Chapter Text
The thing about summertime out in the zones is that it doesn't really end. It's always hot, and there's hardly a zone-rat left that can remember a time when it wasn't. And, no one gives a shit about calendars. Time out here is measured in moments of lightning fast impulsivity, and the consequences come later. You can't be bothered to keep track of the days passing when you're on the run from a bright white motorcycle gang that wants to make you one of them.
All that being said, today was hot. It'd be a sweltering July afternoon if this was the before times when months were real and still mattered. Here at the killjoy's diner, way out in the middle of fuckin' nowhere, a worn-out Fun Ghoul has his head under the hood of the trans-am. The 'am is an old piece of shit, nothing against it, that's just a side effect of living in times like these. The ‘joys love her though, and Fun Ghoul keeps her looking pretty. Lately the engine's been running way too hot, another side effect of living in times like these, plus she's blown a gasket, so it's Ghoul's job as always to get her back to normal. Ghoul loves his job, loves mechanics, loves taking things apart and putting them back together and making something new out of the scraps, and he loves their car. He loves everything about the trans-am, except for driving it. That's Party Poison’s domain, and he prefers sitting shotgun anyway.
Speaking of Party Poison, they've developed this habit lately of leaning against the doorway of the diner and spying on Ghoul when he's out fixing up the car. It's probably not creepy. Poison doesn't care, they just like admiring one of their best men. Well, they're not an army general and their friends don't constitute an army, but they have a particular fondness for Fun Ghoul, especially after the last BL/I raid. They won't admit it outwardly, but Ghoulie over there saved their ass the other day when they were almost overpowered and outnumbered by a murder of SCARECROWS. He's smarter than he looks, and a good shot too.
"How is she?" says Party Poison. Fun Ghoul startles and nearly hits his head.
"Looking good!" he smiles. "Just had to replace the gasket, I'm basically done." He dives back in, just for a second, to tighten up the bolts. It's not lost on Party Poison how good his tan arms look in the sunlight.
"So what's up?" Ghoul asks, wiping grease off his hands and onto his ratty tank top.
"Nothing." Poison shrugs. "But if the 'am is up and running again... I was wondering if you'd like to swing by Badlands with me later?."
The Badlands is one of those party houses way out in the zones, right on the edge of radioactive no-man's land, where it can soak up all the nuclear energy and put it all into running sound and lights each night. It’s famous for its mosh pits, bar fights, and parking lot hookups while some band is throwing down inside. It fucking rules.
“Riot Squad is doing a set tonight.” Poison mentions, noting how Ghoul’s eyes light up. “You like ‘em, right?”
“Uh, hell yes I like them!” Ghoul smiles. “Who all’s going?”
“Kobes is down in San Diego, or wherever the hell, and Jet’s all tied up with Girly, so,” They explain. “I was thinkin’ it’d just be you and me.”
Ghoul thinks about the implications. If you really think about it, Party was basically askin’ him out on a date. To see one of his favorite bands, no less. How could he say no?
“When are we leaving?”
“So you’ll go?”
“Duh.” Ghoul laughs.
Poison smiles, before heading back to the diner, and Ghoul wanders towards the motel. His room at the motel is nothing to write home about. Everything in there always has a dusting of sand on it, and his clothes haven't been truly clean since like, ever. But still, it's a place to sleep, and the door locks, and the bathroom sorta works most of the time, so he doesn't really have anything to complain about.
He thinks about what he should wear, cuz if he gets ambushed out there and ends up dusted, he doesn't want his bullet-riddled body to be discovered in shorts and sunburned. He rarely puts on his Killjoy "uniform" of his own free will, just because he thinks long sleeves and jeans and a heavy jacket in this heat is overkill. It's Poison's unofficial rule that everyone's gotta wear the outfits on special occasions though, which just means whenever they're taking direct action against BL/I and traveling in a group. A show at Badlands was a special occasion, he thinks, but thankfully not special enough to warrant the uniform. He spends more than a few minutes trying to piece together a certified Fun-Ghoul-Cool outfit, and eventually decides on his classic demolition shirt, his well-worn battle vest, a bunch of DIY-ed spiky accessories, and his favorite pair of jeans. When he found them at the Mercado ages ago, they were just plain, baggy denim. But, like everything he gets his hands on, he fixed them up and made ‘em all cool: green straps and buckles and frankenstein stitched patches.
“Lookin’ good, Ghoulie.” says Party Poison, out of nowhere. They’re doing that thing again, this time materializing in Fun Ghoul’s doorway. Ghoul remains easily startled as always.
“Jesus, Pois’, don’t do that.”
“Just keeping you on your toes.” They shrug. “You ready to go?”
“Yeah.” He says. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”
Truth is, Party Poison never looks bad. You wouldn’t expect it, but they’ve got an eye for fashion. Leaning against the motel door in a tank-top and skinny jeans, red cowboy boots crossed at the ankle, hair put up in a ponytail, and gun strapped to their thigh…they’re pretty good at looking hot . It’s no secret that Party Poison oozes pure androgynous sex appeal, and it’s definitely no secret that Fun Ghoul can hardly resist.
“Hey, let’s go.” Poison says, jingling their keys at him. Ghoul comes back to reality. Poison smirks at him almost knowingly, like they can somehow read his thoughts, before peeling themselves off the door and sauntering towards the car. Fun Ghoul follows, like he always does.
Fun Ghoul slides into the passenger seat, loads up a Mad Gear CD into the player, and admires Poison’s side profile as they put their sunglasses on. Oh, and it’s also no secret that Ghoulie here has the biggest crush on them, given those couple of times he and Poison have fooled around.
“What are you staring at?” Poison teases as they adjust the rearview mirror.
“Nothin’.” Ghoul smirks.
“The route’s clear of any crows, so it should be smooth sailing from here.” They turn the key in the ignition. “Nothing like the other day.”
“Don’t worry, even if we run into trouble, at least you’ve got me here to protect you.” Ghoul jokes, flashing his holster.
“My hero…” Poison says, laced with sarcasm. They roll their eyes, not that Ghoul can see.
One thing they love about times like these is the lack of traffic, and the lack of speed limits. The second they pull away from the diner and onto the beaten up asphalt, they floor it. Kobra once asked them how they think they’re gonna die, and Poison’s answer has always been “I’m gonna die fast.” They don’t have a death wish though, they just like the adrenaline. Ghoul turns up the music and watches the burnt orange landscape of the desert speed by, watches the way Party Poison taps their fingers along the steering wheel in time with the music. After more rubber is burned and after Ghoul switches out the CD to Mad Gear’s latest, Poison speaks up.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“Feels like we don’t talk much.” They say, keeping their eyes on the road. “I mean, we talk, but, like- I don’t know.” Poison has that stress in their jaw that always tips Ghoul off; something’s weighing on them.
“What's on your mind?”
Poison chews their lip and hesitates on what to say. Finally, they settle on:
“Gender? I guess?” They sigh. The desert keeps speeding by.
“What about it?”
“Ugh. I don’t know. I don’t really have one, but you know that. No one really knows me, I guess.” Poison raps their fingers against the wheel. “Y’all do, but no one else. I’m whatever they think I am. BLIND thinks I’m a man that failed at being one…” They trail off, and Fun Ghoul doesn’t say anything, yet.
“I’m like a girl and a gun.” Poison mumbles. “Everyone’s scared of me and everyone wants to fuck me. Or kill me. Or both. Whichever comes first, y’know?”
Poison doesn’t open up often, and there’s a lot of things they and Ghoul just don’t talk about. He notices it sometimes, though. There’s always that… look in Poison’s eyes when they tear down another wanted poster that says their height and weight and MALE on it. Ghoul doesn’t pry, not even when he walked in on them struggling with the straps of that pretty, albeit old as hell, blue bra; not even when Poison sat with him on the rooftop in that new denim skirt they bought for a couple credits at the Mercado. Ghoul just said they looked pretty. They don’t talk about the times when Poison wants Ghoul to call them a good girl, either. It’s just something that happens and something that Ghoul thinks about every time he catches that familiar look in their eye.
It’s a weird existence, being a Killjoy, and being Party Poison in particular. When they walk in a room, everyone is on edge, everyone watches what they say. They see the uniform, the mask, the gun, and they get scared. They respect them. BL/I call them a man and want to kill them to make a statement about taking your corporate black and white pills. Party Poison doesn’t really care for any of it.
“What do you wanna be?” Ghoul asks, finally, turning to look at them.
“Just this.” They say, sort of noncommittal. “Nothing. Something. Whatever.”
“Then that’s that, right? Be Party Poison and fuckin’ kill anyone who says otherwise.”
Poison smiles at that, and Ghoul can see some of the tension leave their body.
“Thanks, sugar. That helps.”
“‘Course, Pois’,” Ghoul smiles. “You do kinda remind me of a gun though, now that you say it.”
“Yeah?”
“Y’know,” He says. “‘Cuz you’re smokin’.”
They can’t take each other seriously, and burst out laughing within a few seconds.
“You’re ridiculous, Ghoulie.” Poison laughs it off, and tries to ignore the burning in their cheeks. Probably just a sunburn.
Badlands is fucking busy tonight. It’s a real who’s-who of desert weirdos; Ghoul’s pretty sure he even saw that one guy with the same name as Kobra but spelled differently, somehow. Anyway, he and Poison are currently leaning against the bar, each nursing some sort of bootleg and probably radioactive cocktail, and waiting for the next band to come on. They both fit right in against the backdrop of drunk zone-rats itching for the music to start, itching for something to get physical. Badlands is one of Ghoul’s favorite places, save for the Fuck You House basement and HyperThrust parking lot. There’s something about throwing himself into the crowd and getting lost in that rush of harsh noise that really speaks to him. Also, he might just be a bit of a freak. He’s kind of, like, into the whole…getting the shit kicked out of him and wearing mosh pit bruises as badges of honor…thing. It’s probably not that weird. Poison gets it, they’ve had their fair share of busted lips and recreational bruises from the shows that go on whenever cop-killing gets boring. Tonight they’re wearing a white tank-top, and they fully expect it to be drenched in sweat and tinted with blood by the end of the night. Zones shows are dangerous and exciting and getting hurt is way more fun when it's your friends crashing into you and not a horde of draculoids. Poison finishes up their drink even though it wasn’t that good to begin with.
Across the sea of bad dye jobs and damaged hair, a girl and her band set up on stage. She’s about Ghoul’s height, with bright orange hair that bleeds black at the ends, and colorful makeup all around her eyes. There’s no doubt that she’s After Laughter, the lead singer of Riot Squad. She knows Party Poison, of course, because who doesn’t? But their history goes back a little further. Back before the Killjoys were really a thing, she floated in and out of Poison’s circle, and they did the same for her. When they get to talking, After Laughter will always have something to say about how Poison was the first person to take her in when she got out of the city. Something about girls looking out for each other, something about her seeing what Ghoul sees in Poison, too.
The microphone screeches feedback throughout the building and instruments get sharply tuned. Once the band starts sound checking, the crowd starts forming, and Ghoul turns to Poison to ask:
“So, are you just gonna stand there looking pretty all night, or are you gonna come mosh?”
“Aw, are you askin’ me to dance?” They chuckle.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it dancing ,” Fun Ghoul says with a grin. “But, may I?”
He bows exaggeratedly and holds out his hand, which Party Poison gladly accepts.
“You can be such a gentleman sometimes, y’know Ghoulie?”
“I try my best.”
He smiles almost mischievously at them, before leading them through the crowd, right into the beating heart of the audience. Fun Ghoul apparently isn’t Riot Squad’s biggest fan, judging by the sheer amount of people here tonight. Riot girls against Better Living Industries are all the rage these days. The guitarist plays a power chord full of fuzzy distortion, and After Laughter wields the microphone like it’s a weapon. We’re called Riot Squad , she says, and we just wanted to say…FUCK YOU! and from there they explode into their first song, something hard and fast and full of pedal effects and metal screams. Just as quickly as the music began, Ghoul’s already found himself thrust into the pit. It’s mostly a lot of shoving without any real rhythm, but it’s exhilarating all the same. Every now and then, he catches a glimpse of Poison’s red hair brushing past him and gets shoved around by a familiar set of hands. He goes where the music takes him, which coincidentally always brings him back to Party Poison. Maybe it’s fate, maybe he was just meant to orbit Poison like the earth spinning around the sun. Fun Ghoul finds himself thinking about a lot of things in very quick succession: Man, that girl can really scream , and if Poison were anything they’d be the sun because of how much I’m drawn to them. Space, music, Party Poison, violence, fun, adrenaline, static, hands, cowboy boots, microphone cables, follow the rhythm, go where the music takes you, don’t knock Poison over, they sure are pretty, but that’s just the alcohol talking, no it’s not you had half a drink ; he ends up reconnecting with Poison in the chaos, playfully pushes them around as the band starts their next song. Party Poison looks like they’re having the time of their life, which they are. They fucking love music that makes your ears ring, that makes you feel, that makes you hurt, after that lifetime in Battery City of the most mind-numbingly boring music of all time, if you could call it that. They love the chaos, love everything that feels real.
Nothing matters but this moment, this cacophonous swirling of bright lights and song in the middle of the desert. The two Killjoys orbit each other, so wrapped up in each other’s gravitational pull, so lost in the stylistic screeching of hardcore apocalypse punk; it ends like it always does: in a collision.
Party Poison is the first to lose their footing, and crashes right into Fun Ghoul, sending the both of them straight for the beer-sticky floor. The party rages on without them, because no one’s around to establish the rule of “if someone falls down, pick ‘em back up.” Ghoul ends up getting kicked while he’s down, but he laughs it off and helps Poison get back up. Poison giggles, not drunkenly, because they’re not much of a drinker these days, and drapes their arms around Ghoul’s shoulders as he leads them to the sidelines.
“Ghoulie, you’re bleeding.” Poison says. It only became noticeable in the single-bulbed and almost burnt out light of the cramped bathroom.
“What, you don’t think it looks cool?” Ghoul laughs, checking himself out in the cracked, vandalized mirror. His nose started bleeding at some point, but nosebleeds are his favorite way to bleed, so he doesn’t care.
“I didn’t say that,” They smile, coming up behind him to rest their head on his shoulder. “I guess it does look pretty cool.”
Poison stays there for a moment, just observing him in the mirror. Fun Ghoul’s never really thought about it, but Poison thinks he’s a good looking guy. They’ve always liked how those scars fit his face, and the way he smiles with that permanently torn up lip. He does look pretty cool. They reach over and wipe the blood off his face with the side of their thumb. It mostly gets smeared across his cheek.
“Gross, Pois’.” He says, but he doesn’t mind.
Poison rolls their eyes at him and licks the blood off their hand.
“ Gross , dude, you don’t know where that’s been.” Ghoul laughs, turning to look at them, and that mischievous grin on their face.
“Whatever.” Poison says, placing their hand on his jaw and gently guiding him into a kiss. Ghoul kisses back, because he’s not an idiot, and because there’s something undeniably hot about tasting his own blood on Party Poison’s lips.
“You’re pretty gross yourself, Ghoulie.” Poison laughs after they pull apart. Ghoul’s face is all red and his heart is currently skipping several beats. He can’t help it if they look really good in shitty lighting in a tiny room in the middle of a show in the middle of the desert.
“Maybe.” He smiles. Poison kisses him again, this time slower, with more heat. Their teeth click against his and it feels like an eternity before Poison pulls away again.
“Let’s get out of here, yeah?” They mumble into the jagged corners of his mouth.
“Duh.” Ghoul says with no hesitation.
“Good. Let’s go.”
Admittedly, it takes them a little longer than it should’ve to get from the venue bathroom to the car, with Ghoul pressing Poison up against the door and taking more than a couple bites outta them before someone starts pounding on the other side. It’ll take them even longer to get from the Badlands to the diner, to Party Poison’s motel room. That’s alright with them, ‘cuz when you’re a Killjoy, you’ve got all the time in the world.