what. If it needed backup in a fight (as much as she hated to fight with other killjoys) she wouldn’t hesitate to put Cherri Cola in his place. That was what it meant to be loyal to her crew and its members.

The grin on Cherri’s face twitched, threatening to disappear, and the muscles in his face seemed to tighten. It looked like more of a grimace now, obviously forced. Something else about his face seemed to be off too, Jet realised. Her eyes scanned his face, in hope of spotting whatever it was. A minute passed before she was able to work out the problem. It was his five o clock shadow, making him look rougher than usual. Rather than his usual scruff, a beard was threatening to grow on his chin. Cherri looked tired.

Slowly, he withdrew his arm from around Kobra’s shoulder. He hesitated as he did so, as if he was waiting for his boyfriend to protest, and looked put out when Kobra didn’t say anything. The silence hung thick and heavy in the air, nobody sure how to proceed without further upsetting the tentative balance in the room.

Jet looked to Dr Death Defying and his assistant, hopeful, but they looked as bemused as she felt. Show Pony laughed, trying to make light of the situation. But it sounded uneasy. Between her fingers, Jet rolled the beads of her boyfriend’s bracelet and considered what she should do next.

Everyone seemed grateful when Newsie came tearing back into the room, screeching with excitement. There was a collective sigh of relief: something was happening. Jet and Kobra scrambled to follow the young DJ back outside, crossing the short distance from the building to the van outside. If nothing came of this, Jet didn’t care in the slightest – she was just glad to escape the tense atmosphere of that room.

“Are you okay?” Jet asked, lowering her voice.

Kobra didn’t respond.

Considering the interaction she’d witnessed, she supposed that she couldn’t be too surprised that Kobra didn’t want to talk about it. She’d never seen him be so chilly towards someone, let alone Cherri. Although he grew frustrated sometimes, his explosions were always quick and heated. Like a volcano. The coldness radiating from her friend seemed unnatural, like a California snowstorm.

Instead of saying anything, Kobra took a cigarette out of its back pocket and held it between his teeth, pausing his step to light it before continuing on their way. Judging by the frustrated way Kobra exhaled smoke through its nose, he wasn’t happy with Cherri Cola. But what could have happened between them?

Cherri Cola was a good guy. There was a reason he had the population of the zones hanging onto his every word. At his peak, he had been a complete heartthrob. The radio station used to keep a separate inbox for the stacks of love letters he received on a regular basis. As he’d grown older, he’d mellowed into what Ghoul and Party had unanimously decided to be a DILF – despite the fact he didn’t have any kids of his own. Cherri’s worst crimes were being grumpy on occasion, usually when he got withdrawals (waveriding was one of the hardest addictions to kick), or being easily distracted. Neither of which seemed to frustrate Kobra before.

“We can talk about it when you’re ready.” Jet said, feeling a little put out.

They reached the van. Jet peeked inside to see Newsie and Hot Chimp crowding around a computer, still buzzing from whatever it was they’d found. She tried not to hold her breath, but felt her heart leap with hope anyway. On the screen, she could make out some dingy security footage of a patch of sand. Yesterday’s date was printed in red letters in the bottom-right corner. The time below it indicated that the video had been taken at 10:37am. She assumed, from the Better Living Industries logo stamped in the top-left corner and the angle that the desert was being filmed from (above), that Hot Chimp had secured this footage by hacking a satellite. Or a drone. It always paid off to have friends who were good with technology.

“‘S from Zone One.” Newsie informed them, hand in a bag of chips.

“How can you tell?”

“Got coordinates off the footage!” Hot Chimp boasted.

She opened her mouth wide and let his joyfriend throw a chip in, crunching it triumphantly. Hole in one.

Jet tried not to imagine what Ghoul would be doing if he was here: sharing snacks and jokes with the two other tech-heads, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the van. The three of them made a pretty good team when it came to computers or engineering. Ghoul would’ve tied his hair back into a loose ponytail to stop it from falling in his face, blowing his breath at the few stubborn strands that escaped. Knee bouncing and forehead creasing in concentration. Maybe he’d steal chips from Newsie or compare piercings with Hot Chimp.

“Watch the screen here.” Newsie pointed.

Hot Chimp played the footage, which had been slowed-down for their sake, and Jet watched as the camera panned over an empty desert. Suddenly, a flash of black and green passed over the sand, hard to make out from the top-down angle. It was easy to miss if you blinked at the wrong time. Maybe the drone had mistaken it as nothing more than a plant – otherwise, it would have moved closer to focus on the object. But Chimp rewound the video and paused it, so that Jet could peer closer at the screen.

It was Fun Ghoul.

Despite the weird angle and the graininess of the camera, it was obviously Fun Ghoul. The black was his mess of hair, although it was impossible to pick out the individual curls from the poor quality image. There was a patch on the side, where his hair was parted, that was lighter than the rest: he needed to plaster some more black dye onto his roots.

A few nights before he had disappeared, Jet had been holding him loosely in her arms (his head resting on the bump of her stomach) and had commented on the brown beginning to grow out again. She wanted him to let it, since she thought that his natural colour was pretty. Ghoul had whined and complained and dragged his feet. She missed him.

The bright green wasn’t an obnoxious desert plant. It was his Frankenstein mask strapped to his face, a stark contrast to his black hair. Since it was close to the city, Zone One didn’t have the noxious fumes those closer to the impact of the pig bomb did. It was safe to wander without a helmet or a face covering. But Ghoul was wearing his mask anyway. Whatever he was doing, he had been taking precautions not to be recognised.

Jet was relieved. She couldn’t guarantee that it was the green mask that had prevented the drone from identifying him as a killjoy, of course. Nonetheless, she was grateful he was using his brain. While she didn’t want to admit it, Ghoul’s tendency to charge headfirst into trouble had been on her mind since they’d realised that he was missing. She hated to think less of him like that. She knew that Ghoul would’ve been hurt and asked why she thought he was an idiot, when he was jus’ as smart as anyone else out here? But his righteous sense of justice could override his common sense, sometimes.

Ya gotta shoot first an’ ask questions later, especially when it comes to those BL/I fuckers.

While Newsie squeezed hir way out of the van and ran inside to tell Dr Death Defying the latest news, (living up to hir name), the remaining three continued to study the footage. Ghoul’s appearance was so brief that they had to rewatch it a few times, making a few guesses at what he might be doing in Zone One.

Jet’s explanation, taken from the note left at the motel, that he was out looking for scrap metal was dismissed by Kobra: there was no reason to stray so far from home when there was still so much closeby.

Then, Hot Chimp posited, maybe Ghoul had been intending to head into the city? Didn’t his parents still live downtown? Jet and Kobra shot the idea down immediately. Ghoul didn’t hate his parents but there was no way that he’d up and leave to see them with no warning. Plus, making a trip like that mean practically signing his death warrant.

“The underground!” Jet shouted, triumphantly.

Having returned from hir quest, NewsAGoGo screwed up hir face and clapped hir hands over hir ears, unpleasantly startled by the loud noise. Sheepishly, Jet mumbled an apology. Then, she turned to look at her crewmate. As usual, Kobra’s face wasn’t betraying a single thought. She waited for him to leap in and agree with her brilliant suggestion. He didn’t offer so much as a nod. Instead, Kobra raked a hand through its hair and combed it back into place, so that it wasn’t falling down on either side of his head.

“Could be.” He exhaled a sigh.

“Why would Gun Fool be headin’ underground?” Hot Chimp said, fiddling with the footage to blow it up even bigger on the screen.

That halted Jet’s train of thought. Weakly, she offered:

“. . . A new tattoo?”

Despite her confidence when she’d initially come up with the solution, Jet was already beginning to doubt herself. It wouldn’t make much sense for Ghoul to randomly ditch whatever he was working on and run off to the underground, especially without letting his crew know where he was going.

However, as Jet pointed out to the others crowding around and inside the van, nothing about this entire situation made sense. Two of their crew members had disappeared with zero warning, like they’d dissipated into thin air. With close to nothing to go on, why wouldn’t they make use of the one suggestion they did have?

A quick sweep of the underground, to confirm that Ghoul wasn’t trapped down there somewhere, wouldn’t do any harm. Since they had no other ideas, shouldn’t they at least try? Jetty couldn’t help feeling a little frustrated that everyone expected her to sit around and wait for clues to appear when her boyfriend and best friend were both missing. It was so unfair. Everyone else was allowed to charge headfirst into trouble whenever the urge struck them, but because Jet was the ‘sensible one’, (the ‘mother’ of the crew), she wasn’t allowed to follow her gut instinct. It seemed so unfair that she’d been boxed into the role.

Jet realised that she was on the verge of snapping and excused herself.

“I should go and check on The Girl.”

Squeezing between Kobra and NewsAGoGo, Jet hopped out of the vehicle and strode the distance to the entryway of the radio station. With each step, she felt like she was losing time. Tick tock, tick tock.

When reentered the station, Jet scanned the room to locate where her little girl (in the years that had passed since her mother had died, it had become impossible not to think of Girlie as hers) had gotten to. She didn’t spot her immediately and panic leapt up her throat. Had she managed to lose The Girl too? How could she keep failing again and again?

“She’s takin’ a nap in Cher’s room,” Dr Death Defying looked up from the map he was scouring, “Poor kid’s havin’ one helluva week. Though, it ain’t like y’ain’t havin’ the same one.”

Usually, Jet wasn’t so quick to panic. Dr D was right: this week was wreaking havoc on her.

He had spread an old map of the zones across the broadcasting desk, pushing all the radio equipment aside, and was pouring over it. The map was ancient enough that it still had other cities in California labelled, as if they hadn’t been consumed by Battery City years ago. The ones they didn’t claim had been destroyed.

Since the map was one of the few that they had, though, Dr D had adapted it to the modern geography with a series of coloured markers. As well as adding where the zone lines were, marking out the various lighthouses, and where the groups of dracs tended to form a cloud, someone had drawn the electromagnetic wall that fenced the city in. The entrance to the underground was in thick black marker. It looked like a black hole.

Jet knew the map well. When she was younger, she had been fascinated by it. So, she had spent hours lying on her stomach on the rug of the station and studying the busy map of her home. It seemed to transgress time. The thick black line which marked Route Guano had stayed the same, despite everything, even if the name had changed once or twice. Jet always found that reassuring. No matter what happened in the zones (the amalgamation of cities, the closing of establishments, the helium wars, the pig bomb, the demolitions, the collapse and resurrection of the mailbox) the same line would always lead straight to the main entrance of the city. Jet’s mother had driven that same road through the Californian desert. Decades earlier, her grandmother had done the same. One day, Jetty hoped her kids would travel the road too.

But if Ghoul never came back, her dream would be dead in the (non-existent) water.

“Come an’ sit, Jetty. Ya look dead on ya feet.” Dr D said.

It was definitely an order, not a suggestion. Jet did as she was told and pulled up a chair.

Show Pony, who was perching on the edge of the desk and covering whatever remained beyond Zone Seven with xir butt, let out a snort:

“Ya always did know how to charm the ladies, D.”

Dr Death Defying smiled, a little wryly, and shook his head.

“Jetty ain’t jus’ any lady. She used to call me Tío.”

Jet felt a slightly embarrassed blush was spreading across her cheeks and turning her face more red than pink. The age gap between Dr D and herself wasn’t even that large. It had become more obvious the older she got. Steadily, they had become more like peers. But she hadn’t known that when she was a chubby little kid in board shorts and a stained t-shirt. Back then, Dr D had seemed wise and ancient.

She had to admit, even now, he still seemed wise. And a little ancient, by killjoy life expectations.

“I want to investigate Zone One,” Jet said, firmly, in a way that didn’t leave much room for an argument, “I’m sick of waiting around for my friends to come home. And it’s not fair. If I was anyone else, nobody would be asking me to sit down and be quiet.”

To his credit, Dr D didn’t try to argue with her. He didn’t deny there was a silent double standard at play, which nobody else seemed to notice. Instead, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, hand passing over his scruffy beard a few times before he seemed to come to a conclusion. Dr Death Defying nodded.

“Ya righ’, Jetty. It ain’t fair. An’ if ya think tha’ ya boyfriend could be hangin’ around the underground, well– ya know the kid better than anyone else out here. If ya think ya gotta head down there, we got ya back.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Five
A few days had passed while Jet and the others worked at the arcade, following up dead ends to make sure they didn’t lead anywhere. Now it was become public knowledge that two members of the Fabulous Four were missing – Dr Death Defying had called it after 96 hours had passed, declaring that he’d be surprised if BL/I hadn’t noticed them gone already – they had been inundated by supposed sightings from both well-meaning joys and hysterical fanboys. Some were more helpful than others: a yellow bandana had been found in Zone Four, although it had been damaged badly by the acid rain by the time it was brought in. They couldn’t confirm it had belonged to Party, though Kobra had insisted that it did. None of the calls had turned up anything else yet, but Jet still felt an obligation to look into them for the sake of her friends.

She’d had better luck investigating the underground, despite keeping her promise to Kobra that she wouldn’t go down there by herself. Instead, she had gathered a list of contacts from the radio station and a few stray tumbleweeds who had passed through the arcade on their way back from Batt City. Contacting them had been a lengthy and tiring process, using the radio equipment that Cherri had set up for her and a few messengers that were willing to run errands for a price. Mostly, Jet had succeeded in confirming all the places that Ghoul hadn’t been – Needles hadn’t seen him since he had gotten the FRANK TATTOO tattoo, Pins hadn’t dealt him battery acid for months now – and although sometimes it felt like she was getting nowhere, she was glad to be narrowing down the list of places he could be.

In the meantime, Jet was sleeping on the floor of the Electric Century Arcade with her balled-up jacket for a pillow and underneath a fraying blanket donated by NewsAGoGo. The days were long, stretched out indefinitely in front of them like Route Guano, and it was hard to stay positive regarding the whereabouts of their crewmates. At least watching Cherri and Kobra try to parent a smart-mouthed, too-big-for-his-boots pre-teen provided a distraction from the current situation every once in a while.

She’d gotten the full story on the first day she’d met the kid.

Like so many sandpups, Elliot – which Cherri had been quick to point out was not the name that he would’ve chosen for his son, since it was far too City for his tastes – had been the result of teenage enthusiasm and a lack of protection. He had probably been high at the time, since there was no point during his teenage years that he wasn’t high, and hadn’t given the side-effects of underage sex much thought. Seventeen year old Cherri Cola had freaked upon realising he hadn’t just eaten a bad tin of Power Pup and instead was pregnant with Kobra Kid’s kid, (here, he had made a joke about Kobra Kid Jr that made Jet snort and Kobra pull a face). Without telling a soul, he had barrelled headfirst into Battery City and demanded that they deal with it for him, striking up the deal that had resulted in him becoming a scarecrow for a little while. Nobody had ever been sure how that had happened before – at least one mystery was solved.

When they’d removed the embryo, Better Living Industries had stuck it in one of those “grow-ya-own-pain-in-the-ass” kits that they sold to nuclear couples and single parents who couldn’t have kids of their own. In the past, Jet had studied a manual from BL/Ind’s Embrygrow kits, so she had a good idea how they worked. One of the greatest innovations the company had made, they allowed couples to adopt an unwanted embryo and use the kit to grow it into a baby of their very own. Elliot had been raised by two moms, who had doted on him relentlessly, and his life would’ve been uneventful if he hadn’t inherited the rebellious spirit of his biological parents. He had given his moms the slip, escaped from the city, and had managed to track Cherri Cola down from the little donor information the kit included.

“What, like it’s hard?” Elliot said, when asked to explain how he’d managed it.

Cherri Cola had the shit-eating grin on his face that he usually wore when he’d produced a piece of exceptional poetry.

As Jet scratched yet another potential lead off the list she was working from, she glanced up at where the kid was sitting on top of an arcade machine, swinging his legs like he was at the playground. The shock of blonde hair, square jaw, and appalling eyesight had undeniably come from Kobra, but his attitude was all Cherri Cola. It made her wonder about the genetics vs environment she read about in a high school science textbook Ghoul had managed to smuggle out of Battery City for her. What shaped a person? Was it the genetics, meaning that their personality was fixed before they were even born, or was it where they grew up? How they grew up?

Usually when Jet thought about the nature-nurture debate, it was in relation to The Girl. She had been much too small when her Mamãe passed away to remember what she was like, even though she (unknowingly) saw her eyes and dark curls reflected in the mirror every day. The Girl didn’t realise that she looked like her mother, though. She insisted – and maybe when she was a little older, the Fab Four would have to gently correct her – that she looked like Jet, which made total sense when you used little kid logic.

Not to say there weren’t any aspects of her crew in The Girl, despite not having a single drop of their blood flowing through her veins. She had learned (or inherited?) Ghoulie’s enthusiasm for explosives and her excitement went through the roof whenever she was granted permission to use the bazooka, under strict supervision. Kobra’s need for speed was clear when Girlie demanded they go faster, faster! Drive faster, Party! and whooped with delight, punching the air with her tiny fists. It was harder to tell which traits she had inherited from Party Poison and which ones she was just emulating because she idolised them, always trailing around after their bulletproof leader. When she was little and still unsteady on her feet, The Girl had gripped onto their pant leg or the sleeve of their nametag if she could reach. Jet thought, with a shock that resembled being plunged into ice cold water, if Girlie had been gripping onto Party Poison nowadays they would’ve lost her too. Whoever snatched up Party would’ve gotten her too.

She watched Elliot – lo siento, Eli, the kid insisted on being called Eli – hop down from the Street Fighter 3 machine and traipse outside to join Cherri for his smoke break. Despite his insistence that he wasn’t a little kid, therefore he didn’t need parenting like one, Eli was already growing as attached to Cherri Cola as The Girl was to Party Poison. Jet supposed it was inevitable after spending a few weeks together.

“A few weeks?!” She’d exclaimed, when Cherri had told her so, sheepishly.

“Yeah, Jet, tha’s wha’ I jus’ said.”

“How long were you going to hide him from the rest of us?”

Jet lowered her voice a little, since the kid was curled up in a sleeping bag and snuffling softly as he slept. Even though they’d moved outside for this conversation, she doubted that the arcade walls would be thick enough to soften any yelling – they were probably full of holes, anyway, if the rat population was anything to judge by. She couldn’t imagine overhearing her parents having this kind of conversation about her. Although, Jet did vaguely remember crouching on the stairs with two of her sisters (Izzy and Chrissy) and listening to her parents whisper about potentially moving their family into the city. It had never happened, luckily, but the anxiety that had gripped her during those hushed, secretive moments had stuck with her for weeks.

“I ain’t wanna let him get used to life out here.” Cherri said.

Kobra snorted, derisively.

Glancing at her best friend, Jet realised they were probably getting to the core of their recent argument. Whatever Kobra had been so upset about over the last few days: they were approaching it now. She could practically feel the red hot glow emanating from the subject, like it was the lava core of the earth, and she wondered if Kobra would blow his top again. Again, she glanced worriedly at the entrance to the Electric Century arcade and pondered how well the sound carried out here.

Stubbornly, the youngest of the trio folded his arms over his tiger-print binder. The sun was low enough in the sky that they were safe to be outside with skin exposed for a little while.

“What are you going to do, keep him in the arcade forever?” Jet asked.

 

“No!” Cherri huffed, as if his plan should be obvious, “Jus’ gotta figure out a safe way to sneak ‘em back into the city.”

“The city?!”

Jet stared at him in disbelief.

Nobody hated the city more than Cherri. He’d grown up there, living in a trailer park with his parents and two sisters, and had often spoken about feeling Battery City had been rejecting him since birth, like a bad organ transplant. It wasn’t just because he was transgender, which was something BL/Ind had been keen to ‘correct’ back when Cherri was young, although he’d known it from a young age.

Jet had seen the handful of old photos that he kept in the radio station, featuring a messy, ‘tomboyish’ kid dressed in board shorts with two little girls tagging along behind him. She’d even glimpsed his parents in a creased photograph and remembered being struck by his mother’s NA.

Even though his lack of girliness had increased the friction between Cherri and everyone else in the city, it wasn’t the primary cause of his problems. He was too much for Battery City, Cherri recounted, never being able to sit still in his classes and always sticking out like a sore thumb. Classmates had always liked him well enough, since he had been the class clown, but it had been different with adults. His parents were disappointed in him, his teachers were frustrated with him, and BL/Ind were trying to stick pills down his throat. By the time he had reached middle school, Cherri was sick of a world that seemed desperate to squeeze him into a box that was far too small: he had given up, stopped caring, and made a tidy profit from selling his pills to other kids at recess. He spent his classes writing poetry in the back of his notebooks, skipped subjects that bored him half to death, and his parents had grown increasingly tired of his behaviour. They thought he didn’t try. They thought he was a ‘bad influence’.

“They wanna make everyone the same, Jetty. An’ if y’ain’t moldable like the rest of ‘em, they’re gonna break ya down until ya are. I seen it happen to my friends.”

Nobody had ever been able to get to the bottom of what had finally driven Cherri out here: sometimes, he insisted that his parents had kicked him out of their home and, other times, he claimed that he had run away instead of going to school. Whatever had happened, the twelve year old boy had suddenly found himself living alone in the middle of the desert – and, in spite of the difficulties that came with it, Cherri loved it.

“Yeah, the city.” Cherri said, although he seemed a little sheepish about it.

Jet shook her head in disbelief.

“I can’t believe you’re going to take a kid to Battery City. That’s crazy.”

Although she’d never visited the city herself, (the closest that she’d ever gotten was traversing the underground that led to it), Jet had heard enough horror stories to know that she would never raise her kids there. A few joys, especially those who had grown up there, did eventually move back when they started families – the promises of healthcare and clean water were too tempting to resist – but Jet had always, privately, thought they were crazy for doing so. Even if their kids were healthy, could they truly be healthy if they weren’t free to think for themselves? If speaking out for what they believed resulted in them being taken away from their parents and brainwashed into being mindless slaves to society?

Cola knew the horrors of the city even better than she did, having grown up there. Considering how him and Newsie had been treated – how entire generations of his family had been treated – she couldn’t believe he would take any kid there. Let alone his own son.

“That’s what I said.” Kobra mumbled.

“Listen, the city’s the safest place for a kid. He ain’t safe out here.”

Cherri pinched between his brows with his fingers, as if he’d been tasked with explaining to a fresh batch of Juvie Halls that they couldn’t go running out into the desert rain without expecting acid burns. As if the answers were all immediately obvious to him and his friends were being deliberately obtuse by questioning his decisions. Or… as if he was very tired. The stretch of his mouth looked more like a grimace than a smile, like he was in physical pain, and Cherri’s eyes were rimmed with dark circles.

This wasn’t a decision he had made lightly, Jet knew that. But she couldn’t help feeling angry that her entire way of life was being decreed dangerous. Bad. As if raising Girlie out here was the wrong decision for her to make and, by making it, Jet was a bad caregiver.

Realising that any further attempts to convince Kobra were futile, Cherri turned desperately to Jet:

“Ya know this ain’t no place for a kid, Jetty.”

“A kid like The Girl?” She raised an eyebrow, daring him to challenge her.

The look of surprise, then mild horror, that washed over Cherri’s face indicated that he hadn’t even considered that argument. He had gotten too in his head thinking about Eli.

He ran a hand through his hair, the blue strands falling back into his face immediately.

“Tha’ ain’t what I mean!” Cherri insisted, quickly, “Ya know ya’d want her to grow up there, if she could. The zones ain’t no place to raise a kid.”

“Like me?”

There was a pause.

Again, it was clear from the look on Cherri’s face that (in his desperation) he had completely forgotten that his experience of growing up in Battery City wasn’t universal. Neither Jet or Kobra had spent their early lives surrounded by things like tall buildings, streetlights, and sidewalks. They’d never been to a movie theatre or a school or, at least in Jet’s case, truly understood what you were supposed to do in an office job. Type on a computer? The world Cherri was so keen to return to was completely alien to the pair of them and known only through stories, terrifying stories of corruption and fear told by people who had fled that world as soon as they possibly could. Batt City had been a bogeyman to them growing up. Although Cherri was often confused for being a sandpup, born and raised in the zones, he couldn’t have been further from the two of them in that moment. He stared at Jet, silently trying to take back the damage he’d inflicted.

After another long pause had passed, the three of them standing in hurt silence, Kobra added:

“Jet’s a sandpup and she’s better adjusted than anyone else out here.”

While Jet was flattered that her crewmate looked up to her like that, seeing her as a good example, deep down knew that it wasn’t true. She was as messed up as any other killjoy, no matter how often her crew tried to put her on a pedestal. Aside from the anxiety that gripped her, (she had been plagued by nightmares and bedwetting throughout her childhood), Jet was insecure and looked for comfort in whatever form she could find it. It used to be something she clamoured for from her parents or in food – which, in many ways, symbolised the love of her parents anyway. Self-consciously, Jet rubbed at the healed scars on the knuckles of her index and middle fingers. Nowadays, she leaned more on her crewmates for support. Whether it was a side effect of growing up here or if she would’ve turned out the same in the city, she had no idea.

It wasn’t true what Kobra said, of course: she wasn’t any better adjusted than anyone else. She just did a better job at hiding it. Washing bed sheets in the middle of the night or running the tap while she was in the bathroom. She didn’t let anyone else see that side of her, because it scared her to feel so out of control. Jet couldn’t begin to imagine what the others would think of her if they saw it too.

“Y’know I ain’t mean to shade sandpups,” Cherri said, finally, “I jus’ lived this life for a long time now. I ain’t wanna force it on my kid until he’s old ‘nough to take it. ‘S a lot to adjust to.”

“You were a middle schooler when you came out here.” Jet said.

The older killjoy exhaled, blowing his floppy hair out of his face: “Exactly wha’ I mean. I know wha’ ‘s like makin’ the jump between worlds. Back then… I wasn’t ready for it, no matter wha’ I said. And I wanna make sure tha’ Eli ain’t make the same mistakes I did.”

If there was any doubt that Kobra was still frustrated with the situation, it was made evident when he stormed off and climbed into the Trans Am. Jet had no idea when he’d had the chance to make a copy of the keys, which were safely in the pocket of her nametag at the time. Standing next to Cherri, she watched as he started up the engine and drove away into the night, feeling the anxiety clutch at her internal organs at the idea of her legally blind friend driving through a war zone.

She had been relieved to hear the Trans Am return early the next morning, when she was still lying on the floor, half-asleep, and wondering whether doing so was starting to damage her back. And when she next tried to fire up the engine of the baby carriage, it started up right away without stalling once – whatever the kink was with the engine, Kobra had managed to figure it out and fix it during the night.

Quietly, Jet wished she could use her anger so practically. If only she could use her frustration to solve problems rather than create them, fix something rather than try to destroy herself…

A hard thump caused Jet to lose her train of thought, leaving her memories behind and returning to the present. She looked from what she was doing and found the noise had been caused by Eli leaping down from the top of the arcade machine and landing on his sneakers. Although he needed a stick to get around sometimes, he had learned the station well enough to navigate it by himself already.

“Need anything, mijo?” She inquired.

“I’m going to see if dad needs any help.” Eli said.

Noting the hint of pride in his voice, Jet’s heart ached a little. The kid was smart, sure, but he didn’t seem to have gathered that his dad was planning on sending him back to his home. She couldn’t imagine how devastated he would be when he realised.

-

Jet-Star was beginning to freak.

A few days had passed now, yet they hadn’t made any progress in regards to their missing crewmates. It was hard not to assume the worst: her best friends had been kidnapped, tortured, killed… Although Kobra was quick to remind her that it would’ve been blasted across the zones if Party Poison had been taken by BL/Ind, (they had wanted to capture them for years now). Jet had started to consider the impact of the elements, long-term exposure to the radiation, and the lack of water if her friends hadn’t stolen supplies from somewhere. How long could they last out there alone? Nothing had been turned up in the search yet, (not so much as a glove or a bandana), even though it had grown into a zone-wide hunt at this point.

She supposed that was one of the few benefits of the Fabulous Four being bulletproof faces among the the rest of the killjoys: people, especially overenthusiastic kids who had been fed stories about them, were prepared to drop whatever they were doing to join the search for Party Poison and Fun Ghoul. Whenever one of them stopped by, hair blazing and grinning, to check in, Jet wondered how many of them had wanted posters stuck on up the walls of their lighthouses or stuffed into their backpacks. It made her feel strange, protective of her crewmates and their privacy, and then she had to remind herself that these kids were helping her. A lot of the adult killjoys were more relaxed about their ‘status’, which was a relief. Jet never knew how to react when she met fangirls and fanboys – although, they usually weren’t interested in her in the first place. She wasn’t one of the ‘big names’ in her crew.

It was Cherri Cola who had suggested she take a walk.

The worst of the radiation had already disappeared, along with the sun, and Jet knew that the air wasn’t bad enough in this area to wear her helmet. As the days stacked up into a week, tensions were growing rapidly inside the Electric Century Arcade and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. Even if the air wasn’t physically toxic in there, it was thick with a cloud of anxiety and unspoken words – especially as Cherri and Kobra were still on the rocks. In fact, all three (four?) of them were fighting.

It wasn’t due to real anger at each other, just the general stress of the situation causing them to lash out over the smallest things. Approximately half an hour ago, Jet had grown frustrated by the scratchy noises of Cherri Cola’s pencil working against his notebook and had finally snapped. To his credit, Cherri had looked at her for a moment, realised her anger wasn’t really directed towards him, and then suggested that she take a walk outside to clear her head. Even though she’d felt annoyed in the moment – like she was being pushed away by him and Kobra again – Jet was growing more grateful for his advice with each step she took.

With the sun down and the stars beginning to appear overhead, Jet could walk freely without feeling the heat burning a hole through her jacket. There was a slight breeze passing over the sand dunes, which rustled her hair lightly and kept it from sticking to the back of her neck, and if she inhaled at the right moment, the air tasted fresh. The evening wasn’t exactly cool, but it felt lighter than the heavy fug of the daytime and Jet knew she was breathing a little easier now that she wasn’t trapped in that arcade anymore.

A shout caught her attention, even though (she realised as she glanced around to find the source of the noise) it wasn’t directed at her. There was a group of figures up ahead.

Acting on instinct, Jet’s hand dropped down to rest on her halter and caressed it cautiously with her fingertips, ready to draw her zap if it was needed. Her heart jumped straight into her throat – unsurprisingly, she was a lot more on edge than usual – and she had to swallow the lump of panic.

But as she took a longer look at the group, she realised that they weren’t going to be a threat to her: it was obvious, from their sizes alone, it was just a collection of baby joys making the best of the evening light. The tallest of their little group was probably the same height as her elbow, at most. And, even if they had zaps Jet doubted they knew how to aim them correctly, let alone that they could fire them. She had faith that the baby joys wouldn’t break killjoy code, especially with a senior like her, so it should be safe for her to pass by. Hand falling back to her side, Jet fixed her gaze on the stars rising in the distance and continued her walk.

The hubbub of the joys seemed to grow louder as she approached, which Jet initially attributed to the sources of the noise being closer to her now. But, a moment too late, she realised that two of the joys were already staring at her with the starstruck look she had started to dread. It was hard to determine whether the ones that spotted her first were the youngest members of the group, but they were certainly the smallest and had matching vibrant jackets. Jetty could recognise a joy’s first attempt at creating their nametag from a mile away and felt a burst of motherly warmth for a moment, admiring the wobbly patches on their sleeves. It was the one in the bright, bubblegum-coloured outfit that was tugging on the sleeve of the tallest joy and speaking in a rapidfire way, waving their hands around wildly. Now, the rest of the kids were staring too.

Jet sensed her stomach beginning to sink (like a rock) as she approached and tried to cling to the brief feeling of affection that she’d felt for these kids. She remembered what it was like being a young joy, looking up to those who were wiser and faster and shinier, and reminded herself that they didn’t understand the gravity of her current situation. Kids never realised how bad things were until it was far too late.

As she got within earshot, one of the younger joys bounced over to greet her enthusiastically.

“Jet-Star!” They beamed, stars dancing around in their eyes.

Perhaps a little awkwardly, Jet managed to force a smile. (Never meet ya heroes, Jetty. They’re always gonna end up bein’ a disappointment.)

“That’s me.” She said, trying to step around the young joy.

One of the taller killjoys, who was wearing greasepaint on their face, stepped forward to block her in. Their friend with the carefully-styled mohawk stopped her from turning the other way. While Jet didn’t feel particularly threatened by the group, (she was confident that she could knock the kids down like bowling pins if they tried to start any trouble), she could’ve done without being backed into a corner like this. It was only a mild annoyance, which might have even been amusing if today was a regular day, but it was the last thing she needed on top of everything else that was happening.

The tallest (oldest?) of the bunch joined the gaggle forming around her, directing their question straight to Jet.

“Did ya find Party Poison yet?”

There was a strange look in their eyes, one that Jet couldn’t quite place. It was like the excitement of the other kids, the stars-shining-in-the-irises that came with talking about passions or heroes, but there was something slightly off about the way it looked on the joy’s face. A little too manic. Although Jet didn’t know them or what they could be thinking about, she knew that Party Poison being missing was more significant to this kid than it was to the average fanjoy. There was desperation painted across their face.

The grease-painted joy (was that supposed to be a skull?) tugged on their friend’s upper arm, as if to remind the other killjoy that the rest of them were there. Or was it something else? Jet was reminded of when she was trying to coax a startled, young Kobra out of hiding one time.

“Did ya?” The kid insisted, eyes still fixed directly on Jet’s.

She shook her head and exhaled a weary sigh, feeling her shoulders go slack with the weight.

“Is it true ya eye got eaten by a scarecrow?” One of the smaller joys, the one dressed in blue, piped up.

“Will ya sign my fanart?” The pink one added.

Jet was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the gaggle of overexcited children, all of them trying to take chunks out of her with their snapping piranha teeth, and wished she had brought a flask of water on her walk. She felt lightheaded, even though it had only been a few hours since she’d split a can of Power Pup with Kobra. Whether the young joys had picked up on her anxiety or not, she wasn’t sure, but the one with the mohawk took a few steps back to give her space and the skull one peered at her with uncertainty. Again, she had to remind herself that these kids weren’t being overbearing on purpose – it was unlikely that anyone had taught them the meaning of personal space or manners, if they were hanging out so close to the desert orphanage. And for all their inappropriate questions, they didn’t seem malicious. Just misguided.

She took the pen that was offered to her and dutifully signed her name on the drawing the pink haired kid was holding up, managing a small grimace.

“I lost it in a fight,” Jet told them, “Nobody ate it. Well, maybe a bird might have. It got lost in the static when we were making our escape.”

The twins (?) squealed in unison: “Whoa!”

“What about Party Poison?” The tallest joy insisted, unrivalled urgency in their voice, “Ya gonna find Party Poison, righ’?”

A little bewildered, Jet nodded.

“Of course. A real killjoy never leaves their friends behind.”

Aside from the Party Poison fan, the rest of the joys were staring in awe at her, as if she was sharing unparalleled wisdom beyond their years. If Jet wasn’t so tired – she was definitely going to cut her walk short after this encounter – she would’ve found it amusing. Ghoul would’ve laughed his ass off if he was here.

“Maybe they went to find Fun Ghoul.” Mohawk suggested.

“Huh?” Jet was confused.

Inspecting the killjoy a little more closely, she could tell that the kid with the purple mohawk was one of the oldest among the group – even if they weren’t the tallest. It was obvious from the slightly tired look on their face, as well as their much more impressive nametag. They had pins and badges from gigs that were a few years old, supporting Jet’s theory. There was a rush of whispers and the killjoy with the mohawk looked suddenly guilty, as if they had said something they shouldn’t have.

“They coulda gone lookin’ for Fun Ghoul!” The pink one continued, “To rescue him!”

The tallest one, who was clearly their leader, hissed at them.

“Rescue him from who?” Jet directed his question at the babysitter, figuring that he’d like that.

She guessed right. The red-haired joy straightened up as if he was about to give a speech and puffed out his chest like a preening bird. Maybe he’d brag to his friends later about Jet-Star speaking to him – from the little interaction they’d had, the killjoy seemed like the sort.

“I saw somethin’,” The joy told her, smug, “I saw Fun Ghoul gettin’ taken.”

Jet’s heart started to beat rapidly in her chest, simultaneously excited at the prospect of having a lead and frightened by what the lead might be. What did he mean, taken? Had her and Kobra been wrong this whole time – was it actually BL/Ind who were behind their friends’ disappearances?

“We saw it,” Mohawk corrected, “You ain’t the only one, Velocity.”

Their babysitter (Velocity) waved away their corrections with annoyance, as if his friend was a fly that wouldn’t quit buzzing around his head.

“What did you see?”

It was hard not to grow frustrated with the young joys, who didn’t seem to grasp the urgency of the situation despite their concern. Jet had to remind herself that disappearances were nothing unusual in the zones, especially for the sandpups, and that it was only the Fabulous Four’s notoriety that had made these ones stand out. On top of that, the crew seemed easily distracted and argumentative. She suspected that pressing them harder for answers would only result in the situation blowing up, which was the last thing she needed right now. Jet wished that Kobra was here to help handle the kids.

The twins were squabbling over something, so Jet raised her voice and asked again:

“What did you see?”

 

For once, she was grateful for the fame that she had accrued in the zones, as she knew that was probably why the baby joys respected her enough to listen.

“He got jumped in Zone 5,” Velocity said, tilting his chin up to give the illusion that he was taller, “We saw it happen. A buncha guys came outta the shadows an’ grabbed him when he was collectin’ scraps.”

“We weren’t stalkin’ him!” The blue haired joy clarified, too quickly.

Jet was certain that the group had been stalking Fun Ghoul, but that was an issue for a later time.

She didn’t question why the joys had failed to intervene in her boyfriend’s kidnapping (was it still a kidnapping when it happened to a grown man?), even though the rest of her crew might have. It went without saying that Jet knew what it was to be young and scared in the desert, still trying to work out who you were and what you wanted. She couldn’t imagine that – if she had been the same age that these joys were, old enough to leave the orphanage for a short spell but still young enough to live there – she would have known what to do in that situation. Years of experience was the only reason she knew how and when to act, nowadays – although, like with her missing friends, even Jet didn’t hold all the answers.

“A drove of draculoids?” Jet said, wanting to make sure she had the correct details.

The joy with the skull grease-paint shook their head solemnly and said nothing. It was Velocity who spoke up again, speaking for the entirety of his crew, and Jet began to grasp how this crew operated. The bold, outspoken red-haired joy was the leader (and the mouthpiece), Mohawk and Skull were the ones that kept him from going too far, and the young twins were… Well, they were more like roadies than anything else.

“Nah. Another crew,” Velocity paused, as if considering how much information he wanted to divulge, “Black Dragon Fightin’ Society.”

A rare desert breeze cut through the group, making the twins shiver despite their respective jackets, and Jet felt a chill travel down her spine.

Jet had heard of Black Dragon Fighting Society. Everybody who lived in the zones (and even a few people who lived in Battery City) knew Black Dragon Fighting Society. They had been infamous a couple of decades ago, when Jet had been growing up, and had been part of the reason that Jet’s mamãe didn’t let her stray too far from the house when she played outside. The crew, led by Black Knight, had been a ruthless biker gang, who didn’t discriminate when it came to taking people out. If a kid got in their way, they could end up ghosted the same as any grown joy would – it was the brutality of the gang that had made the crew (and their name) famous back in the day.

After the death of Black Knight, (the news of which had rippled around the zone at a rapid, whispered pace), the crew had receded into the shadows for a little while. Most people thought that they had disbanded completely without their leader. But over the last ten to fifteen years, a new babysitter had risen to the top of the gang and the name had made a slow return to the zones. Maybe it didn’t hold the same fear now that it had twenty years ago, but Black Dragon Fighting Society were definitely bad news. Any joy who was willing to ghost another joy, especially if it was unprovoked, didn’t sit well with Jet.

As long as she’d had her zap, Jet had never been the first one to shoot. If anyone attacked her or her friends, she would fight back with as much force as she could muster – but she never shot first. People like Black Knight, like Black Dragon Fighting Society, were beyond her comprehension.

She couldn’t imagine taking somebody’s life, completely unprovoked.

“We keep away from the Black Dragon.” The blue-haired joy told her, solemn.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Jet said, ruffling the kid’s hair as if they were one of her little siblings, “Keep yourselves safe, okay? You did the right thing telling me about Ghoul.”

The one with the Mohawk nodded at her, seemingly relieved.

“Now, does anybody know where Black Dragon Fighting Society’s lighthouse is?”

There was a resounding chorus of “no”s and a few headshakes. Velocity, the babysitter, didn’t say anything but when Jet looked him directly in the eye, he paused for a moment and shook his head too. Alright then. Jet had gotten as much information out of this crew as they could provide, she realised, and she straightened up with the intention of walking back to the arcade. She needed to share this unexpected lead with her friends as soon as possible, so they could chase it up.

She was turning to walk away, already calculating how fast Cherri would be able to track down such a violent and reckless crew, when one of the joys piped up again.

“Is Party Poison… comin’ back?” Velocity asked.

There was an uncertainty in his voice that chilled Jet to the core, making her feel colder than any desert wind could possibly manage. She stopped where she was, her body twisted away from them, and swallowed the lump that grew rapidly in her throat. Even if Jet was scared of what the future might hold, it wouldn’t be fair to let these kids know that. It was important to make sure that young joys had hope for the world they would be inheriting (the world the Fabulous Four had been fighting for) and Jet wouldn’t be the one to strip it away from them. She took a deep breath and held her chin high, trying to project confidence.

“Party Poison is bulletproof. You know that killjoys never die.”

With that resounding announcement, Jet took another step forward. Then another. And then she continued putting one foot in front of the over – refusing to think about the alternative if Party wasn’t as invincible as they claimed to be – until she was standing outside Electric Century Arcade, looking up at the few blinking light bulbs that hadn’t died yet.

-

Considering how time had dragged for the last few days, (she would swear until her final days that time out here moved either far too sluggishly or at a pace that left her racing to catch up), Jet was reluctant to waste time waiting around at the arcade. It didn’t get them anywhere, waiting and preparing. Counting the wasted hours on their fingers instead of acting, letting time march on without attempting to keep up with it.

Fun Ghoul was somewhere in the zones, somewhere within tangible reach of their ragtag team, and she was determined to strike while the iron was hot this time, instead of waiting for her boyfriend to return home on her own terms. Standing in the doorway, Jet relayed her encounter with the baby joys and bounced impatiently on the balls of her feet, wanting to get back on the road as soon as possible. She had made sure that her zap was locked and loaded (prepared for action), then slipped it back into the holster that hung around her waist. As she spoke, one hand rested on the handle of the weapon and her thumb rubbed it anxiously, as if it were a magical lamp that could grant wishes. Please let Ghoul be safe. If you’re listening, Phoenix Witch, please let us find our friends safe and alive. It’s not their time yet.

Luckily, Cherri seemed equally impatient to chase the first lead they’d received in days. Before she had even finished speaking, he was finetuning the radio so that he could send a message to the radio station, requesting that somebody find the coordinates of Black Dragon Fighting Society’s lighthouse. It took a few attempts before NewsAGoGo and Hot Chimp radioed back with a response, letting the rest of them know that it would take some time. The crew reportedly moved around a lot, no doubt due to their unpopularity among other killjoys, so it wouldn’t be easy to track down where they were staying right at this moment. Of course, the midnight runners were going to do their best, as always.

“Where’s Dr D?” Jet asked, realising that this was the second time NewsAGoGo had taken on his duties as station manager, “Is he out looking for Party?”

A crackle of static filled the air. The crease lines on Cherri’s forehead deepened a little, as if she had said something that she shouldn’t have – although, it may have just been the shadows being cast by the sun setting outside the arcade.

“D ain’t get many places now.” Hot Chimp said, finally.

Before Jet could ask any more questions, the other DJ piped up:

“We can talk ‘bout this when ya get back! Let’s focus on findin’ Funny Ghoul!”

The response from the radio station wasn’t exactly comforting, but they were right: the time for questions was later and the time for acting was right now, before anything else got in the way. And, (while she would never admit it to anyone), Jet couldn’t help being glad that it was the midnight runners that she had reached, instead of Dr Death Defying himself. As much as she loved Dr D, who was like an uncle to her, he was far more cautious than everyone else he worked with. If he had been the one handling this lead, he would’ve insisted that Jet waited and tried to find more information, rather than rushing blindly into the situation. Waiting was the last thing that she wanted to do right now.

Acting on Kobra’s advice, the three of them decided that they would get into the Trans Am and start the journey back towards the centre of the zones, since it was unlikely Black Dragon Fighting Society would be located so close to the city. Jet couldn’t manage to keep still for more than a few seconds at a time, bouncing nervously in her seat, so Cherri Cola was elected to be the driver and Kobra Kid rode shotgun as usual.

It felt strange to sit alone in the backseat. The sensation was only elevated further when Jet spotted a scrap of fabric poking out from under the passenger seat and leaned forward to retrieve it. The patterned fabric turned out to be part of a dress, as she rescued Girlie’s lost doll and held it in her hand. Party had made it for her when she was a toddler, so that The Girl would have something to keep her company if she was the only one riding in the backseat. Jet remembered it vividly: how hard Party had worked on making the doll during the hours they kept watch at night, the excited look on The Girl’s face when she’d received the gift, and the tears a few weeks ago (from both parties) when the doll disappeared. It must have slipped under the seat when they’d been riding in the Trans Am without anybody noticing.

Jet propped the doll up in the seat beside her, chest aching at the memories.

The Smashing Pumpkins song playing on the radio – according to the rules of the Trans Am, whoever was riding shotgun got to control the music – cut out as NewsAGoGo radioed in to tell them to head towards Hyper Thrust. Apparently, Black Dragon Fighting Society had recently adopted it as their latest lighthouse, much to the chagrin of the couple who owned the club.

“But where do they sleep?” Jet asked, puzzled.

Even if the crew were as bloody and murderous as their reputation claimed, she couldn’t imagine anyone being comfortable on the sticky floor of a night club. She didn’t want to imagine the kind of stains there must be down there.

“There’s a secret basement.” Kobra said.

It was nonchalant in the way it spoke, as if this wasn’t mind blowing information. Jet-Star had been visiting Hyper Thrust for her entire adult life (and a little before that) and never had any clue that there was any space below it. Certainly, the underground space Kobra was describing had never been documented on any map that she’d seen. She was relieved to see that Cherri Cola was surprised too – he was more street smart than anyone else out here, claiming to know the zones like the back of his hand, but he didn’t know the secret basement. The fact that Kobra knew about it, when nobody else did, was typical Kobra Kid.

He knew things that other people didn’t, even things Jet had no idea where he could’ve learned them. It wasn’t an autistic savant thing – that phrase threatened to bring bile up – it was just a Kobra thing.

“Ya reckon they got Ghoul down there?” Cherri’s eyes widened.

He looked like he might be on the verge of tearing up from relief – Jet had to remind herself that Ghoul was Cherri’s boyfriend too.

“If they do, we’re getting him out of there. Tonight.” Jet said, firm.

The drive to Hyper Thrust was long, since they were coming from the opposite end of the zones, and silent for the most part. There was an unspoken tension hanging in the air, although it was completely different from the atmosphere in the arcade – this was an anxious, leg-bouncing, fingernail-chewing silence. Jet was sure that the inside of her cheek would be chewed to ribbons by the time they finally arrived. Music had been playing on the radio for most of the journey, to disguise the fact that none of them wanted to talk about what was coming, but Kobra shut it off as they entered Zone Six. It wasn’t exactly a stealth mission, but it wouldn’t be beneficial to draw any extra attention to the Trans Am.

Parking outside Hyper Thrust, Jet noted how different the environment was in the daytime. For one thing, there was a distinct lack of other cars parked outside the nightclub, which was usually packed full of killjoys at night. She usually struggled to find a decent spot to park. There was no cloud of mingling smoke from cigarettes and joints, although there was a stale scent leftover from the night before. But the biggest difference was the night. At night, Hyper Thrust pulsed with sound and light, pumping rock music so loud that it could be heard from miles around. There was something eerie and unsettling about the building sitting in total silence – it was like a bloated corpse lying in the sand.

It seemed Jet wasn’t the only one affected by the atmosphere around the building, as the eagerness of the group to get going seemed to fade into something more like reluctance. Or was it fear? As she parked the baby carriage outside the desolate night club, none of them leapt out of the vehicle and raised inside to embark on their rescue mission. Cherri fiddled with his ray gun, making sure that it was set to kill, and Kobra stared off into the distance as if he was deep in a daydream. Finally, Jet had to break the trance hanging over them and open the driver’s door, cringing at the creaking noise it emitted. Too obvious.

The others followed her call to action, silently exiting the car, and the three of them collected outside of the door. A neon sign, which usually flashed brightly to advertise that they were ‘OPEN ALL NIGHT’ was hanging like a dead thing beside it. Kobra shuddered, alerting the others quickly to the presence of a large spider, which was spinning its web in the corner of the door. Brushing it away with her hand, Jet turned the doorknob and pushed open the entrance to the dark room, which still smelt vaguely damp and alcoholic from the night before. There were cigarette butts and plastic cups littered all over the floor.

Jet weaved her way through the tables and chairs, still set up as if they were expecting guests, and made her way to the centre of the dance floor. If Black Dragon Fighting Society were hanging around here, there were no obvious signs of their presence – although, it could be that they’d been obscured by the mess left behind by other joys. Lost, she looked to Kobra to lead the way to the secret basement that supposedly lurked beneath the night club and he bulked at the idea.

Her younger crewmate led the way to the bathrooms and to the end of the corridor the doors belonged to, where there was a discrete turn and two other doors. One was marked as a store room, which Jet supposed made sense, and the other had a padlock securing it closed. There was no point sticking up a ‘KEEP OUT’ sign on a door like this, which was like a green light to the majority of killjoys, and it was the plain look of it that caused Jet’s eyes to pass over it easily. Kobra picked at the padlock expertly for a few minutes, brow creased in concentration, until it clicked open and the last barrier to Ghoul was removed. Drawing a deep breath, Jet glanced at the other two momentarily before nodding for him to open it.

If Hyper Thrust had seemed dark without the neon lights and dance floor, it was nothing compared to the darkness that absorbed the basement. There was a set of stone stairs descending into the nothingness, which were curiously worn for a supposedly abandoned place, and Jet was only able to see two steps in front of her. The wall was made of the same brick as the building above, but lacked the decorations that made Hyper Thrust a semi-pleasant environment for joys to spend time in. Jet rested her hand against it to steady herself, fearing that she’d slip on the unfamiliar stairs, and found that it was colder than a winter night. It sent a chill down her spine, it felt so out of place in the Californian desert.

With the darkness obscuring her vision, Jet had to rely on her other senses as she made her way down the stairs, no clue what she was going to happen on at the bottom. Her breathing seemed louder than usual in the quiet, only able to make out the sound of her companions inhaling and exhaling softly if she focused for a moment. Talking seemed too dangerous when they had no idea if they were alone – if somebody shot from the bottom of the stairs, they wouldn’t be able to see it coming until it was too late to react. There was a faint rustling noise, which Jet suspected (but couldn’t confirm) was the noise of rodents scurrying around the ground of the basement. Their presence was slightly reassuring, indicating that nobody was waiting for them down there except a handful of rats or possums. Maybe a few bats. The smell was by far the worst part of the basement: she could distinguish the scent of human waste and urine, but those were only among the stink down here. There was a strong damp smell, like the underground tunnel they transversed to get into Battery City, accompanied by a rotting that was stronger than any Jet had ever come across. It reminded her of when she’d come across a corpse left in the sand, the decomposition accelerated by the summer sun beating down on it, and how maggots had fallen into her hand when she’d tried to move it. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, the smell was so intense and overwhelming that Jet had to cover her nose with her sleeve to avoid gagging. She tried to draw shallow breaths through her mouth instead.

When she finally stepped onto the ground, Jet was surprised to find that the floor was made of packed dirt, rather than the same kind of stone as the stairs. It reminded her of the burial grounds that she’d read about in books and shuddered at making the connection, a sinister feeling of dread coming over her. The room didn’t seem particularly large – certainly not big enough to host an entire crew – and the only indication it belonged to the nightclub overground was the stack of boxes in one corner, which were addressed to the owner of Hyper Thrust. There were similar scatterings of cigarettes and empty bottles that Jet could attribute to joys who were in the know using this as a place to hook up. A crumpled pile of fabric, which she initially expected to be an item of clothing, turned out to be a dusty old body bag. No doubt it was a remnant from a killjoy who had stayed here, (although she hated to speculate why they’d never collected it again).

As Jet walked to the other side of the room, hands out in front of her to avoid bumping into the brick walls, she was disappointed to find the basement was empty. Her stomach sank like a stone. Hands resting against the wall of the basement, she realised that they’d hit another (literal) dead end.

Whether the overbearing smell had finally gotten to her or it was the realisation that she might never see Fun Ghoul again, Jet wasn’t sure. But this time, despite her attempts to swallow it down, she couldn’t stop the bile from rising in her throat and tilted her head down to vomit onto the ground. She gripped the wall with one hand, wondering if it was possible for the room to spin when it was too dark to even make out the room, and tried to push her hair back out of the way with the other.

“Jetty!” Cherri said, voice thick with concern.

A heavy hand rubbed her back, running up and down her spine as she spat mouthfuls of acidic saliva onto the dirt in front of her, and her friend made soothing noises. It reminded her of when Missile had contracted stomach flu and, fearing that the dehydration would kill her, there was nothing for Jet to do but hold her as she was sick again and again. The sting of missing her kid didn’t improve her mood in the slightest.

There was no response from Kobra, although Jet could somewhat make out the shape of it in the darkness. It probably helped that she could recognise her crewmate from ten miles away, even with only one eye to aid her, and that it had a very distinctive figure. He was lurking at the other side of the room, crouching down like he was going to take a dump, and Jet felt a stab of annoyance at their disappearing friendship. She knew that Kobra was atypical, like her, and didn’t display his friendship in conventional ways – but it frustrated her that they couldn’t comfort each other in this time of need. Witch, Jet felt closer to Cola than she did to her own crewmate at this point.

Her irritation dissipated a little as, suddenly, a glowing light brightened up the end of the room. Kobra stepped aside and she saw that he had managed to coax a small, boxy TV into working again, making it easier for them to view the contents of the room. The TV was playing some reruns of Mousekat on one of the few BL/i channels whose broadcast stretched this far out and its faint light illuminated the remains of a campfire in the middle of the room, along with some scorch marks from older ones. But the most enlightening difference was being able to see the chalk patterns on the wall, which depicted tally scores underneath a list of names: Masta, Moth, Miz, Missy, and Thrill. Next to it was a crude drawing of the Phoenix Witch but with more eyes, hundreds of eyes, than Jet had seen in any depiction.

Kobra picked up a cigarette, half-smoked, and a glimmer of smoke was still drifting from the end.

“We musta jus’ missed ‘em. By seconds.” Cherri said, realisation dawning.

“How?” Jet was bewildered.

There was no way that five people had slipped past them on the stairs without them noticing – the stairs were far too narrow to even accommodate that many people at once, since Jet and the others had been forced to go single-file. But there was no exit down here either. There was no door, not even a trapdoor like the one that led to the underground, and (while it was dimly lit) there didn’t appear to be any way of exiting through the ceiling, even if someone did manage to get up there.

Scratching his head, Cherri looked mystified too.

“I was thinkin’–” He began.

But he didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence, as the TV seemed to glow brighter and Jet realised that it had changed from a black-and-white cartoon to a full-colour news broadcast.

“We interrupt this programme to bring you breaking news.”

The female newscaster smiled wide, her teeth unnaturally white.

“Better Living Industries has announced that known criminal [REDACTED], informally known as Party Poison, who was arrested last week has been found guilty on all charges in court. We go, now, live to the execution, which will be carried out via gunshot.”
Chapter Six
Time moved differently out here. It was something Jet had always suspected to be true, especially during the long hours that she’d waited for her crewmates to return home, but now she knew it was factual. Hypothesis. Testing. Conclusion? When Jet was faced with a reality that she couldn’t bear, it was easier to break everything down into tiny chunks and examine the facts laid bare in front of her. But no matter how many times Jet went over the concept in her head – and she had plenty of hours to do so, as she was lying comatose in her motel bed – she couldn’t get to the conclusion. It continued to elude her.

Hypothesis: time in the desert worked differently to anywhere else.

Testing: watching the numbers on the clock move, compared to the world outside her small window, and realising they didn’t align. Time seemed to drag for hours at a time, too painfully slow to deal with, and then night would crash over her like a tidal wave. She always seemed to miss the dawn – never saw the sun rising to indicate the start of a brand new day and grant her mercy, giving her the chance to finally start over. Every time she woke, sluggish, it seemed that dawn had passed over already and she was too late. Or it lingered a long way in the distance, just out of reach.

Conclusion: Party Poison was dead. Her leader, best friend, and hero to the zones was dead.

She had no way of reconciling these facts with each other and any attempt to make sense of them, to put the pieces together, left her even more confused than before. The timeline didn’t add up: how could Party Poison have been taken to the city without anyone seeing the van, the crows, or the kidnapping? Why would Better Living Industries fail to mention their capture, the prize of their hunt, until it was time to execute them? How could Party Poison be dead? People– Heroes like Party Poison didn’t just die. They led battalions into victory and died a hero, if they had to, sacrificing themselves for the cause. Or they were taken by the enemy to be shaped into a martyr, burnt alive on a pyre, but they would continue to smirk with a spirit that couldn’t be broken. Party Poison couldn’t just lay down and die, like any old killjoy. Like an ordinary person.

Staring at the whitewashed motel wall, which was empty aside from a few polaroids and a poster she tore out of a magazine, Jet-Star was unable to comprehend how everything had fallen apart so quickly. It seemed to prove how worthless she was, more than anything else. Everyone else had realised her weaknesses before she had, of course – there was a reason that she was always at the back of the group, receiving a third of the praise her crewmates did, and most people only used her as a gateway to her more popular friends. They were the heroes. She had finally been given the chance that she’d been waiting her entire life for, the opportunity to prove herself as a hero. And she had failed.

More than failed. She’d fucked everything up beyond belief. The Phoenix Witch was laughing down at her, if she even considered Jet at all, and everything seemed to be a great cosmic joke at her expense.

Too tired to move from her bed, Jet didn’t even have the energy to return to her old bad habits. She ignored the slice of light that cut through the room whenever somebody opened the door, unable to respond to anyone’s questions. For the first time, she could truly understand why her father and some of her siblings elected to remain entirely mute – there was a great lump in her throat that made it impossible to speak. The only reprieve from the endless days was when The Girl would slip into the room, whether it was condoned by the others or not, and climb under the blankets with her. The warmth of a breathing, living human that depended entirely on Jet was a welcome reminder of why she had to pull through this somehow.

Curled up against her chest, The Girl would murmur softly to her mama and tell her how much she missed her. She complained about what it was like being in the care of boys, notably that none of them had the same expertise for taking care of curly hair. But mostly, she lamented about how sad she was now. As much as it stung to hear from someone so small, Jet was grateful to know that she wasn’t the only one who was facing the end of the world right now. Girlie had lost yet another caregiver. Her whispering was soothing, combined with the soft feeling of her curls brushing against Jet’s chin, and often lulled her to sleep.

Slowly, the world had shrunk to the shabby motel room that she was spending all her time in. Day to day, night to night, it was less like Jet couldn’t think of a reason to get up and more that she felt weighed down by the heavy, physical burden of life. It was a crushing weight, knowing that she’d have to go out there and face the fact her best friend wouldn’t be coming back, and Jet didn’t know how to handle it. For the first time in her life, it felt like everything was completely beyond her control. Even in the depths of her eating disorder, when her mind and body were subjected to torture repeatedly, she’d had the illusion to hang onto – she had mistakenly assumed that she was in control of the bulimia, which had bitten her in the ass eventually. But the depression she had now gave her nothing more than a feeling of hopelessness. Tiredness. There seemed to be nothing out there, beyond the dark, overwhelming cloud of grief.

Jet had no interest in food. It was hard to believe when the subject had once consumed her entire life, thinking about when she was going to eat next and what she was going to do about it. She had a one-track mind back then, which had displaced her other anxieties – food had been the only thing she had to worry about. To her Portuguese mother, food was the way that she showed love and, for that reason, it had always provided a source of comfort for Jet. During her illness, throughout her recovery, and even now, food had been something she could turn to whenever she needed reassurance. Realising that she had no idea when she had last eaten or when the next meal would be coming, Jet was disturbed to realise that she didn’t feel anything about it. Her entire body was numb.

By the time she finally summoned the strength to drag herself out of bed, (a feat that felt braver than taking on any number of scarecrows), Jet had turned grey. Every movement felt sluggish and exhausting, as if there was no energy left in her body, and she worried her legs would buckle any second. The strain of the world itself seemed to be pushing her down into the ground.

“Tía Jetty!” The Girl’s voice was too high-pitched, making her wince.

She opened up her arms to Girlie, pulling her into a hug, and noticed the small child wrinkled her nose at the swampy smell of her clothes. It wasn’t the kind of reaction that she was used to, being among the cleanest of their crew, and Jet wasn’t sure whether or not to laugh. Once she’d given The Girl a cuddle, she glanced around to see who else was lingering in the motel lobby – there wasn’t much to see.

Cherri Cola was stretched out across a chair, notebook sliding from his hands as he drifted in and out of sleep, and his boyfriend was nowhere to be seen. Maybe Kobra had retreated to its room too. Although Jet had felt trapped in the darkness of her room before, she realised now that it stretched beyond the closed door. There was a dense air of sadness hanging over the entire building, making it difficult to draw any breaths, and she wondered how far it drifted. Did the feeling of grief spread across the zone, every joy and crow knowing that the leader of their movement was dead? Was the numbness contagious?

“Are you coming to the mailbox?” Jet’s voice sounded strange from disuse.

For a moment, The Girl looked up at her and silently contemplated the question. Then, she nodded.

As they pinned a note to Cherri’s forehead and were greeted outside the motel by the blazing sun, Jet found herself thinking about those little warnings they printed on the side of pill bottles. May cause drowsiness. Don’t operate heavy machinery. She shielded her eyes from the glare with her hand and dug her sunglasses out of her jacket pocket, slipping them on before they got into the car. Although she hadn’t taken any strong medications which might inhibit her ability to drive safely, the strange foggy sensation in her head made it feel like she’d popped an entire blister-packet of pills. She cast a glance at Girlie, who was sitting up front and had already secured her seatbelt without being asked, and questioned whether it would be dangerous to drive right now. After deliberating for a moment, Jet decided that it would be safe enough. The odd feeling persisted, but it was psychological rather than physical and likely a side effect of lying catatonically for several days in a row. She hoped the fresh air would help to clear her head.

A cautious driver by nature, Jet took extra care on the journey to Zone One and was grateful that there didn’t seem to be any draculoids (or devious crews seeking revenge for Witch knows what) on their route. It helped that she knew the desert like the back of her hand, due to both growing up out here and studying the few maps they had in close detail, so she knew the safest tracks to follow. Girlie seemed to be on her best behaviour, wearing her seatbelt as well as her bandana covering her mouth and nose. Aside from being a little quieter than usual, she wasn’t behaving differently than she had on any other drive and Jet admired her inner strength – and worried. She knew firsthand the toll that suffering in silence could take.

When the mailbox was visible on the horizon, The Girl piped up:

“I don’t have anything to put inside, Tía. I didn’t have time to write a letter.”

There was a crease between her eyebrows and the look on her face was that of concern, as if she might have done something wrong without realising it. Usually, on runs to the mailbox, they brought offerings for The Witch. These varied depending on what the purpose of the visit was: if they were mourning the death of a particular killjoy, they might bring their mask or zap to offer the Phoenix Witch, as the mementos helped her guide their spirits safely to the other side. If they were looking for luck or guidance, a gift might be brought as an incentive for the Witch to help them (this differed greatly between different joys, but Jet usually made jewellery and Girlie liked to copy her). Communicating with the dead themself, via the mailbox, was more difficult but they’d always encouraged The Girl writing letters to her deceased mother, since it seemed to bring her a source of comfort. Jet liked to think the Witch allowed them to pass safely to the other side.

Jet parked closeby – since it was known to Better Living Industries that killjoys liked to gather here and they would be in a vulnerable position when doing so – and went around to open the door for The Girl.

From her face, it looked like Girlie was still concerned and Jet realised with a start that she hadn’t responded to the little girl’s question. She had grown so used to being alone and in her head throughout the last few days that how to communicate with others had been lost on her.

“You didn’t need to bring anything. I promise.” Jet extended a pinkie finger.

The Girl hooked fingers with her and squeezed, then they walked over to where the mailbox was waiting.

If nothing else, the mailbox was a monument to the faith and creativity of killjoys, especially when compared to the desolate wasteland surrounding it. The vibrant graffiti was a combination of memento mori and remembrance, with messages and artwork left for their comrades who had fallen in battle. Fresh flowers were resting on the clustered skull sculptures, suggesting that someone had been here recently, and there was a clean coat of paint on the mail slot. An eye drawn onto the front unsettled Jet for a reason that she couldn’t put her finger on and she struggled to look away from it, trying to work out what the problem was. Maybe it was just her anxiety launching a sneak-attack.

She dropped to one knee beside the mailbox and rested her hand against it, careful not to touch the painted eye that disturbed her. Closing her own eye, Jet found the dimness was nothing compared to the darkness in her lost one and still felt the burn of the sun pressing on her eyelid. She ignored it.

Dear Phoenix Witch,

Do you remember me? It’s Jet-Star from the Fabulous Four, here with Girlie. It feels like so long ago since I last prayed to you sincerely, although I know it’s only been a few days realistically.

I also know that bringing Party Poison back will be impossible. They’ve passed to the other side and I know that being ghosted is the final song at the end of the setlist of life, with no time for an encore. However, I hope their soul is able to wander far enough from the horrors of Battery City so that you can collect it. If anyone deserves to be rescued, it’s them. I’m sorry that I didn’t manage to do it myself. If you look down on me for failing them and you, I understand I didn’t act soon enough.

It’s a lot to ask for, but if you could grant safe passage for Fun Ghoul to get home, we really need him here. I don’t think Girlie can face another loss so early in her young life and I know there’s no way I can do so, without falling apart completely. Please bring him home if you can.

There’s something else too. I wasn’t able to get their masks to offer you, since they had already faced draculoidization before I came across them, but there are five lost souls wandering the desert near Dead Pegasus. I don’t know who they were in life or what happened to them, but nobody deserves to be left in purgatory forever because of BL/Ind’s cruel actions. Please bring them safely to the other side and take them under your wing, so they don’t have to suffer alone anymore. It seems like a terrible fate.

Thank you for keeping me, Kobra, and Girlie safe. Our friends at the radio station, too. We are eternally grateful for your blessing. We wouldn’t have made it so far without you on our side.

May the future be bulletproof..

When Jet opened her eyes again, she still had to blink fiercely to keep the bright rays of sunlight at bay, reaching for her sunglasses before realising she’d tucked them back in the glovebox earlier. She’d have to get back to the baby carriage to grab them again. But when she got to her feet and turned to see whether Girlie had finished with her own prayers, she nearly had a heart attack.

Somehow, during the brief moments she had her eye closed, The Girl had managed to disappear.

Quickly, Jet spun around and surveyed the entire area surrounding the mailbox, which was nothing but flat sand as far as the eye could see. There were only two notable landmarks within her eye-line: the mailbox itself and the Trans Am. No sign of Girlie. In such a wide expanse of empty desert, there was nowhere for her to be hiding and no footprints in the sand to indicate that she had wandered off. Remembering what she had said before about Party Poison seemingly vanishing into thin air, Jet felt a cold strike of fear shoot up her spine and into her brain, leaving her with what felt like a brain freeze.

She was stuck to the spot, equal parts terrified and mystified, and found herself thinking about the time she’d explained fight, fight, or freeze to The Girl. It had been after Girlie had woken up crying from a nightmare, where she’d found herself unable to run away from a cloud of dracs on the horizon and didn’t understand why. The explanation had provided some kind of relief for the little girl, at the time, but Jet didn’t find any solace in knowing why she was frozen solid and starting to tremble with fear.

“Relax, Jet-Star. The Girl is safe.”

There was an unfamiliar voice, which came from directly over her shoulder, and those two facts combined did nothing to alleviate her anxiety. Despite being feminine in nature, the voice was low and gravelly, as if it was coming from a hardened smoker. It also reminded her of the few interactions that she’d had with her grandparents before they’d passed away – their voices aged and cracked with wisdom, like an old path that had been travelled many times. The slowness with which the voice spoke was the only element that made it feel slightly reassuring, sounding like the speaker had all the time in the world to muse.

When Jet was able to turn her head, the rest of her body still in stasis, she found herself staring at the strangest person that she’d ever seen. She wasn’t even sure whether it would be fair to call them a person, although she couldn’t think of any other term that would be polite enough. Despite being covered in stark black feathers, from head to toe, it was obvious from the lifeform’s shape that they weren’t any kind of bird, (she found herself thinking about a story she’d once read, of an ancient philosopher, who had held up a plucked chicken and declared it to be a man). They were wearing a mask that covered their entire face – or maybe it was their face? – rather than the domino mask that the majority of killjoys opted for, which had strange purple markings on it. Jet wasn’t sure what to make of the individual yet.

“The Girl is safe?” She repeated, as if she hadn’t heard them correctly.

There was a sigh from the stranger, like repeating themself was frustrating, and their head bobbed. If it was supposed to be a nod, the cluster of feathers that made their body look so oddly shaped and distorted made it impossible to understand. At least they seemed to realise this a second later – or maybe they read deeper into Jet’s silence than she expected them to.

“Yes. The Girl is safe.” They said, moving to stand at her side, “And so are you, for now, Jet-Star.”

Being over six feet in height, Jet was surprised to find that the figure dwarfed her in comparison. She had to tilt her head backwards to look her in the face – she was thankful that the mask, which had black holes for eyes, made it impossible to make eye contact. It gave her an excuse not to try.

The longer she stared at the bizarre figure, taking in their bulk of black-as-night feathers that seemed to shine purple when they caught the light and the twisted sceptre they leant on to walk, the more a sense of calm did begin to settle over her. Jet could tell that she was in the presence of something ancient and powerful, like when she’d stumbled across bones that had been baking in the sun for decades, and, therefore, she was protected from any evil. She felt certain that no Big Bad could be anywhere near as strong and wise as the creature that was standing over her. Softly, Jet gasped.

“The Phoenix Witch?”

“I go by many names.” The Witch seemed tired to explain this too, as if she had done so a thousand times before, “But, yes. I’m the deity that you call the Phoenix Witch, Jet-Star. You’ve shown your devotion on many occasions without your life. It hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

Jet felt vaguely embarrassed by the name of her god being brushed off like that, as if she’d used someone’s deadname or a nickname they detested. She’d always privately thought that calling the Witch by her full name was respectful, like referring to a judge as ‘Your Honour’, and was perturbed when people like Cherri referred to her casually as ‘Witchy’. It felt strange to be so familiar with an omnipresence…

“Thank you for looking out for us.” Jet said, slightly awkward.

Speaking to the Witch, face-to-face, felt different than praying. She didn’t know what she was supposed to say or how formally she should address them.

“You look out for yourself and for others. I simply nudge you in the right direction.” The Witch began to walk again, leaning heavily on her sceptre, “You’re among my best devotees, Jet-Star. You have heart.”

Hastening quickly to catch up with her, Jet realised that another figure had appeared in the near distance and the two of them were walking towards them. The figure was on their knees in the sand, hands pressed together and head bowed in prayer. Judging by the small stature and the head of loose curls, Jet thought it must be The Girl and was relieved to see that she was unharmed, as The Witch had promised. However, as the pair grew closer, Jet recognised the baggy, secondhand shirt and the jeans that were more holes than fabric. It was her younger self, boyish and still lost. Longing for something that she couldn’t put a name on.

They came to a stop next to young Jet, watching her as her mouth moved silently in prayer. Although she didn’t remember the exact words from whatever day this was, Jet-Star had some idea of what she would be asking for. Her prayers never changed much when she was small: por favor, protect my familia and keep my mamãe and Papai safe and my hermanos and my hermanas and help me get better soon and make me be a girl when I grow up, if that’s okay, and please help me make more friends. Usually, the middle section would be incoherent from how fast she would mumble it, almost hoping that it would go unnoticed.

“You’ve always put others before yourself, Mattea. It’s an admirable quality.”

Slowly, the Phoenix Witch turned to look at her:

“I’ve always had big plans for you.”

The revelation stunned Jet into silence, (or it would have, if she’d had anything to say in the first place), and she made a conscious effort not to gape at the deity. Ghoul always joked that she’d catch flies if she wasn’t careful. So, Jet closed her mouth and realised that it felt particularly dry, all of a sudden. She swallowed, in an attempt to wet the inside of her mouth and throat. As she waited for the Phoenix Witch to follow-up with what her plans were – or, more likely, declare that it was a joke and laugh in her face – the pair stood in silence. They watched as young Jetty was distracted by somebody calling for her and leapt up, anxious about being caught mouthing her embarrassing prayer, and raced off to join whoever it was. As she moved further away from them, the young girl gradually became more translucent, until she disappeared from sight and they were left watching a patch of empty sand.

When Jet finally managed to pull her eyes away, she realised that the Witch seemed to be looking at her. It was difficult to tell with the eye-less mask, which didn’t indicate what her eyes (if she had eyes at all) were focused on, but there was a definite incline of her head. Not to mention, Jet could see her staring. It wasn’t the unpleasant, itchy feeling under her skin that she had whenever someone recognised her from her Wanted poster and asked the whereabouts of her friends. It wasn’t the warm tickle of knowing Ghoul was looking at her, which made her face flush pinker than usual and her mouth stretch into an impossibly cheesy smile. The Witch’s gaze made her feel truly seen for the first time, as if she knew every flaw and vulnerability and mistake but accepted Jet as she was, anyway. She felt stripped bare, naked, but felt no urge to shy away and try to hide herself. The Witch saw everything, good or bad, and it all meant the same to her.

Eventually, the Witch seemed to accept there was nothing Jet wanted to say and continued to walk. All Jet could do was walk alongside her, quietly wondering if she had just failed a test. An unspoken, supernatural test set by an all-knowing being that she’d worshipped her entire life. Did that mean her prayers weren’t going to be granted? She didn’t want to ask.

They walked for a little while, in companionable silence, until they came upon another figure. Even in the dishevelled, miserable state that he was in, Jet would’ve recognised him anywhere. She knew every single scar and tattoo as if they were part of her own body, inked permanently into her mind rather than her skin. Once upon a time, she would’ve said that she knew every single inch of him, from head to toe, but the Fun Ghoul which existed in her memory differed from this one.

He resembled a ghoul more than ever before, his olive-toned skin faded to a ghastly pallor and his dirty mop of unwashed hair hung over his face. Even with his clothes on, Jet could tell that he was half-starved from the way they hung baggily on him and how his shoulders protruded sharply through his t-shirt. There were bruises, a few fresh but most faded to sickly yellows and blues, that she had never seen. But, more than anything else, it was Ghoul’s posture that frightened her: he was slumped over like a ragdoll, his head almost pressed to his chest, and he didn’t strain against whatever bound his hands behind him. Fun Ghoul was a fighter, a guy who always bounced back no matter how many times he was hit, and this man– this boy was defeated. There was no fight left in him.

Letting out a cry, Jet rushed forward and attempted to sweep him up in her arms, only to find herself grabbing at smoke. The image of Ghoul disintegrated in her arms, until there was no sign that he had been there in the first place. Jet wondered, fiercely, how the Phoenix Witch could have the capacity to be so cruel to her when she knew how important Ghoul was to her. How important he was to everyone. Then, she remembered that to a great, immortal being of wisdom – one who had watched birth and death, strength and weakness, war and peace – human lives and emotions were impossibly small. They were virtually meaningless. How could she begin to understand them?

So… why had the Witch shown her Ghoul in such a state? She didn’t do anything without a reason.

“He’s still alive.” Jet realised, clutching her boyfriend’s bracelet in her fist, “Ghoul’s still alive.”

The Witch still didn’t say anything. Looming over Jet, who was still crumpled on her knees in the sand, she made a terrible and frightening sight. A harebringer of death.

“For now.” She said, voice low and raspy.

It sent an ice cold shock down Jet’s spine, making her shiver involuntarily, and she grazed her thumb over the fabric of the bracelet again. For the first time since her depression had struck, she remembered that she had to keep fighting – no matter how bad things got, regardless of whether her friends lived or d… died, Jet needed to fight back. Lying down and taking it, like she had done for the last few days, didn’t change anything. Grieving over Party had been deeply necessary. But as long as the rest of her friends were still here, alive, she had a responsibility to keep fighting for them.

Whatever Black Dragon Fighting Society had done to her boyfriend, the vision the Witch had shown her (accompanied by those ominous words: for now) meant that there was still a chance to rescue him. Even if the Fabulous Four no longer had a leader, the rest of the crew didn’t have to submit to BL/Ind and lose their lives too. Jet had to save Ghoul from whatever terrible fate he’d been sentenced to, before it was too late for him. For now. She couldn’t let another friend die. Not on her watch.

Her mind made up, Jet-Star turned towards the Phoenix Witch and opened her mouth to speak at last. Only to find that the dark figure, which had previously obscured her view of the sky and cast her into shadow, had completely disappeared again. She hadn’t made a single sound, as if she’d simply faded away into the ether, and now there was no indication that she’d ever been there in the first place.

A faint buzzing sound caught Jet’s attention, as she strained her ears to search for any sign of the Witch, and she realised that it was a mosquito flying nearby. Once the ordinary sound had returned, Jet became suddenly aware there had been a total absence of any sounds during her conversation with the desert deity. The heat seemed to spread quickly across her body, skin growing damp with sweat and sticking to her clothes. It was as if she had been in a daydream for a prolonged period of time.

“Jetty, what’s wrong?” A little voice cried.

There was a soft tug on the sleeve of her jacket and Jet looked down to see The Girl was gripping it with her hand, eyes wide with concern. She was looking up at her caregiver with an expression that simultaneously made her look very young (frightened) and very old (as if she was a mother searching for a fever). A little of the tension in Jet’s shoulders melted away and she laughed softly, taking The Girl’s hand in her own again.

She straightened up to her full height, finding herself face-to-face with the mailbox once again and being struck by a strong wave of deja vu. This time, her attention wasn’t drawn to the eye that had disturbed her beforehand, but instead to something curious on the side. At the top of the mailbox, a little red flag stood directly upright, like the kind that she had seen in a few cartoons. Usually, these flags appeared on the side of people’s home mailboxes, so they knew that the mail had been delivered and they had to collect it from inside. Cherri Cola had explained it to her once.

Without letting go of Girlie’s hand, Jet pushed open the flap of the mailbox and stuck her other hand into the body of the great metal creature. She expected to feel resistance immediately, due to the amount of letters and offerings that were stuffed into the mailbox everyday – nobody was ever seen collecting them, so it stood to reason the box would be full to the brim by now. Instead, Jet was stuck by the curious emptiness. She reached further down, surprised that she was able to insert her arm up to the elbow without finding any mail, and then pushed her arm even deeper. By this time, Jet was shoulder-deep in the mailbox and, finally, her fingers brushed against the cold metal of the bottom. Where were the masks? The envelopes?

Her hand traced the bottom of the mailbox, puzzling over where everything had gone. Unconventionally, or so she had been told, there was no door on the back of the metal box: there was no way for anybody to access the mail without doing what she was doing right now, which was strictly forbidden in killjoy culture. Right now, The Girl was watching with a look of mild horror on her face.

Finally, Jet felt metal turn paper underneath her fingertips and passed her hand over the scrap a few times before she was able to grab it, fishing the note out of the mailbox. It was lined paper, with a rough edge from where it had been torn out of a notebook, and neatly folded into a square. There was no name printed on the note: despite this, Jet knew that it had been slipped inside the mailbox for her. She opened it up and found a rough map of the zones, which she recognised from the radio station, inked with a ballpoint pen. There was a ‘X’ marked on it precisely, as if it were the site of buried treasure.

Girlie was peeking at the map, her mouth open in a little ‘o’ of surprise. For the moment, the two of them studied the scrap of paper in silence and Jet lined it up with the map of the zones she had committed to memory. It was easy enough to lay one over the other, picking out where they overlapped.

“I know where this is.” Jet said, finally.

The Girl looked up at her, naively, and asked: “Is it where Party is? I miss them, Tía.”

In Jet’s throat, there was a lump that was hard to swallow – like a stodgy clump of dog food – but she managed to blink back the tears threatening to spring to her eyes. She remembered answering similar questions about The Girl’s Mama (who she knew next to nothing about) and when she was coming home (never again), when the kid was old enough to understand something was missing from her life. But it hadn’t prepared her for doing the same thing about one of her best friends. Party had always seemed bulletproof.

Leaving the question unanswered, Jet folded the paper back up and slipped it into her pocket, where she knew it would be safe. She knew that she would have to talk about Party sooner or later. It wasn’t fair to leave The Girl in the dark, confused, just because she was younger than the rest of the crew. But it would have to wait, for now. Once the rescue mission was complete and Ghoul had safely been returned to the motel, that would be the time to help The Girl work through her grief.

“It’s where Uncle Ghoul is. I need to go and rescue him.”

Jet began to walk back to the Trans Am, keeping hold of Girlie’s hand.

“But I can’t go there on my own. I need my second-in-command to have my back.”

For a moment, The Girl didn’t say anything and wore a confused look on her small face, unable to work out who she might be talking about. Surely, not Kobra, who seemed to be as comatose as Jet had been for the last week. But there was nobody else left in their crew: it was only the Fabulous Four and–

The Girl gasped.

“Me?”

As they reached the Trans Am, Jet opened the door to the passenger side and looked down at her. Although The Girl always seemed miniscule, (probably a side effect of raising her from babyhood, since Jet’s mamãe experienced the same problem with her own children), she had faced more danger than most city children would in their lifetime. Again and again, Girlie had stared death in the face and laughed. She spat triumphantly in the face of Better Living Industries’ employees – even if they were trained, armed Scarecrows. And, everything she had gone through so far, she had handled better than Jet could have as an adult, let alone as a child. The Girl was stronger than she would ever know.

“Are you coming, mija?”

The Girl stared up at her, hands clenched into defiant fists, and grinned:

“The future is bulletproof!”

“The aftermath is secondary.”

Jet had to grab hold of the car to steady herself, as the little girl launched herself into her arms at full force and threatened to send them both flying. She couldn’t stop the laugh that burst from her, relieving some of the heavy tension that had been twisting her body into knots. It was true what they said.

Killjoys weren’t born. They were made.

 

Chapter Seven
Rushing into a hostage situation with only a little girl for back-up would have been stupid, (even in her haste to rescue Ghoul, Jet could recognise that). However, there wasn’t going to be enough time to circle back to the motel – which was out of their way – and convince a comatose Kobra to drag itself out of bed to join the rescue mission. They were going to need to find their back-up somewhere else.

As they drove, The Girl contacted the radio station discretely to ask if any of Dr D’s midnight runners were available and two were dispatched to meet them at the skate park as soon as possible. Once the location had been decided, Jet turned off Route Guano and down a side track that led to the park.

Calling it a skate park may have been an exaggeration, as the word ‘park’ suggested lush green grass, community cleanups, and a safe space for kids to play out. Although there were clumps of plants pushing through the sand, too stubborn to die, there was nothing like the neat square lawns Jet had seen in photographs. There were a few ramps littered around and the flat, grey patches of concrete that suggested a parking lot might have existed here long ago – no doubt it was an earlier project BL/i had abandoned. The burnt remains of a campfire, sitting beside one of the ramps, and the garbage strewn throughout the area hinted that a crew had been here recently.

Right now, though, it was quiet aside from the stark cries of a bird of prey circling overhead. It made it easy to tell when the radio station’s delegates were approaching, first by the rumble of the van’s engine and then by MUSIC blaring from the vehicle. The station van skidded to a stop and NewsAGoGo leapt out, recognisable by hir neon green nametag, followed closely by Show Pony. Together, they made a strange looking pair: one tall and dainty, gliding towards them on skates, and the other small and bouncing along at xir side with a stride that resembled the movement of a slinky. Initially, the cheery demeanour seemed off-putting in such a serious situation but, as they stopped by Jet, she could see it was a facade.

“Reportin’ for duty, starship commander.” Show tried on a salute for size.

“Aye, aye!” Newsie seconded.

Being the leader wasn’t a comfortable role for Jet to take on, as if she were trying to squeeze into clothes two sizes too small. She wondered if she was supposed to give them orders to follow – especially when they were addressing her as a superior – or let them offer their own suggestions, landing on something that worked for the whole team. Party Poison always managed to land somewhere in the middle, playing to their strengths and guiding them into roles where they could do their best. But they weren’t here.

Was Jet supposed to follow their lead?

As usual, when she wasn’t sure what to do, Jet resorted quickly to her favourite tools: rationale and logic. She was a woman of science, after all. She would need to come up with a plan, relay the plan to the others, and then they could carry it out. So, skipping quickly over her encounter with the Phoenix Witch, Jet explained to the others that she knew where Fun Ghoul was being held captive – by the most dangerous crew in the zones, no less. They would drive to the location (the four of them sticking close together) and recover him at all costs, although The Girl would be kept away from any potential conflict.

However, there was one major problem with the plan. Last time they had embarked on a rescue mission, Black Dragon Fighting Society had somehow known they were coming and been able to extract Ghoul from the location moments before they arrived. Jet wasn’t sure how they had sensed killjoys being on the way to their hideout – did they somehow have eyes on all of them? On her? – but she thought their best hope was to bait them into a false sense of victory and strike when they least expected it. When she explained this to the others, Show Pony’s eyebrows shot upwards into xir hair and xe looked at her sceptically.

“A distraction?” Newsie posited.

“More than a distraction.” Jet said, “We’re going to fake our deaths.”

“Ya think they’re gonna fall for the oldest trick in the book?” Pony sounded doubtful, “Ain’t they supposed to be a bunch of smartasses or somethin’?”

“I don’t know.” Jet admitted, “But it’s our best shot.”

Using the ramps of the skatepark as seats, the group brainstormed how they could make the deaths seem as realistic as possible. Dr Death Defying would make the sombre announcement on the radio that, unfortunately, Jet-Star and the Kobra Kid had been involved in a bad clap and lost their lives. A week ago, when Party Poison was still alive, it might have been impossible to convince the zones such a thing could happen – everyone thought the Fabulous Four were bulletproof. But after seeing their leader publicly executed, it would be more than believable that Battery City had dispatched their best Scarecrows to finish off the rest of them. It might even be expected. Not to mention, Dr D had been a reliable source of news for decades now (unlike the reporters on Fact News), so everyone would take his word as Witch.

As for the issue of their dead bodies, it hardly mattered in the zones. Most people would automatically assume they’d been picked up by BL/i and stuffed into body bags, transported to the city so they could be presented to Madame Director as prizes. Even if anybody did go looking for them, (which was unlikely), it wouldn’t be the first time that people had disappeared completely into the ether.

Finally, Dr D would make sure to mention in the broadcast that there were going to be celebrations. After a killjoy died, wild parties would be held in their honour because their lives were something to be celebrated, rather than mourned. Although the Fabulous Four had remained in their bubble since their leader died, Jet was sure many raucous parties had been thrown for Party Poison – the more legendary a joy was, the bigger the party. As well as adding to the realism of the announcement, a party down by the red line would provide a welcome distraction and take the attention away from the rescue mission. If Black Dragon Fighting Society hated their crew – and the kidnapping of Fun Ghoul indicated they did – they would be sure to join the party. Not because they wanted to remember Jet-Star and Kobra Kid, but because they wanted to drink to their victory over them. Now, the Dragons could do whatever they wanted with Ghoul.

Jet shivered, even though she knew the latter wasn’t true.

Once the plan had been configured and Newsie had radioed the details to hir boss, the four of them piled into the station van. It wasn’t exactly comfortable with them all squeezed into a small space, driving along the bumpy track, but it was less conspicuous than the Trans AM. It had a roof and darkened windows, although the inside was so bright and obnoxious Jet was surprised it didn’t counter the effects of the windows completely. She sat with The Girl on her lap, arms wrapped tightly around the kid in lieu of a seatbelt, and tried to ignore the twisting anxiety in her stomach.

“Bad news from the zones, tumbleweeds.

It looks like Jet-Star and the Kobra Kid had a clap with an Exterminator that went all Costa Rica and, uh, got themselves ghosted, dusted out on Route Guano.

So, it's time to hit the red line and up-thrust the volume out there.

Keep your boots tight, keep your gun close, and die with your mask on if you've got to.

Here is the traffic.”

Jet had known from the second she glimpsed the map that they would be heading to the garage, which wasn’t a place she frequented. Both Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul loved vehicles, (as well as working on them), but she didn’t have much interest – unless she was accompanying them, she had no reason to come here. But now, neither of her best friends were present as she got out of the van and looked up at hand-painted sign advertising the business. Squinting at the map, Jet tried to calculate exactly where on the premises there might be a secret hideout and wondered if it might be inside the metal warehouse itself. Although, to her knowledge, the killjoys who worked here had no associations with the Dragons. Maybe they just turned a blind eye to them out of fear.

With no better ideas, the four of them walked inside and were greeted by the familiar smell of motor oil, another crew’s baby carriage propped up on blocks while somebody worked on it. Jet recognised the mop of black hair, dark clothes, and shy demeanour of the teenager bent over the vehicle from one of her previous visits: the kid’s name didn’t come to mind right away, but she knew they had been taken on as an apprentice here a few years ago and NAME (the owner) said they showed real promise.

Unfortunately, the kid’s skills as a mechanic were far greater than their social ones. When they looked up and saw four older joys towering over them, the apprentice backed away and hid behind their curtain of long, dark hair. They rubbed their hands together anxiously. Looking at the nervous teenager, Jet saw a little of her younger self in them and smiled reassuringly in their direction.

“Hey. It’s…” Jet thought for a moment, “It’s Victory, right?”

The young mechanic nodded, startled and a little frightened she had remembered their name.

“We’re looking for a basement, maybe some kind of cellar. Do you know if the building has one?”

Victory shook their head.

“No basement.” They clarified, before Jet could ask a follow-up question.

Her heart sunk in her chest at those words, taking the note out of her pocket and looking at it closer. She knew the zones very well, being one of the best compasses after Dr Death Defying, and had been certain the map lead here. Even as she stared at the ‘X’ marking the spot and compared it to their maps of the California area, Jet couldn’t imagine where else it could possibly be. It had to be here. Ghoul had to be here.

Show Pony looked up from where xe was studying the workbench, possibly looking for ways xe could adapt xir rollerskates. Xe didn’t strike Jet as particularly interested in mechanics, though. Maybe xe was just bored.

“Ya got a trap door leadin’ somewhere? A manhole cover?”

Newsie giggled.

Pony snapped xir fingers, as if another idea had come to xem out of nowhere.

“A sewer grate?”

Unlike the other suggestions, this one caused Victory to perk up a little and nod, glad to be of some assistance. Without another word, the apprentice gestured for the rest of them to follow and weaved their way through the workshop, towards the backdoor of the building. Stepping outside, they flinched visibly at the sunlight and Jet wondered if it was possible for vampires (pale, moody, wearing all black – it would fit Victory to a ‘T’) to exist in the zones. They kicked sand out of the way, revealing a metal grate with a grid laid over the top of it. There were no obvious screws or fixtures holding it in place, making it possible for Victory to lift the lid and set it aside. The remaining hole was about the width of an adult, large enough for somebody to squeeze down, but perfectly discreet if you didn’t know to look for it. We got ‘em, Ghoul would’ve said.

Like a nervous animal, Victory skittered back inside and (presumably) returned to the baby carriage they had been working on prior to being interrupted. Nobody paid them much attention.

Baffled, Jetty crouched down and inspected the entrance to the sewer.

“I had no idea the zones had a sewer system.” She said.

Show snorted and tossed xir hair derisively, as if it should have been obvious.

“Where’d ya think all tha’ shit went, Jetty?”

Unlike hir co-worker, NewsAGoGo seemed to recognise that she was confused and piped up:

“Station backed up a few weeks ago. Tha’s how we found out ‘bout it.”

Now it had been pointed out to her, Jet knew it made complete sense scientifically: there would be no way for the bathrooms of the zones to function without a waste disposal system, otherwise the entire place would stink of human waste and it would pile up everywhere. Although it wasn’t commonplace out here, some buildings had functional toilets and sinks – she knew exactly which ones, since she had frequently used them to dispose of the evidence of her purges in the past – instead of outhouses and bottled water. They didn’t always work, it was true, but the large population of the zones and the popularity of particular buildings meant they must function at some level. Jet had never thought to question where all the killjoys’ outputs went as someone who had grown up here and accepted it as a given. A sewer system would explain it.

The four of them knelt around the hole in the ground, peering into the darkness and finding it was impossible to make out what was down there. It was blacker than night. They couldn’t risk calling out Ghoul’s name, in case Black Dragon Fighting Society hadn’t fallen for their diversion and were alerted to their presence – that would remove any element of surprise they had going for them. Simply, there would be no way to know whether or not Ghoul was being held in the sewers without somebody going down there to investigate. As the leader, Jet knew it would be her responsibility to do so.

Girlie wrinkled her nose in disgust at the idea.

“But it smells like poop, Tía!” She protested, reminding her elders she was only six-years-old.

Despite herself, Jet had to smother a laugh before patting the little girl’s shoulder in reassurance.

“It will only be for a few minutes, queridinho. And I can take a shower.”

The Girl’s lip wobbled, obviously not keen to be left by another one of her caregivers. Jet could hardly blame her, given the circumstances, and felt bad for the time she’d spent mourning alone in her motel room. It was clear (now that the depressive fog had lifted a little) her kid had needed her.

“I promise I’ll be back soon.” Jet said, even though she knew it was a risky thing to do, “You can stay up here with Show. Maybe xe can help you with your rollerskating? You’ve been practising a lot.”

The DJ assistant rolled xir eyes melodramatically but nodded and feigned an enthusiastic smile:

“Ain’t know ya been practisin’, G. Ya gonna knock me an’ D on our butts!”

With The Girl sufficiently distracted, Jet glanced over at Newsie – to confirm the other DJ was going to have her back if she needed it – and received a solemn nod in response. A team of three would’ve been more powerful than a pair, of course, but she wasn’t going to bring The Girl into the firing line. Sem chance.

“Le’s blow this popsicle stand!” Newsie said, with hir characteristic confidence, before glancing at the entrance to the sewer and adding quickly, “Ladies first, ‘course.”

So, for the second time this month, Jet found herself about to drop down into a dark, dank basement which was likely infested with all manner of things. But if it meant she might see Fun Ghoul again, she would’ve been prepared to descend into the depths of hell itself (she’d grasped the basic concept from a few books, combined with Ghoul’s Catholic upbringing) and crawled back without glancing over her shoulder (although, she thought that idea came more from Greek mythology). She drew a deep breath, hoping to keep fresh air in her lungs for as long as possible, and lowered herself feet-first into the sewer.

As suspected, her feet quickly made contact with a ladder and Jet was relieved that she wouldn’t have to drop blindly into whatever was waiting below. She planted her feet firmly on a metal rung and began to climb downwards slowly, longing for the desolate stairs leading into the basement of Hyper Thrust. To her disappointment, the ladder didn’t seem to stretch all the way to the ground and there was a lurch in her stomach as her foot dangled in the air, realising there were no more rungs remaining. She looked up at her entry point, which had been reduced to a circle of light and a few anxious faces peeking in at her, and relayed the extent of the situation to her. If Jet didn’t have the Phoenix Witch’s word that Ghoul was being held captive here, she would’ve climbed straight back up and insisted they find a makeshift rope to lower her down the rest of the way. Instead, she took Newsie’s shouted advice and moved down, allowing her feet to hang passively in the air below the ladder. Relying on her upper body strength, Jet continued down the rungs until she was holding onto the remaining one, hanging in the dark without any idea where the ground was. The small glint of light from the sewer grate wasn’t enough to light up the cavernous space. Jet could imagine there was no bottom to this place, picturing herself letting go and falling forever. It reminded her of the endless nothingness in outer space and, finally, she was able to grasp what it must be like there.

Swallowing the anxiety rising like a wave of vomit in her throat, Jet felt her arms aching and readjusted her sweaty hands on the metal rung, knowing she would fall any moment now. Whether she wanted to or not. She might as well take the leap herself – make it an active choice rather than a passive one – and, with that in mind, Jet stared uncertainty in the face for a few more seconds.

Then, she released her grip on the ladder.

Simultaneously, the fall was shorter and longer than she expected, (she wondered if it was right that a hypothesis could be proven true or false, something that she had always firmly believed), and Jet had the foresight to bend her knees. There was a resounding clunk as her feet made contact with the ground underneath, which was made of metal, and it rang out throughout the hollow space. Jet straightened up, feeling a slight shock travelling through her body that confirmed she was alive, and reached inside her pocket for the borrowed lighter.

The air was moist, so it took a few attempts for the flame to flicker to life and light up a small space around her. Before she even looked, Jet knew she was alone in the space from the unnerving quietness and the lack of response to her appearance. Her own breath seemed louder than the music blasted in Hyper Thrust, although she held it for a second to make sure that she was the only living person down here. A moment passed. Jet was able to confirm there was nothing down here, aside from the hoards of rats whose small feet sounded against the metal floor, and was about to call up to the others to stay where they were. There was no reason for them to all risk the fall when Ghoul wasn’t down here.

Before she could do so, Jet turned her head and realised the darkness continued to expand further to her left, suggesting that the space wasn’t limited to a small room. It was obvious once she thought about it – sewers weren’t boxes that contained waste, trapping it there until it overflowed. They were systems transporting it elsewhere, which meant that there would need to be a network of underground tunnels to carry it away. Ghoul must be deeper inside the belly of the beast.

“It’s a tunnel.” Jet called up to the others, “He could be further down. I need to look for him!”

She was instructed, hastily, to wait. Restlessly, Jet did so and was granted more time to take in her surroundings, as her eyes adjusted to the low light.

She was standing in a room that was deeper than it was wide, the ceiling so high she couldn’t make out any details on it. It was shaped like a train tunnel, the brick walls sloping inwards to form a slightly curved roof that flattened out in the centre, but was so cavernous it felt more like a cave. Only the floor was metal, cut into a pattern of tiny diamonds with holes in their centres: if Jet had dropped something small, such as her only source of light, there was a chance it might slip through one of the gaps and disappear forever. She had no idea how deep the tunnel was under the artificial floor but the faint slow of water sounded distant, as if it had replaced the hot core of the earth. It was clear the system had been built (by BL/i?) a long time ago and hadn’t been maintained over the last decade or so – there was a slippery green substance growing between the diamonds and spider webs patterning the walls, connecting the rusty pipes with thin, translucent threads. The smell of human waste was so pungent she had to remove her bandana from around her neck and tie it over her mouth and nose, just to make it bearable. Even still, it felt like her eyes were watering.

A clammering of metal caught her attention and Jet reached for her zap quickly, only to realise that it was coming from above. She made sure to step to the side and watched the lighter’s flame flicker a little as a body dropped down through the air, like a heavy bag of flour, and landed beside her. NewsAGoGo stumbled on impact, although zie didn’t seem to be hurt, and Jet caught hir by the elbow quickly. Once they were both steady on their feet, Newsie glanced around the sewer and wrinkled hir nose.

“Stinks worse than the station washroom after Cola’s been in there.”

Despite herself, Jet laughed.

But, for the most part, the pair were quiet as they traversed along the underground passage and tried to make out what they could with such poor visibility. The giant space seemed to be entirely metal, with pipes running along the walls, and there wasn’t as much graffiti as Jet would expect in a place like this. There again, she had been sure her crew knew every nook and cranny that existed in this desert between them, yet none of them had been aware of the network running underneath some of their favourite hangouts. Idly, Jet wondered how far this tunnel could go and how it could exist out here – an entirely mechanical, man-made space that hid underneath the facade of the wild desert landscape above it. Did anyone else know about it? No wonder Black Dragon had been spoken of like phantoms, who could travel soundlessly and without drawing any attention through the night. They had been moving under everyone’s feet!

Newsie slowed down for a moment, noticing something, and gestured for Jet to hold the lighter closer to the wall. Her heartbeat jumped into her mouth, expecting to see a door or another passage leading to wherever Ghoul was. Instead, Jet noticed chalk drawings decorating the empty space between two pipes that ran from floor to ceiling – her stomach twisted as she recognised the familiar depiction of an eye, the same scrawled eyes she’d seen on the basement wall at Hyper Thrust. There was a cluster of them scribbled on the wall, as if they were a growing, mutating organism, and Jet felt disturbed by their collective, chalky gaze.

“Freaky.” Newsie commented.

“It must be their mark or something. It was the same at Hyper Thrust.”

Her companion considered this for a moment, as if zie was running through a list of killjoys and their symbols. Jet realised that zie must be somewhat familiar with them, since Hot Chimp was heavily involved with the graffiti scene and recognised a number of different tags by glancing at them. But if it reminded Newsie of anything, zie didn’t consider it important enough to share.

They continued on their journey in silence, until they reached a point where the tunnel opened up into a large rectangular room, filled with rusting machines. Jet didn’t know enough about sewage systems to understand what any of them might be doing, but she figured they must be doing something if waste management was continuing to function in the zones. She wondered if there was a crew of joys who might be responsible for the maintenance of these machines over the last few decades. Moreover, Jet wondered if there could be a whole network of killjoys living in these vast sewer systems, completely cutoff from the world going on above them. She could imagine escapees from Battery City enjoying the solitude.

Approaching the centre of the room, Jet realised they were at a crossroads. Literally. Although the overhead lighting was dim and tinged slightly green – if she had to guess, it was probably some kind of emergency lighting – it was enough for her to see five tunnels on the wall facing her, all of them descending into pitch blackness. Turning around to see where they’d come from, Jet saw that there were even more choices: the tunnel her and Newsie had walked through was one of three spanning the wall behind them. The amount of different pathways created an underground maze and, again, Jet understood how Black Dragon Fighting Society had been able to evade their enemies for so many years.

“What’re we gonna do?”

Newsie swung around to face her, hands on hir hips. Once again, Jet found herself in the position of ‘leader’ and weighed up what she was supposed to do, before shaking that off and considering what would be the best thing to do logically. Although she knew splitting up would double their chances of finding Ghoul, she remembered how she and friends had booed at bad horror movies they’d watched on VHS, throwing popcorn at the screen. Are they stupid? Splittin’ up’s the worst thing ya can do! They’re both gonna die now! Party was renowned for chastising fictional characters for being stupid, as if yelling loud enough would make the characters hear them and change the course of the movie. The others teased and rolled their eyes, but they all knew they were right. Splitting up was dangerous if you were in a group, splitting up if you were in a pair was a suicide pact. So, Jet knew the smartest thing to do.

“We need to stick together. Let’s see if there’s any clues as to which way the Dragons went.”

“Gotcha, Scooby.” Newsie bumped her arm, grinning.

Knowing that she had made the right decision sent a wave of relief over Jet, settling in her bones as she began to inspect the tunnels closest to her. There were a few chalky fingerprints on the walls, which indicated Black Dragon Fighting Society (or at least one of them) had been in that direction, but that was true of all three tunnels on the wall. A smear of reddish blood on the floor was suspect too, although the drag mark suggested the body had been pulled towards the centre of the room – it wasn’t black yet, which suggested it hadn’t been there for too many days. Honestly, it was difficult for Jet to decide either way: all of the sewer tunnels seemed equally suspicious in her mind.

Then, Newsie whistled for her attention, flapping hir hands with excitement, and Jet knew that zie had got them. On the other side of the room, there was a smear of blood dragging all the way into the entrance of the tunnel and it was roughly the width of a hand. Immediately, Jet recognised it as something Ghoul would’ve done intentionally, to leave an indicator of what direction he’d been taken and was impressed by him being able to think so far forward. As they stepped into the tunnel, the blood stains that decorated the staircase looked decidedly less intentional and made Jet feel sick to her stomach.

Quickly, the pair hurried down the metal stairs and each step seemed to echo much too loudly, giving away their position every few seconds. There was nothing they could do to soften the noise, no matter how lightly Jet attempted to step. At the bottom of the stairs, there was a yellow thread snagged on a sharp piece of metal that stuck out from the floor, like a knife, and Jet couldn’t believe the Dragons hadn’t spotted it.

The corridor twisted and turned more violently than the passage they’d followed previously, as well as being narrow enough to make Jet feel trapped. It seemed the deeper into the tunnel they travelled, the darker and damper the space seemed to grow, until the light guiding them was flickering weakly in protest. There was something wet and mossy growing on the walls, the floor slippery under their feet like it had broken out in a cold sweat. When the corridor grew so tight and pitch black Jet suspected they would hit a dead end, they finally found the (literal) light at the end of the tunnel. It was spilling out from underneath a locked door.

Newsie made quick work of the locks, too stressed to verbalise hir thoughts, and there was an anticlimactic ‘click’ as the door sprung open. If her chest hadn’t been so tight, Jet would’ve held her breath.

“No… no more…”

When they found Ghoul, he was still chained to the wall by his wrists and doubled over as if he was in terrible agony, the same way he had when his appendix had burst a few years ago. He was pale and covered in a translucent layer of sweat, resembling a second skin he was trying to shed. At first, Ghoul didn’t bother to lift his head from where it was resting on his knees: his frame looked so small that Jet worried he no longer had the strength to carry the heavy burden of his head on his shoulders.

“Ghoul…”

Finally, her boyfriend was able to peel half of his weary body off the ground and looked at her with hazy, unfocused eyes. His pupils drifted aimlessly, as if he was dreaming, and he didn’t seem able to accept what he was seeing in front of him. Only once Jet dropped to her knees beside him and cupped his face in her hands, silently pleading for some kind of recognition, did Ghoul let out a shaky laugh that threatened to turn into a sob. A crooked (yet too exhausted to be familiar) grin spread across his face.

“Jetty!”

Neither of them had the energy for a dramatic reunion.

She rested her forehead against his for a long moment, concerned by how cold his skin was to the touch, and felt the anxiety squeezing her entire body loosen its grip. Ghoul was still alive. He was still here. Letting go of his face, Jet’s hands dropped down and moved around to his back, pulling him into a loose hug. Feeling the weight of his body in her arms was reassuring.

Behind her, Newsie was shifting from foot to foot nervously, a reminder they weren’t out of danger yet. Any minute, Black Dragon Fighting Society could return to torture their prisoner some more or realise they had faked their deaths as a distraction or launch a surprise attack in a double bluff. Where Ghoul had been kept was right at the end of the tunnel, which didn’t have any branches, so if the Dragons stormed down the other end towards them, the trio would be trapped here with no means of escape. With that in mind, they got to work loosening and then cracking open Ghoul’s restraints, allowing him to rub his bruised wrists.

Too weak, or in too much pain, to stand, he fell straight into Jet’s arms and laid like a limp ragdoll against her. She was able to haul him to his feet with ease (a little terrified by him weighing little to nothing after a few weeks absence) and Newsie hooked his other arm around hirself, so the pair were able to support him. With the dramatic height difference between Jet and NewsAGoGo, it was a little like they were running a strange one-legged race – but it would allow them to move faster than Ghoul attempting to run. Quickly, the trio moved towards the door and out into the poorly lit sewer tunnel, moving back the way they came.

“Jeez, Ghoul. Ya light as a feather.” Newsie commented, appalled, as they hauled his body up the stairs.

“Stiff as a board.” He joked weakly.

Although the noises made by the grumbling belly of the sewer, pipes creaking, made Jet feel paranoid that somebody else might be down here, they made it safely to the main atrium they’d investigated earlier. Every few moments, she would hear a noise and be pumped full of panic that the Dragons had returned to their lair, only to realise it was rats scurrying away or her friends’ grunting softly with exertion. The emptiness of the great caverns and tunnels felt eerie instead of reassuring, as if the entire underground was holding its breath. Jet’s spare hand didn’t stray far from her ray gun while they were fleeing.

“Wha’ were they like, G? As creepy as everyone says?” Newsie asked, with all the tact of a seasoned news reporter, as the three of them limped past the sewer machines at work.

 

Jet screwed up her face, not wanting to trigger any traumatic memories so shortly after Ghoul’s rescue, but couldn’t deny that she was curious too.

“There were five of ‘em.” Ghoul said, unperturbed, “Sometimes, they came in pairs or together. A few of ‘em came alone. They ain’t all bad. I figured out quick which ones were nice enough to feed me an’ which ones were gonna hurt me.”

“They tortured you.” Jet reminded him.

Absentmindedly, she wondered how fast an individual could develop Stockholm Syndrome and if there was a possibility Ghoul had already grown attached enough to his captors to excuse their behaviour. He found the good in people, that was true, but it was different when it came to crews like Black Dragon Fighting Society: they weren’t just being assholes because they were hungry or hurting. These were people who actively looked to harm others and had targeted Ghoul specifically because they had a bone to pick with him. How could he declare that they weren’t all that bad?

“It ain’t tha’ simple, Jetty.” Ghoul said.

His tone was so soft and pained the subject was dropped immediately, the other two in unanimous agreement it was something to discuss at a later time. Instead, Newsie pressed for more details.

“Are they crazy, for real?”

Again, Ghoul pulled a face.

“Like we ain’t all got mental illnesses out here, News.”

“I ain’t mean crazy crazy. I mean, I heard one of ‘em killed her folks before she came out here. An’, y’know wha’ they say ‘bout the leader? Xe made a deal wi’ a demon or somethin’.”

“Xe calls xemself the Masta of Ravenkroft.” Ghoul’s expression turned dark again, “Xe was the worst of ‘em, ‘course. Got the idea tha’ mos’ of ‘em ain’t so bad ‘fore they joined up wi’ xem. Definitely somethin’ weird goin’ on there.”

After traipsing down the long corridor for a while, they passed the chalk drawings on the wall Newsie had remarked on earlier. The depiction of the eye, repeated over and over. Jet realised, looking at it now without being gripped by terror, it was the same one she had seen painted onto the mailbox too. Following their gaze, Ghoul noticed the artwork on the wall and a violent shiver passed through his whole body like an electrical pulse. It was clear the reaction was beyond his control.

“Mizery.” He said, voice grim.

“Misery?” Jet echoed.

“Ain’t misery – well, sometimes they spell it like tha’ – but Miz.” Ghoul corrected himself quickly, “One of ‘em. I ain’t know wha’ she is, exactly. But they sure ain’t a human.”

“You mean… this person didn’t seem human? They were that evil?”

Ghoul shook his head.

“No, I mean, he ain’t human. If ya saw ‘em…”

Another shudder.

Although Jet didn’t understand what he meant, she was far too disturbed to push the envelope on the matter – it was obvious, whatever this ‘Miz’ person had done had scared Ghoul out of his right mind. She found it difficult to process. For as long as she could remember, Ghoul had been the stronger one of the pair. It wasn’t to say that he was fearless, (he grew frightened the same as anybody else would, especially when coming up against something much stronger and more evil than the Fab Four), but Jet had never seen him be driven to the point of hysteria before. He was borderline nonsensical, babbling about his experiences in a way that only made sense to him. Clearly, it was going to be months – or even years – before Ghoul would be able to comprehend and explain the extent of what had happened to him down here.

Finally, they reached the end of the tunnel. The light was still shining down from the sewer grate overhead, even if the size of it caused it to resemble a hole that had been poked in the ceiling. It made Jet feel like a bug trapped in a jam jar. Squinting up at the entrance, there was no way to tell whether or not their companions were waiting up there for them. Approximately an hour had passed (if she had to guess) since Jet had descended into the depths of the underground, but it felt like years since she had last seen The Girl and Show Pony. The bright sun of the desert seemed like a distant memory and the idea of breathing fresh oxygen, rather than damp, recycled air, was alien. She couldn’t begin to imagine what it must feel like for Fun Ghoul, having been trapped under here for days already.

She called up to the entrance and was deeply relieved to see Show Pony’s familiar face appear there, blocking some of the light, right where they had left xem. With the ladder far out of reach, the midnight runner lowered down a makeshift climbing rope for them to use and tied it tightly to one of the rungs to ensure it didn’t slip. Ghoul’s strength had depleted greatly since he had been taken hostage and, silently, Jet doubted his ability to climb back to ground level. After all, it meant supporting his own body weight.

Whether it was pure determination or the frantic urge to escape the nightmare he had been living in, however, Ghoul insisted he would be able to manage. There was a stubbornness in his eyes Jet had learned it was useless to argue with, so she watched him grab hold of the rope with his bruised hands and yank his body up into the air. Despite his struggles, Ghoul grit his teeth and managed to make it to the ladder, which he disappeared up so quickly it seemed the hole had swallowed him.

Jet was suddenly gripped by a terrible fear she would never see her boyfriend again.

“Ya can go next.” Newsie sensed her anxiety and patted her between the shoulder blades, urging her to rejoin the others above-ground.

If Jet thought the descent into the sewers had been difficult, it was nothing compared to the rope burning her hands and the ache in her core as she summoned the last of her strength. There was no horrifying fall into nothingness, which she knew would haunt her dreams for a while after the rescue mission had ended, but there was a pulse of anxiety. The chance to escape the underground filled her with an urge to do so as fast as possible, not wanting to spend another moment in this dark and filthy enclosure. It seemed the closer the entrance came (and the brighter the light grew) the stronger her fight, flight, or freeze instinct became – however, this time, the urge to flee was stronger than it had even been before. Scrambling up the rungs of the ladder, Jet was relieved to see the real world was finally back within her reach.

She grabbed at the edges of the grate and hoisted herself through the hole, skipping the final rungs of the ladder altogether, and was nearly knocked back down by the sudden, crushing heat.

Emerging back into the daylight was like opening the door of a spaceship and stepping onto the surface of Mars for the first time: Jet was hit by blinding light, making it impossible for her to see anything, and so much oxygen she nearly choked on her first inhale. The smell of the desert was overwhelming, although familiar, and a stark comparison to the dank air she’d been breathing in the sewers. It made her eyes sting with tears, screwing them up tightly until she was able to adjust to the light, and her skin broke out into a fresh sweat. The unpleasant, claustrophobic feeling of her clothes beginning to stick to her was caused by the sudden heat. She had grown used to the cool atmosphere under the ground, where there was no sun and (she suspected) less radiation.

She crawled onto the ground and then pushed herself up onto her feet, expecting to hear the same metallic noise she had grown used to hearing upon every step in the sewer tunnels. Instead, the sand softened the impact of her boots against the ground and made her footsteps almost impossible to hear: no wonder they were always able to sneak up on BL/i supply vans without being overheard.

Once her eyes had readjusted to the bright sun – taking her shades out of her jacket pocket and sliding them on greatly helped with this – Jet was able to blink back the dampness and see what was happening around her.

Show Pony was positioned nearby, in case anybody needed help getting out of the grate, and had xir hands on xir hips. Without a helmet obscuring xir face from view, Jet could see xe had a grin stretched from ear to ear and seemed as relieved as she felt. Newsie was beginning to clamber out of the ground: first, hir gloved hands appeared and then, like a turtle hatching from its shell, hir head popped into view. Zie looked as confused by the change in atmosphere as Jet imagined she must have done, just a few minutes ago. And then, turning to see the rest of their ragtag group, she saw The Girl was still there. It suddenly lifted a burden of responsibility from her shoulders Jet hadn’t even realised had been bearing down on her the entire time she had been separated from her kid.

Like the others, The Girl had a broad smile on her face – it was the same joyous expression Jet was used to seeing on birthdays and holidays, when there were presents, foods, and an overall feeling of celebration throughout the Fabulous Four (and friends). It was no wonder Girlie was so happy, though, with Fun Ghoul right next to her, where he belonged. One of her missing caregivers had finally been returned to her and Jet knew it must feel like a miracle. It definitely felt like a miracle to her. Having Ghoul back again was better than any birthday she had ever had, including her tenth one where Jet had received her first gift (a toy spaceship!) which hadn’t been a hand-me-down from one of her older siblings.

She watched as Ghoul fell to his knees, this time through choice rather than because he couldn’t bear to carry his own weight a second longer, and yanked The Girl into a massive hug. She could see Girlie’s head resting on his shoulder, eyes closed and a content smile on her face.

Unable to stop herself, Jet stumbled over to where the pair were embracing and threw her arms around both of them, grateful that they were small enough to be squeezed into a group hug like this. She held onto them tighter than she had held onto anything before, refusing to let go and knowing she wouldn’t be doing so for a long time. The two people she loved most in the world were safe again.

They were both okay. Things were well.
Chapter Eight
Life didn’t exactly return to normal after Fun Ghoul had been rescued.

If nothing else, Jet wasn’t sure life in the zones could be ‘normal’ in any capacity. Not in the way ordinary life was depicted in TV shows, with a bland cast of characters, a city backdrop, and cups of coffee to drink – she’d watched a few episodes of cable shows recorded onto VHS, mesmerised by how alien the worlds they created were. Out here, there weren’t any jobs for them to work at. Carbons were nothing like the outdated paper currency fictional characters seemed to trade with. They didn’t have a faded, sagging couch for the crew and their friends to laze around on, but they could all squeeze into a booth at the diner.

Without taking into account what ‘normal’ looked like – on television, BL/i posters, and in stories from her mamãe – the desert lacked the consistency to have a ‘normal’ of its own.

The landscape was always shifting and changing, often without any warning. While the maps captured the roads and landmarks, they frequently needed to be updated due to landslides, acid rain, and the delayed explosions of homemade mines. The locations of crews’ lighthouses and resulting spats over territories were so anarchic, they weren't even worth recording. Nothing was permanent.

Nobody knew, when they woke up in the morning, what was going to happen that day. A surprise attack by draculoids and scarecrows? Spikes laid out on Route Guano? A wild and rampant party in an abandoned warehouse? The love of your life, down on one knee? The love of your life, dead? Each day was different to the next, making it impossible for any kind of ‘normal’ to exist in the treacherous landscape of the desert.

The return of normality was unfeasible, because their lives had never been normal in the first place.

Regardless, the Fabulous Four had been forced to make a lot of changes recently. After saving Ghoul from the sewers, they had to leave the motel and set up camp at the diner. BL/i and the Dragons were both breathing down their necks, so it would have been dangerous to stay at the same lighthouse any longer. Life at the diner was far from pleasant, but it was hardly the first time any of them had camped out on hard tile floors. The Girl could be safely tucked in a vinyl booth, snuggled under a blanket (thank the Witch, since she refused to sleep alone anymore). At least, Jet thought, having access to a semi-workable kitchen was nice.

The decision to move to the diner had been Kobra’s, since the rest of them had been too distraught to think logically about anything when they’d brought Ghoul home. However, it had only been a few days before Ghoul had stepped up to shoulder his responsibilities as the new leader. After the malnutrition and dehydration lifted, he returned to his usual stubborn, faithful self and advocated that he should be in charge of the crew, in lieu of Party’s presence. As the former second-in-command, Ghoul insisted it was his duty to take on the leadership role. Once she was sure he was stable enough to lead them, Jet was relieved to finally shrug off the burden, like shedding a heavy jacket. Leadership didn’t come naturally to her.

Despite the fact it made her feel like her mother, Jet was happy to return to what she did best: patching up her friends’ injuries, taking care of Girlie, and cooking meals in their new kitchen. It was easier than she had expected to slip back into her old hobbies, rather than turning around and facing the reality of the last few weeks. Her latest pet project was working with Kobra to fix up the malfunctioning oven.

She was trying to reshape tinned dog food into something resembling taco meat, using a frying pan and a handful of different leaves she’d collected, when Ghoul hopped over to her. Although he was making good progress in his recovery, he still needed to lean on a stick to get around quickly and refused to remain on bedrest. Instead, Ghoul half-hopped, half-limped around the diner and insisted to his crewmates that he would soon be well enough to rejoin them on supply runs, (everyone called bullshit).

It remained a mystery to all of them why Black Dragon Fighting Society had kidnapped and tortured him in the first place. Based on what they’d told Ghoul, it had been strictly personal. The current leader of the crew, Masta, had ranted and raved about how he had betrayed the rest of the killjoys in the zones, between striking him with a baseball bat. Evidently, the infamous Fun Ghoul being captured had been due to a personal vendetta of the gang, rather than being random chance. Jet feared for his safety: there was no way the bright red target the Dragons had painted on his forehead had faded away. If anyone let their guard down, Ghoul could be snatched up just as easily. And they wouldn’t keep him alive next time.

“Taco Tuesday ‘gain?” Ghoul guessed, wrapping his arms around Jet from behind and pressing his face into her shirt, “Ya smell like soap. Ya did a laundry run wi’out me?”

“Are those both rhetorical questions?”

 

It made her boyfriend laugh softly, even though Jet had been serious. Most of the time, he thought she was funny when she was confused or asking for clarification about something. Or when she was being her normal self. But Jet didn’t mind it. She knew there was no ill intent in his laughter and she liked the sound of his fond amusement, how endeared he was when she said something silly.

She continued stirring the meat with a spoon, wondering for the hundredth time whether Power Pup was supposed to be beef or pork. Jet wished she had her mother’s prowess in the kitchen. Although she was a capable cook (especially compared to any other sand pup), she lacked Mamãe’s special talent.

“I like Taco Tuesday.” Ghoul said, as if he could sense her insecurity, “Even if it’s Thursday.”

 

“It’s Friday.” Jet corrected.

“It is? Shiiit.”

Both of them laughed and Ghoul buried his face deeper between her shoulder blades, nuzzling at her like a puppy. He had always been very physically affectionate, with friends, lovers, and even strangers. He was a big fan of piling onto his crewmates and refusing to let them get up, snuggling into them like a newborn kitten seeking out its mother. Sometimes, he leapt onto people’s backs and hung off them, taking advantage of his tiny size. Even if they were hotboxing or gathered around a campfire with other killjoys, Ghoul would lean heavily on people or flop across their laps, regardless of how well he knew them. It was worse if he and Cola were in a room together, laying in a heap like a pair of rag dolls.

“Jettyyy…”

From his pleading tone and drawn out syllables, it was obvious Ghoul was working his way up to begging for a favour. Judging by his insistent denial of Party Poison’s death over the last few days, Jet could guess what he was going to ask about. No matter what she (or the others said), nobody could convince him Party was gone for good and they weren’t coming back. Showing him a taped recording of the live footage hadn’t provided enough evidence for him to believe it.

Whereas Jet had already reached the final stage of acceptance and Kobra was still drowning in grief, Ghoul had dived headfirst into denial and spoke, to anyone who would listen, about his conspiracy theories. He didn’t seem to be able to stop himself from bringing the subject up, even if it hurt others to argue about it. Jet pleaded and The Girl cried – still, Ghoul refused to listen. There had even been a loud argument one morning with Ghoul driven to yelling and Kobra lashing out angrily in response, resulting in a bad atmosphere hanging over the diner for the remainder of the day.

“Sí, Ghoul?” Jet said, as if she didn’t know the direction the conversation was about to take.

“I need ya to drop me off down the station.”

When Jet looked over her shoulder at him, he was staring up at her with hopeful puppy eyes. It reminded her of when she’d watched an old tape of Bambi with The Girl – which had turned out to be one of the worst ideas she’d ever had. Ghoul even batted his dark eyelashes. Bastard. He knew what his greatest strengths were when it came to convincing Jet to do something.

She finished browning the meat and set the frying pan aside on the stove, making sure their lunch wouldn’t burn. Then, Jet turned around and Ghoul moved in to rest his chin on her chest instead.

“But Cherri’s not at the radio station right now. He’s with Kobra.”

In fact, Jet was certain the pair hadn’t been more than an inch apart since they’d moved to the diner. Sometimes, Cherri would open the door of the closet they were camping out in – even Jet understood why the implications of them hanging out in there were funny – and ask if there was any spare water. The smell of cooking tended to draw him away for a minute or two as well, but only so he could take some inside and coax Kobra into eating it. Who knew what Cherri did while his boyfriend was lying comatose and unable to utter a single word. If Jet had to guess, he probably worked on his poetry, despite the fact there hadn’t been an episode of Poetry Corner aired for weeks now. Dr D had received angry letters.

She supposed things would be different if Eli was still here. If Cherri had to attend to a pre-teen as well as his boyfriend, he might have spent more time in the main part of the diner and even cracked a joke or two. But EC had been delivered home to his parents the day after the footage of Party had been aired, after they were all reminded just how deadly BL/i would be. Although it could be fun to play cops and rebels for a while, at the end of the day, it wasn’t playtime out here – most of the younger joys didn’t understand that yet. But they would learn. And Eli would learn one day, since Cherri had promised he would be allowed to return to the zones once he was grown and no longer the responsibility of his mothering units.

Initially, Jet had been angry when it was suggested the zones weren’t a good place for kids to grow up. After all, what did that say about her and her siblings? Were they not as well adjusted as joys who had come from the city? Everybody knew that wasn’t true. But spending her nights comforting The Girl through nightmare after nightmare, waking up screaming for Party, she understood a little better. People who lived out here had a lot to lose and were always balancing on a tightrope, knowing their whole lives could crumble at any moment. Everything could fall apart in seconds, as Jet had learnt. Girlie already blamed herself for her caregiver’s death, just like she did with her biological parents, and no matter how much Jet comforted her, she knew that pain was going to be permanent. Losing somebody changed a person.

If sending Eli back to the city saved him from a timeline where Cherri could die (and he was a man who always insisted on taking risks), Jet couldn’t blame him for that. His childhood innocence could be preserved for a little while longer. Jet couldn’t stay angry when Cherri was doing what he thought was best for his kid, both right now and in the long-term.

“I ain’t gonna see Cher.” Ghoul said, still pouting, “Me an’ Hot Chimp got plans.”

Jet blinked in surprise.

“What kind of plans?”

Ghoul mumbled something indistinctly, scratching at his nose. Without saying a word, Jet fixed him with the look her Mamãe always used when she wanted to know which one of her siblings had trashed the kitchen (for example) and he caved after a few seconds.

“We’re gonna review the footage. Of Party.”

Wincing at the mention of the newsreel, Jet shook her head. She knew her boyfriend was in denial about losing his – their – best friend and he was entitled to grieve in his own way, even if it meant not grieving at all. But she also doubted it was healthy to fixate on the idea that Party Poison was out there, still alive, and knew indulging the fantasy would only make it worse. The longer and harder Ghoul believed their babysitter would be coming home, the more it would hurt when they never did.

But, as Ghoul always managed to do, he begged, pleaded, and twisted her arm until she agreed to drive him down to the radio station. All of them went (since Kobra hadn’t left the diner in days and was beginning to smell like one massive armpit), since it was nice to get out of the lighthouse and see their friends for a while. Fun Ghoul holed up in the back of the station van with the rest of the techno geeks and the rest of them helped with the broadcasts for the day, which The Girl adored. Even if it wasn’t at the regular time, it was nice to finally hear another episode of Cherri Cola’s Poetry Corner again.

They settled into a routine over the next few days, making the short trip across the dunes to the radio station and spending time with their friends there. Maybe it was true what Jet’s mother always said about a burden shared being a burden halved. The atmosphere was a little lighter than it was in the diner, with Dr D and Cherri ribbing each other relentlessly, Show Pony making witty comments (waving a hand around airily for effect), and Hot Chimp’s constant bubbling energy. The Girl raced wheelchairs, had her make-up done and redone by Pony, and ran around like a mad thing in the warm dusk. Even Kobra stirred from its comatose state and sat on the floor, meticulously sorting the jumbled boxes of tapes by genre.

After a week, their gentle daily routine was disturbed when Hot Chimp and NewsAGoGo burst through the station door, yelling at the top of their lungs.

“We got it! We got it!”

Ghoul limped in behind them, leaning on his makeshift crutch, with a triumphant grin on his face.

“Got… what?” Jet asked.

She glanced around to see if everyone else was as lost as she was and felt relieved to see Dr Death Defying’s brow was pinched in a frown, as if he were trying to solve a difficult problem. The Girl was more interested in the tower she was making out of empty cans. As was customary, Show Pony glanced up from xir magazine to shoot the overenthusiastic pair an amused look before returning to xir magazine, leg outstretched as xe worked on xir lifts at the same time.

“Party’s alive!”

Jet’s eye twitched, unsure what else she had expected to hear. But no matter how kindly she tried to dissuade Ghoul from talking about it in front of Girlie (who had stopped building her tower and started sniffling instead), he wouldn’t stop insisting that she and Kobra needed to come see for yaselves if ya ain’t believe me! So, it was only in an effort to stop the trio raving about Party Poison she got up and traipsed outside to where the station van was parked. She wasn’t surprised that it stunk of weed in the back, but said nothing as she knelt down and waited for them to replay the footage. Surprisingly, Kobra had slunk out to join them – maybe it was a sliver of hope that had reignited his energy, or maybe it was just morbid curiosity.

Even seeing the paused frame on the screen, Party Poison’s expression of fear frozen in time, made Jet wince in pain. Kobra was flat and unresponsive as ever.

“If you haven’t found something huge…” Jet murmured quietly, glancing at her crewmate’s blank expression.

“Trust me.” Ghoul actually grinned.

But it was Hot Chimp who moved closer to the monitor, pointing at the top-left corner of the screen and drawing their attention for the first time to a small fragment of black there. It looked like the walls of the room in which the video was filmed weren’t white at all – someone had pinned a white sheet over the wall, which was beginning to peel away. While Jet had to admit BL/i weren’t usually so sloppy with their propaganda and the room was, in fact, probably not completely white, she had no idea how it indicated Party was alive.

“It ain’t match any of BL/i’s other executions.” Newsie said.

“That’s true.” Jet agreed, “But it doesn’t mean the execution didn’t happen. It just means they usually do a better job of pinning up the background. Just an off day.”

“But that ain’t all!” Chimp seemed to be enjoying this, “We also got the watermark off the footage!”

Jet must have looked confused by this, because Ghoul began to explain.

“All BL/i cameras got a certain watermark imposed on the lens, so they always know wha’s filmed on each one of ‘em. It ain’t easy to see if ya jus’ watchin’ the footage wi’ ya eyes – it’s real subtle! But we got the one from this footage an’ get this: it ain’t match any other executions either!”

Trying to ignore the implications that the trio had been cooped up in here watching old footage of their friends’ deaths, Jet shook her head. She didn’t see what any of this had to do with Party.

“So they used a different camera. What does that change? Party’s still dead.”

She couldn’t help the emotion that crept into her voice, choking her a little, and Hot Chimp deflated a little. Ghoul had the sense to look sheepish, as if he was finally beginning to realise his denial was affecting other people around him.

“They filmed it on a portable camera.” NewsAGoGo added, “Ya can tell the type from the ratio of the footage, plus the quality. This ain’t no big city camera they use for news.”

Before Jet could make her point again, Ghoul hurried along.

“An’ if ya zoom in here, ya can see there’s somethin’ written–”

Hot Chimp clicked around with the mouse and enlarged the footage onscreen, showing a close-up of Party’s pale arm. There was something blotchy and black there, which could be mistaken for dirt or a blip in the video if you didn’t look closely enough. But with the image enlarged and zoomed in close, Jet could make out what the word was: Costa Rica. It was enough to make her head spin and heart pound in her chest.

Costa Rica was the Fabulous Four’s code word for whenever a situation was unsettling, felt off, or was a downright lie. Whenever they wanted to get out of a place, suspecting that it might be a trap, they’d slip the word into conversation. It was the same reason Jet had insisted that Dr Death Defying use the phrase when broadcasting her death – so if any of her crewmates were listening, they would know she was still alive.

“You should have opened with that!” Kobra barked, uncharacteristically loud and sharp.

His outburst took everyone by surprise, including Jet, and they all turned to stare at him. Its shades were slipping down its nose, eyes wide from trying to make out the blurry writing with his poor vision, and the expression on his face must be close to Jet’s own. A combination of pure shock, revelation, and, finally, horror – because what if they had spotted this vital clue too late?

“Party’s still alive.” Jet breathed, feeling faint.

“They sure are! Ain’t like I been tellin’ ya this whole time!” Ghoul said, but his laugh was good-natured, “Ya never gonna believe what Hot Chimp found in the footage neither.”

“Newsie was the one who cracked the code.” Hot Chimp said modestly, (or perhaps in an attempt to secure he’d get in their girlfriend’s pants later).

They forwarded to a later part of the footage, where the light was a little brighter, and focused in on the top corner of the screen. Where the backdrop was curling away from the wall, something had been scribbled there: the black ink was virtually indistinguishable against the dark stone (?) it was written on. But once the DJ ran it through a filter that inverted the colours of the screen, it was much easier to make out a letter: Z.

“Z?” Jet said, unsure if she was reading it right.

Newsie was vibrating with excitement: “Z for zones! Pois is bein’ held in the zones!”

It seemed impossible to believe. Not only that Party Poison was still alive and being held captive, but they were being held in the zones of all places. It went against everything Jet would expect from BL/i: what use was there in keeping Party alive, especially if everyone thought they were dead? Why keep them in the zones, instead of their high-security facilities in Battery City? And, most importantly, was any of this even true? It still sounded like conspiracy theory talk, based more on conjecture than real facts.

“We gotta rescue ‘em!” Ghoul insisted.

Jet looked between their eager, excited faces and didn’t know what to say. They should certainly investigate the possibility of Party being alive after uncovering these clues, but rushing blindly around the zones didn’t seem like it would get anywhere. She still wasn’t convinced the footage could be fake.

“I don’t know…”

Surprisingly, it was Kobra who snapped into action, kicking away the pillow he had been perched on and getting quickly to his feet. Although he’d always been the quiet of their crew, Kobra had virtually taken a vow of silence since learning about its siblings death and (if it was possible) had moved even less than it had spoken. Now, he nudged his sunglasses higher up on his nose and addressed the room.

“Put your masks on. We’re going to rescue Poison.”

But first, they went back into the radio station and told the others what they’d found.

It was decided quickly that Ghoul was in no state to join them – despite him protesting the fact vehemently – especially when it could result in a firefight. He was still injured and lacked even the basic capacity to run from danger, let alone fight back. To his annoyance, Ghoul would be staying at the radio station with Dr D and The Girl. Although, he perked up a little once he realised he would be responsible for surveillance and conveying coded messages if the rest of them were in any danger.

At first, Kobra was reluctant to let anyone other than Jet and Cherri join them, as he had often dismissed the idea there was safety in numbers. He believed it overcomplicated things and only resulted in putting more people in danger – Kobra preferred to roll with a small and intimate crew. But Cherri pointed out they’d probably need the backup if they wanted the rescue mission to be successful.

“Back-up?” Jet echoed.

“Ya think BL/i ‘re jus’ gonna let us walk in there an’ take their most valuable capture?”

Considering this, Jet thought it seemed unlikely: of course, Party Poison would be closely guarded and being watched by draculoids. Maybe even scarecrows. Better Living Industries wouldn’t want the truth getting out that their execution had been faked for Fact News – even though Jet knew 90% of the material on their news programmes were nothing more than misinformation at best and blatant lies at worst – and that Party Poison was still alive. Party’s death being faked might cause enough uproar to incite a rebellion and, with BL/i being in their territory, there was a chance the killjoys would have the upper hand. She doubted it would be easy to get within close range of where their best friend was being held, let alone help them escape from a BL/i prison.

As if he was reading her thoughts, Cherri reminded her this was more than Black Dragon Fighting Society. No matter how unhinged or inclined to violence they were, the Dragons were still killjoys like the rest of them. They didn’t have the power, money, and control Madame Director had – all she had to do was snap her fingers and her army of obedient, brainwashed draculoids would commit citywide massacres. The Dragons had used secrecy to evade capture, using their hidden sewer system to keep Ghoul hostage. Once they’d located him, it hadn’t been hard to break him out. Whereas BL/i had technology light years beyond the basics they had in the zones, giving them the ability to construct endlessly complicated cages and locks. They couldn’t pick them with a safety pin.

“If they got so many guards, how come we ain’t seen any?” Newsie asked, puzzled.

“Maybe we have.” said Dr D.

Everyone looked at him expectantly but, annoyingly, he wanted them to work it out by themselves. Sometimes, he was more like a middle school teacher (according to Ghoul) than a cool DJ.

“Think about it. Where have more crows been poppin’ up than ever before? Somewhere there’s been a whole infestation as if they’re breedin’ a nest?”

Jet gasped: “Dead Pegasus!”

Suddenly, it made sense why there would be so many draculoids surrounding a gas station and refusing to stray far from it, even though they usually wandered freely. Although BL/i tended to keep a close eye on spots frequented by killjoys (such as the mailbox), it hadn’t made much sense for them to do it at Dead Pegasus – as soon as word had gotten out the place was crawling with dracs, nobody had bothered going there anymore. Unlike the mailbox, the building didn’t serve a function beyond having a few supplies and being a useful place to shelter from the sun. It wasn’t worth risking your life to visit the gas station, especially when the garage was more useful in terms of fixing up your baby carriage. But, despite the fact visitors had dried up, the dracs had remained at Dead Pegasus.

It didn’t make any sense… Unless somebody had ordered them to stay there and keep away any intruders. Unless they were guarding something – like a secret hideout!

“Party really could be alive.” She said, as if in a daze.

“‘Course ya believe it when D says it.” Ghoul teased her, “Go an’ bring ‘em home, chica inteligente.”

Confidently, Kobra strode across the sand and opened the door of the Trans AM, sliding into the driver’s seat as smoothly as if it had always sat there. The only giveaway was that Kobra had to adjust the seat to account for his long legs, since his figure resembled a beanpole, before he took hold of the wheel. It drummed its fingers on the worn leather, impatient, and didn’t say a word. There was no need to issue a command. Jet and Cherri hurried to pile into the backseat of the baby carriage.

Adjusting his sunglasses, Kobra switched the radio on and slid in an Anthrax CD. Then, he turned the key and slammed his foot down on the gas, launching the Trans AM into gear as if it was one of his race cars. The speedometer swung from zero to a hundred in an instance. Jet didn’t even have a chance to catch her breath before they were speeding through the desert, sand flying through the air in their wake.

“Tell the others to park two miles south of Dead Pegasus, by the rock that looks like a crow.” Kobra said, breaking his steely silence for the first time, “If we approach from both sides, we have an advantage.”

Cherri conveyed the message, then added: “News says ya mean the one tha’ looks like a bird?”

“A crow.” Kobra repeated.

“I reckon it looks like a bird too, now tha’ I think of it–”

“A crow is a type of bird. You’re both right.”

Smiling a little, Jet watched realisation dawn on her friend’s face slowly and had to bite back a laugh, sensing it wouldn’t be very appropriate in the circumstances. Once he’d put down the radio device, finished with his calls, Cherri shot her a wicked grin in response and they resumed listening to Anthrax.

As they approached Dead Pegasus, Kobra turned the music down gradually until it faded out. Then he parked the Trans AM, a little haphazardly, and took his hands off the wheel. Instead, Kobra reached for its holster and took out its red zap, making sure it was locked and loaded: following his silent cue, the pair in the backseat did the same and Jet was relieved to see her ray gun was still in peak condition.

“We’re walking from here.” Kobra said.

They approached slowly, ducking and weaving behind anything large enough to obscure them for a moment.

A single shot broke through the uneasy silence, the familiar whoosh of the laser cutting across the blue sky and burning into a cactus. Cherri Cola slipped down behind the cactus, making an effort to hide his tall frame better, but it was already too late – a drac had caught sight of his head and, no doubt, the distinctive bright streak in his hair. Another shot followed, this time landing in the sand near his feet, and Cherri had no choice but to bolt for better cover. As soon as he raced across the sand, a blur of bright colour darting through the open space, the draculoids stopped holding back and started firing.

Jet stuck her head out from the abandoned car she was crouched behind and shot back, although she was too far from the enemy for the rays to even reach them. Still, it drew some attention away from Cherri, as the dracs realised he wasn’t the only one in the area. The draculoids split their attention, two of them lurching towards the car Jet-Star was using for cover, and there was a flurry of activity as everyone began to fight at once. Hidden from view, Jet bided her time and waited for the dracs to be confused by their radio station allies attacking from behind. She took the chance to move forward, boots skidding unsteadily in the sand, and slammed into a trash can in her hurry to duck behind it.

“Oof–!” She inhaled sharply, turning to see where the others were.

Hot Chimp was lying on their stomach behind the corpses of two other joys, using their bodies macabrely to take the heat, and grinning with the adrenaline of the fight. Closer to Dead Pegasus, Cherri was out in the open (like an idiot), dodging whatever shots came his way, while Kobra yelled at him to ‘take cover’. Their fearless leader leapt up onto the hood of a baby carriage and fired neatly, knocking down two of the dracs, before launching himself towards the gas station. It blasted another draculoid back and disappeared from sight, vanishing into Jet’s blind spot. Show Pony was skating circles around the dracs to confuse them.

She rose up from behind the trash can, shooting into the sand a few times to draw a drac closer to her. The masks meant they had poorer vision than the average killjoy, so they needed to be up close and personal to score a decent hit – or just get lucky. Once the poor draculoid had lumbered close enough, Jet popped up again and shot twice, hitting it a little to the left of where she’d been aiming and burning a hole in its shoulder rather than its chest. The second shot was better: right between the eyes. In a blast of gore, the draculoid’s head exploded and splattered blood across the sand before its body crumpled to the ground. Again, Jet took the opportunity to move closer to Dead Pegasus and remembered the last time she’d been here.

When Jet had last been here, she had been fighting dracs too. But she had been alone and frightened.

“Hey, asshole!” Cherri yelled, grinning, and waited for the draculoid to face him before shooting.

In the distance, there was a ‘whoop, whoop’ that Jet highly suspected to be coming from Cherri’s younger sister and she wondered what the strange ache radiating from her face was. Had a laser beam grazed her skin without her even realising it? Ghosting a hand rapidly over her cheeks and lips, Jet realised with a start that she wasn’t injured at all. Her face ached from smiling so hard.

Once they had gotten close to the gas station, the onslaught of dracs slowed down enough for all of them to approach and gather in a cluster by one of the abandoned cars. Aside from a few cuts and bruises, everyone seemed to be in one piece and Jet thanked the Witch for making them bulletproof, knowing she was smiling down upon them today. No matter what anyone said, she was on the killjoys’ side.

“Over here!” called Hot Chimp, after a few minutes of scouting.

Right in the centre of the gas station, where they had all driven a million times before, was a large maintenance hole cover. It was the same colour as the ground surrounding it and in-set, so it went virtually unnoticed unless somebody was looking for it. Now, all of them were staring down at the cover which had been hiding Party Poison for weeks, while they’d searched every nook and cranny aboveground. Jet wasn’t sure why she was so nervous about going down there, especially after her experiences in both the Hyper Thrust basement and the sewer system underneath the garage.

The Kobra Kid gripped the edge of the cover with his fingertips and only managed to lift it up an inch, straining from the weight of it. It was at least six feet in width, made with heavy metal, and designed to be difficult to remove. Only the strength of Kobra, Jet, and Chimp combined were they able to remove it.

“Would be easier if Cola helped.” Chimp pointed out, grunting lightly with exertion.

The poet fluttered his eyelashes, as if having a pretty face rendered his muscled arms useless.

“How’d they get Party down here wi’ nobody seein’?” Newsie wondered, looking at the gaping hole in the middle of the gas station.

“Maybe someone did see ‘em an’ they ghosted ‘em.”

“Maybe there’s a secret tunnel.”

Jet didn’t realise she’d said something surprising until a silence fell over the group and she looked up to see them all staring at her. Logically, it made sense. There was a system of tunnels under the desert, which she had seen with her own eyes, and nobody had any idea how far they spanned. Inside the Hyper Thrust basement, there had been a secret tunnel that had allowed the Dragons to smuggle Ghoul away seconds before they’d descended the stairs. Now Jet thought about it, (she had no idea how this hadn’t occurred to her before), the basement was probably connected to the same sewer tunnels and allowed the Dragons to travel between places. She wondered what other places might be connected to the underground tunnel system. Was this system what allowed BL/i to sneak up and take Party Poison without anybody noticing? Maybe they hadn’t disappeared into thin air – they’d just been snatched and yanked down into a tunnel.

By the time Jet had finished explaining this, the stares were more wide-eyed and open-mouthed than before. She didn’t think it was a revelation: she’d just finally been able to put the puzzle together, now she had the final piece.

“Jet, you stay here and make sure nobody comes after us.” Kobra instructed, flat as ever.

“An’ me!” Newsie piped up, “I mean, don’t get it twisted! They got a funky smell an’ sick decor, but I done my part in creepy tunnels.”

Show Pony refused to be caught dead in such a filthy environment, so it was the three of them who stood by and watched their friends disappear down into the darkness. This one didn’t seem to have a ladder – at least, none of them were able to find one – so they had to leap blindly into the hole. Jet shuddered.

Somehow, waiting seemed to be far more anxiety-inducing than going down the tunnel itself. The three of them stood, not wanting to sit in case they were caught off guard, and watched the empty landscape around them. Aside from being littered with the corpses of draculoids, (including one that spasmed unexpectedly and prompted Jet to shoot it down again), there were no signs of any living creatures.

Time seemed to drip by incredibly slowly.

“Why do ya think they faked Party’s death?” Newsie asked eventually.

“Maybe they wanted Jetty to flip out an’ declare war on the city.” Show Pony mused, “Kinda like bait.”

“Ya sayin’ a hostage ain’t enough reason?”

Show Pony shrugged.

“They’d be more careful then. Death makes ya real reckless.”

“Yeah…” Newsie

A distant sound caught Jet’s attention, causing her to spin around (since it was coming from somewhere in her blind spot) and look behind her. She’d heard the phrase ‘nails on a blackboard’ before, but this noise was infinitely worse than that: it was the sound of metal grating against itself, like a monster with metal teeth gnashing them together. At first, Jet wasn’t sure exactly what she was seeing, as a figure seemed to bob up and down like it was in a boat. Then, a second figure appeared. She should’ve known what was happening as soon as she saw the all-white outfits, reminding her of a medical show she’d watched a season of on tape, but her fears weren’t cemented until she saw a distinctive flash of red hair.

Not wanting to draw attention to herself by shouting, Jet simply grabbed Newsie by hir shoulder and gave hir a shake to let hir know something was happening. Then, before she could even register Show Pony’s “wha–?”, she was taking off across the sand dunes as fast as she could. It reminded her of when she used to run races with her brothers and sisters, the older ones always racing ahead no matter how hard she pumped her arms and legs. After a while, Jet had given up on ever winning and simply elected to be the one sitting at the finish line, calling judgements whenever two of her siblings reached it at the same time. She hadn’t felt such fire burning in her chest since she was small and had used all her strength to pound through the sand, trying to reach her mother’s washing line (the designated finishing point) before anyone else. Now, Jet-Star had a lot more to use.

She couldn’t hear over her hastened, panting breaths wherever anyone else had followed her lead and charged towards the BL/i agents. Either way, Jet didn’t care. There was no way she was going to let Party Poison slip out of her hands again – not when they were so close, not when they might never get another chance to rescue them again. To her relief, Jet saw a flash of vibrant polka dots ripple past her and realised it was Show Pony, gliding quickly with xir roller skates. Maybe they were in with a chance.

Only a moment or two behind Pony, Jet reached the BL/ind agents and, without hesitating to consider what she should do, swung her fist as soon as she was close enough. Her knuckles made contact with a surprised man, his mouth still open in an ‘O’ of shock, and sent him sprawling to the ground immediately. Unfortunately, it alerted the rest of the scarecrows – they obviously weren’t draculoids if they weren’t wearing the masks, so they must be crows – that they had been caught trying to smuggle Party Poison out of a secret exit. The next closest one to Jet drew their zap, taking aim, and she barely had time to raise her own gun. With seconds to lose, she managed to fire and singed the elbow of their jacket, knocking their aim askew. A laser was fired into the air, like a flare being sent up, and Jet slammed into the Scarecrow full-force, sending both of them to the ground.

Blinking the sand from her eyes, Jet looked around frantically for her best friend and could barely make out anything among the chaos. Zaps were being fired with no inhibitions, random laser beams soaring through the air, and more sand was sent into the air as a vehicle screeched to a halt nearby. It had to be transportation for Party Poison. It was here already? Jet crawled over the scarecrow she had landed on top of and into the sand, deciding it was best to keep low with so many zaps being fired over her head. She kept her eyes open as wide as possible, desperately searching for a flash of red among the fighting.

Her slow crawl felt like the longest moment of her entire life, as if the entire battle was occurring in slow motion around her, and Jet clawed desperately for Party. Suddenly, when everything seemed hopeless, there was a bloodcurdling scream she’d recognise anywhere. The world around her sped up again, everything happening too fast instead of too slow, and Jet forced herself to keep moving forward. Finally, her eyes snagged on something far too obnoxiously red to be blood and she reached out, grabbing a fistful of hair. She yanked Party Poison into her and held onto them tight with one arm, using the other one to fire blindly at the chaos around them. After a minute or two, she abandoned the shooting and laid down on the ground, using her own body to protect Party from being hurt.

She had no idea how long she was laying there, ear pressed to Party’s mouth to make sure she could hear their breath coming in pauses and bursts. Everything was dark and loud. She wouldn’t be able to pick individual sounds from the cacophony of noise, pressing down on them like a heavy weight, if she tried. Focusing on Party’s chest rising and falling, the sound of a heartbeat pounding (she had no idea which one of them it belonged to), and their breath against her cheek, Jet had no idea when the world around them rattled into silence.

It was only when someone prodded her side and whispered “Jet?” that she knew it was finally over.

They’d won. No matter what the cost was, they had won.

-

Someone brought the Trans AM around from where they’d left it, since nobody was keen to stick around and wait for BL/i to send in reinforcements. After a little while, Jet had managed to coax Party Poison (non-verbal, probably in shock, but all of their injuries were old) off the ground and murmur to them it was okay now. She wasn’t sure how much of what she said was getting through. But they opened the door to the backseat and started to usher Party inside, when somebody stopped her.

Cherri, who was sitting in the driver’s seat, had twisted around and stuck his arm in the way.

“Newsie rides in the back.” He said, gruffly.

Blinking in surprise, Jet took a step back and tugged her friend out of the way too, looking around for Newsie. She had completely lost track of the youngest DJ during the race to save Party and the fight that ensued as a result, although Newsie must have been somewhere behind her.

When NewsAGoGo was brought to the car, being carried in Hot Chimp’s arms, she was mortified to see the killjoy had turned a shade of milky blue. Hir lips were blue, hir skin was cold, and zie was trembling like a small, frightened animal – it didn’t match Newsie’s persona at all. There was a dark patch of blood which started on hir thigh and bloomed down the leg of hir pants, blood still pulsing through the fabric despite Newsie’s attempts to stem the flow with hir hand. With a caring and gentle nature Jet wouldn’t expect from xem, Hot Chimp settled their partner in the backseat of the Trans AM and pressed a kiss to hir lips, murmuring something too quiet to hear. Whatever it was, it made Newsie smile weakly.

Turning away from the car, Chimp’s fake grin disappeared and he walked over to Jet.

“Ya the medic.” She said, “Ya gotta save my girl. C’mon, Jetty.”

Feeling as if she was in a dream, Jet climbed into the backseat of the Trans AM and dug out the medical supplies from where she’d stashed them. She was vaguely aware of Kobra guiding its older sibling into the passenger seat and mentioning they’d catch up at the radio station, but she was too busy cutting the fabric away from Newsie’s injury. She could clean the wound, stitch the gaping hole closed, and bandage it up. In fact, Jet had already done all of these things by the time they were gunning it down Route Guano. But there was nothing she could do about the blood Newsie had already lost and she didn’t have any way of replacing it, since a blood transfer would be dangerous even if they knew everyone’s types. All Jet could do was wrap the shivering DJ in as many jackets as they had and plead with hir to stay awake a little longer.

It seemed to be awfully hard for Newsie to keep hir eyes open, as if hir eyelids were heavier than usual. No matter how many layers they piled on hir, zie didn’t seem to warm up in the slightest. By the time the car pulled up outside the radio station, NewsAGoGo’s breaths had grown shallow and Jet feared the worst.

“Cherri.” She called the DJ over, sombre.

A look passed between them, which Jet hoped communicated her fears: Newsie wasn’t going to make it. She moved out of the way so Cherri Cola could climb into the backseat of the Trans AM and scoop his sister up into his arms, cradling hir close. From what little Jet could make of his murmured words, they sounded like apologies, maybe a few lines of poetry. She stood back, trying not to interfere with their private moment.

Party Poison stood beside her, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Ya did so good, News. Ya moves out there tonight? Killer.” Cherri said, his breath hitching on a sob.

Silence fell over the group as they watched the rise and fall of Newsie’s chest slowly come to a stop, zie going limp in Cherri’s arms. The sun continued to drift across the sky. Jet rubbed thoughtfully at her bracelet, praying to the Witch for their friend to be guided to the other side. In the distance, a desert breeze blew a yellowing copy of Battery City Daily across the sandy dunes, sending the pages fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. Cherri’s head dropped forward and he began to cry openly, no longer trying to save face.

It was over.

-

If Jet-Star was going to die, she was going to go down fighting.

She rammed a knee into Party’s crotch, making them squeal like a pig, and wriggled free from where they’d pinned her against the ground. Pushing herself upwards, Jet wrapped an arm around them and pulled Party into a headlock, ruffling their dishevelled hair up with her other hand.

“Cheat! Cheat!” Party called.

The referee didn’t bother looking up from its copy of Murder magazine, puffing on a cigarette.

“Who’s a cheat?” came a familiar voice, as Ghoul stepped out of the radio station.

He had an arm slung casually around Cherri’s waist, as if they were going on an everyday supply run, but the way he squeezed him reassuringly didn’t go unnoticed. In Cherri’s hands was a ragged cardboard box of his sister’s belongings, which they were going to run to the mailbox: hir childhood blanket, a collection of homemade gadgets, and a handful of old polaroids he could bear to part with. Cherri couldn’t bear the thought of Newsie being without them. Although NewsAGoGo had only been a half-hearted believer in the Phoenix Witch, Cherri was a strong devotee and always had been.

Party declared: “Jet’s a cheat! Everyone knows balls are off-limits!”

“Jet ain’t cheated in her life.” Cherri said.

She did her best to look innocent, smiling at Party, and yelped when she was tackled into the sand again. They rolled around in the sand for a few more minutes, playfully swiping at each other, until Party conceded and shoved her off them. The leader of the Fabulous Four sat up, cross-legged, and pouted.

As usual, everyone teased them about being a sore loser. Party continued to protest that they weren’t a sore loser and they just believed in sticking to the rules, which meant Jet was a cheater. She should be disqualified for using an illegal move. Despite their desperate attempts to appeal to the referee – who just snorted and flicked the ashes of his cigarette into the sand – Party lost for the third time in a row.

“I’m a lover, not a fighter!” They insisted, changing their tactic.

Looking amused, Cherri turned and headed towards where the station van was waiting for them. Hot Chimp was already in the driver’s seat, drumming their fingers impatiently against the wheel. Instead of joining them straightaway, Ghoul stepped around his first-in-command (who had their arms folded and was glowering at Jet, as if she was guilty of war crimes) and leaned down to peck Jetty on the cheek. While he didn’t need his crutch anymore, there was still a slight limp in his walk.

“Are you going to the mailbox?” She asked, even though she already knew the answer.

Ghoul nodded.

“Think Cola needs the support. It’s gotta be hard losin’ a siblin’.”

“I can’t begin to imagine.” Jet sighed, “Promise me you’ll be careful out there.”

This time, Ghoul reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

“I promise, Jetty. I’ll be back soon.”

He released his grip on her shoulder, shot her a crooked grin, and then raced to catch up with the others. It seemed Hot Chimp had gotten tired of waiting and had turned over the engine, revving it a few times as a warning. Ghoul yelled in protest, laughing, and swung the door open. Hanging out of the van, holding onto the roof with one hand to make sure he didn’t fall out, Ghoul turned back to wave an arm at his crew.

“See ya later, losers!” He shouted.

Leaping to their feet, as if they were truly offended by the phrase, Party Poison called back something ten times more obscene and made him laugh. Kobra Kid glanced up from his magazine. He waved.

Jet-Star smiled.
Epilogue
The fire had dwindled down to ashes, the few flames that remained flickering weakly without anymore kindling to eat up. Nobody bothered to toss any wood onto the fire. There was no point wasting more resources to keep the light alive when they’d all be turning in soon, using their mismatched array of nametags, blankets, and repurposed body bags for warmth instead. Regardless, Vance poked at the fire with a twig in an effort to force it back to life and watched bright sparks burst into the air. It reminded them of the fireflies that sometimes came to life in the summer evenings.

“I know ya a walkin’ trojan horse, Century.” Said the joy with a red streak in her hair, “But that story’s gotta be the most bullshit I ever heard come out of ya mouth in one go.”

Despite themself, Vance couldn’t help snorting. It was true that their best friend was a compulsive liar, in the truest sense of the word, and it was hard to get anything remotely close to the truth out of him. Electric Century’s lies ranged from the believable (for years, Vance had believed cats and dogs could breed to create a ‘datcog’) to the plain absurd (yet he kept bringing up aliens and their probes). But the funniest part was, as far as Vance knew, the story of Jet-Star and the Kobra Kid was completely true.

“‘Course ’s true.” Another joy argued, “My tía told me that story all the time when I was lil. ‘S a dust legend.”

Red Streak rolled her eyes, “The point of dust legends is ain’t nobody know if they’re true.”

Leaning back on their hands, Vance looked around the circle of killjoys sitting around the fire and estimated they were divided equally over whether the story was true or not. They caught Young Animal’s eyes and noticed their favourite record was wearing an anxious look on their face, worried about the discussion escalating into a real conflict. Hazy from both the campfire and the residual effects of the pot, Vance shot them a reassuring look and then poked their tongue out. At least it made them smile.

Pressing the tips of his fingers together, as if he was about to impart wisdom on the group, Electric Century exhaled an overdramatic sigh.

“I’m not asking you to believe me, children. You asked for a story and I gave you one.”

Vance snickered again, mostly because their friend wasn’t any older or wiser than the rest of them. He just had a flair for the dramatic and had possessed it since childhood – Vance knew this for a fact, since the two of them had been in diapers together.

“So ya admit ya full of shit.” Red Streak folded her arms, triumphant.

Despite his love of lies and tendency to stir trouble, Electric Century was more of a peacemaker than a fighter. So Vance wasn’t surprised when he just shrugged his shoulders and smiled serenely, letting the other joys draw their own opinions on the matter. He seemed smug in his knowledge of the truth.

“Are there really tunnels under the desert?” A rogue droid, wearing a hood over her bald head, asked.

Expectantly, the rest of the circle turned to Electric. When he just shrugged again, not inclined to reveal whether his story was completely fictitious, they all turned back to Red Streak. In challenging Electric Century, she seemed to have gained a new status of respect and knowledge among the group. However, she just stammered and trailed off, unsure herself whether it was true or not.

“There are.” Young Animal piped up, speaking for the first time since they’d met up with the other crew.

Being shy by nature, they didn’t like to be perceived by most people, especially in a large group. Usually, YA kept to themself, not wanting to speak to anyone they didn’t know already, or looked to Vance to speak on their behalf. Although it wasn’t obvious in the dark, with only the dying fire casting light on their face, Vance knew their cheeks would be tinged red from everyone looking in their direction.

“Yeah.” Vance stretched out their legs, lifting their arms above their head, “I seen ‘em.”

YA caught their eye again, silently grateful for taking the heat off them, and they nodded.

“Oh, really?” Red Streak narrowed her eyes.

In the eyes of the other crew, it seemed being associated with Electric Century meant they were all liars too, which Vance took offence to. They had never had any qualms about telling the truth, even when it pissed people off, and took the accusation as a challenge. No longer tired, Vance leapt defiantly to their feet and shouldered their ratty backpack. The Mousekat charm hanging from the zipper jangled in protest.

“Vance–”

“Ya wanna see it for yaself?” They challenged the other leader, fire burning in their eyes.

Red Streak shot a glance at her second-in-command, who nodded assuredly, and then turned around to pull her wheelchair closer. With ease, she manoeuvred herself into it and agreed they would all follow Vance to see the nearest entrance to the underground tunnel system.

“If it even exists.” She added, provocatively.

With a drawn-out groan, as if they were planning to trek to the ends of the earth, Electric Century got to his feet and YA stayed close to the back of the group as they walked. Using his cane to assess the space in front of him as he walked, Electric joked he would warn any of them before they fell headfirst into the sewers – although, if Varya was so keen to see it for herself, maybe he would keep his mouth shut. Guessing Varya must be the name of the other crew’s leader, the one with the red streak in her hair, Vance chuckled. He didn’t think it was an accident when she ran over his toes a few minutes later.

“How much further?” The fourth member of the other crew complained.

“It ain’t far. Keep ya panties on.” Vance said.

Finally, they came across a desolate gas station that had fallen into disrepair several decades ago. The sign proudly declared the building to be called ‘D AD A S S’, although most people referred to it as ‘The Trojan’ because of the strange horse painted on its sign. Nowadays, it sheltered more rats than killjoys, but made a decent stopover point on a long journey or acid rain started pouring down unexpectedly. The tapping of Century’s cane became more pronounced on the hard ground and, true to his word, he came to a stop once he reached the large circle that marked the point of entry.

The other crew’s second, Shooting Star, knelt down and tried to pry the cover off. However, it’s large size and the density of the metal made it impossible for one person to remove it, making everyone else laugh goodnaturedly at their efforts. With help from Vance and the droid, Demonshark Deluxe, the trio were able to pry the cover free and shift it far enough for the entrance to be accessible.

Varya clicked her flashlight on and shone it into the hole, to no avail. It was impossible to see anything in the pitch black – especially at nighttime.

“If this is a trick, Century…” She said, in a warning tone.

He smiled innocently: “It wasn’t even my idea to come out here, babe.”

Star kicked him in the crotch and made him double over, gasping in pain. Mentally, Vance made a note not to use any nicknames on their new friends if they still wanted to have children someday. They ignored their second-in-command hopping around and lamenting about his balls, in much more detail than anyone wanted to hear. Instead, they sat down and swung their legs over the edge of the hole, dangling them there.

Picking up a rock, Demonshark tossed it in and waited for the distant thunk of it hitting the bottom. She seemed to gauge the depth of the drop through this, then glanced at Varya to see if she was still interested in going down there. To her credit, Varya was too stubborn to back out now.

She turned her torch on Electric Century.

“Ya first, babe.”

The word absolutely dripped with sarcasm and Vance had to smother a laugh behind their hand, wondering if Electric might have finally met his match.

“You’re going to send little old me into that big, dark–”

“Everythin’s dark to ya.” Varya pointed out, “Get movin’.”

Being a coward at heart, Electric Century dragged out his whining about the injustice of the situation for what felt like forever, not to mention his detailed speech about what they should do with his remains if he died. Impatiently, Vance swung their legs back and forth, wishing they’d volunteered to go first just to avoid his babbling. But, finally, Electric was helped to the edge of the hole and dropped inside, hitting the bottom with a thunk that wasn’t unlike the rock from earlier.

Once he’d called up to let them know he was still alive, the rest of them set about descending into the underground themselves. Varya looked exceptionally smug about needing to be lowered in with a makeshift rope, knowing she would be the only one coming away from this field trip without bruises.

To everyone’s amusement, Vance landed on top of their babysitter and nearly flattened him in the process, the two of them ending up in a heap onto the tiled ground. They huffed as they scrambled to their feet, making sure their hair wasn’t askew, and pointedly ignored the girls teasing them. Young Animal gave their arm a reassuring squeeze, sticking close to them.

Thanks to the flashlight, it was possible to make out some details of the space and Vance found it was the same as they remembered it from their last visit. Although the entire space was covered with white tiles, they had grown filthy over time and there was grout buried between them. A family of spiders had taken up residence in the abandoned tunnel. There was an array of Better Living Industries products, including a few ray guns, which seemed to have been abandoned in a hurry. When Vance picked up a zap and inspected it, they weren’t surprised to find the batteries were long dead – not to mention, the model seemed ancient compared to the sleek, shiny ones Scarecrows boasted these days. Some of the colourful graffiti decorating the walls was starting to wear away. Traipsing down the tunnel, the group came across a door that must have once been sealed tightly and required the keypad stationed on the wall to open it. Now, one half of the sliding door had been completely removed and propped up as a ramp by some skateboarders.

“Now, do you believe me?” Electric Century asked, even though he’d never argued his story was true in the first place.

Turning to glance at him, Varya scowled. It was clear she didn’t like being proven wrong.

“Animal was right ‘bout the tunnels bein’ real.” She said, continuing to roll forward, “That ain’t make the rest of ya dust legend true.”

Young Animal blushed again, as if they were surprised the girl knew their name.

Like last time, Electric didn’t seem too bothered about the fact that the other crew didn’t believe his story. It made sense to Vance. Being a compulsive liar since birth meant EC was used to being called out on his bullshit and it would have been ridiculous for him to take offence to it, (although he sometimes pretended to).

They passed through another set of doors, just as broken as the previous ones, and followed the curve in the tunnel around the bend. On the wall, there was a door unlike the others: this one was rectangular and had a round window, like a porthole, which they all took turns peeking through. Inside, there was a filthy mattress on the floor (which seemed to be inhabited by vermin) and a plastic tray covered in a fuzzy layer of grey dust. Despite their best efforts, the door was rusted shut, so they couldn’t investigate inside. There were a few diversions in the tunnel, which the girls seemed interested in pursuing, but Vance insisted they needed to keep going straight ahead.

Vance could barely contain their excitement as they came across the main attraction.

The tile corridor began to slope upwards, slowly at first and then becoming steep enough that Varya needed her second’s help getting to the top. When they reached the peak of the slope, it flattened out suddenly and the corridor came to an end. Against the wall, there was a short ladder leading up to another entrance, although Vance had tried it before and knew that it was no longer possible to force it open. That wasn’t what they had wanted to show the others anyway.

In the middle of the corridor, safe from the disturbance of the outside world, was a small memorial shrine. Above a stack of radios and broken TV sets, somebody had used a thumbtack to pin a photo to the wall: it featured a small, blue-haired person with a wicked grin and a bigger, pink-haired one with a set of chunky headphones around their neck. The one with the pink hair was holding a peace sign above their companion’s head and seemed to be laughing about it. Someone had added dates in black marker pen.

Among the pile of offerings, there was an unmistakable blue mask. The faded paint decorations were red ovals over the eyes, filled with light blue diamonds, which any killjoy old enough to hold a zap could recognise. Maybe it wasn’t as iconic as the other masks, but it hadn’t been forgotten.

In stony silence, the rest of the joys stared at the shrine. Varya stared long and hard at the mask.

“Jet-Star was my favourite.”