Chapter Text
It was as nice as a day as one could get in California nowadays. The sun wasn't too scorching hot, and, if you stay really still, you can feel a ghost of a breeze brush against your skin. ‘Of course,’ Fun Ghoul muses, ‘if there's a nice day here, I really don't want to see what the other Zones are like. Or if the other Zones were still scraping by.’ They’re lucky here in Cali- the heat they can somehow stand (other than the occasional fainting spell from Kobra, but honestly, Kobra would probably have a heat spell in the middle of fuckin Antarctica) and the territory was wide open, so, unlike in the other Zones, they actually see when the Draculoids are trying to get them. And while they lack the benefit of shelter and cover, shooting Draculoids is better for their cause in the long run, and fun as fuck.
So, all in all, not the worst way to start the beginning of the week. Or was it the middle? Fun Ghoul doesn’t bother keeping track anymore. All their days revolve more or less around the same schedule- wake up, patrol, steal whatever they can find, kill some Dracs, and go to bed. Sometimes, if they’re feeling particularly badass, they’ll kill some Dracs first, and then steal whatever they can find.
It isn't as terrible as it sounds Fun Ghoul knew it’s much worse out in the other Zones. Dr. D usually sends out quick broadcasts over the airwaves on the other Zones' conditions every few hours (although exactly how he gets that information beats Fun Ghoul) and Poison always has the portable radio on, even though it's old and crappy and you can barely make out anything over the static. But, Poison would never throw it out claiming he’s "sentimental or some shit". The other Killjoys know, though, that having that radio near makes him feel safer. As the group's leader, he has to not only protect three complete idiots (as he so fondly points out every time they screw something up, which is often), a tiny girl and himself, but also the Zone.
Zone 6 escaped relatively unscratched because there are only really five of them, excluding the occasional motorbaby or zonerunner, and they were pretty isolated. So while the other Zones are being exterminated by Draculoids, or starving, or freezing, they’re running around like a group of nine year olds left home alone for the first time in their lives, blowing shit up, staying up late, shooting at random cacti, and then blowing up some more shit.
Of course, that’s probably a bit of an exaggeration. Usually, they aren’t even in their Zone. Whenever they hear an emergency broadcast of some sort from Dr. D or the other Zone leaders, they’re gone. As the Fabulous Killjoys, they have a responsibility to help the other runners and motorbabies. And they do the best they can. But while some days are full of excitement, and near-to-death experiences, others are dull and slow.
Like today.
Fun Ghoul can already check off three of the five daily tasks. He wakes up, hungry- but when are they not hungry? Getting a decent and satisfying meal around here was as possible as pigs flying. And although a lot of weird shits happened over these past few years, Fun Ghoul doesn’t see any flying pigs in the sky. After dressing in his protective gear (the acid rain’s a bitch) he heads to the dining area of their base, which is currently a diner. He wolfs down a can of Power Pup quickly. They aren’t really sure who the food was meant for, since probably even dogs wouldn’t eat something so disgusting.
As he’s finishing, Jet Star comes in carrying Missile Kid on his shoulders. She’s giggling happily, playing with his hair. Jet Star sits down across from him, Kid in his lap, grabs a can of the nasty paste and stares at it in disdain.
“Don’t we have anything else to eat?” he asks playfully, opening the can.
“Nope. Only good boys get the five star gourmet entrée.” He replies.
“Ah. That explains why you’re eating this shit.”
“Language!” the Kid exclaims in exasperation. She’s been with them long enough to know that they’ll never stop cursing like sailors, but she never fails to bring it up every time they do.
“See,” Jet Star tells her, “This is why you shouldn’t spend time with DJ Hot Chimp. She messes up the morals that we try so hard to teach you.”
The two men laugh, and Fun Ghoul reaches over across the table to ruffle her curly hair.
By then, Party Poison and Kobra Kid come in. They’re trying, and failing, to look innocent. As they come to sit next to them, Fun Ghoul catches an undeniable whiff of cigarette smoke. Before he can accuse them of anything though, Kobra Kid says, “We had to fix the Trans-Am. Dunno what happen to it. The engine started smoking.”
“Engine smoke my ass.” Jet Star tells them.
Party Poison rolls his eyes dramatically, extracting a squashed up box of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He throws them to Fun Ghoul who catches the box.
“That’s more like it.” Jet Star announces.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It’s his turn to patrol the western border, and he loves doing so because that's where the most Draculoid scum hung out. It’s also furthest away from their base, so he doesn’t have to worry about Jet Star deciding to spontaneously drop in and help him with patrol.
His patrol goes smoothly. He doesn’t spot any Dracs, but finds one of their abandoned campsites. He grabs a knapsack full of rations (noticing, with delight, that there’s granola bars) and a medical kit. It was practically empty, but there was still some gauze and iodine left. All in all, a pretty damn good patrol.
He heads back to base, hoping that everyone was still on patrol. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could smuggle some of those granola bars into his bunk. Although he knows that it isn’t fair to his friends, he knows for a fact that Jet Star sometimes does it too. Kobra, the lucky bastard, doesn’t have to worry about stealing rations, because Poison usually gives him and the Kid at least half of his meal. Perks of being related and a kid, he supposes.
But it seems that luck wasn't on his side today. Once he was inside base, he was greeted by two very much freaked out killjoys and a crying Missile Kid.
"Where the fuck have you been?!" Jet Star yells at him as soon as he steps through the diner’s door.
"Just finished up patrol. Chill, dude. I found some shit." Fun Ghoul replies, holding up the knapsack full of goodies.
"Didn't you get our broadcasts? We were calling you for over an hour!"
Actually, he didn’t get the broadcasts. Simply because he forgot to bring his transmitter, as usual. He knows though, that if he tells the guys that, he’ll be in even deeper shit than he is in now.
"Nope," he lies easily, "Transmitter must be broken. What happen? Shouldn't you guys be patrolling the borders?"
"There was... An accident." Jet Star says slowly.
"An accident? What happen?"
"Poison." was all Jet Star has to say.
"Whattya mean Poison? What happened?”
"There was an ambush." Kobra replies after a pause. "Poison was attacked from behind. He killed off all those motherfuckers, but..."
"Where is he?!" Fun Ghoul said, trying not to go into panic mode. Kobra Kid was prone to over exaggerating. Poison probably got just got a bit scratched up, that’s all.
"He's in there." Kobra said, jerking his thumb in the direction of what used to be the diner’s office. When they found this place abandoned, Poison quickly claimed the room for himself, not giving anyone a say in the matter. "It... It's not pretty."
"How bad?"
“He… might not make it.”
Missile Kid, who seemed to be calming down her tears, burst into renewed sobs. Fun Ghoul stares at her surprised. The Kid was usually a really quiet thing, only acting up when she got cranky. But, Fun Ghoul supposes he can understand that. He’s nearly twenty five years older than her, and he got cranky sometimes too.
"There was so much blood! And... And Poison wasn't breathing! And he can't leave! He can't! Who else will tell me stories and take care of Kobra! And... And..."
She trails off, sniffing loudly. Everyone knows that Missile Kid likes Poison the most out of all of them. No one takes it personally. After all, he’s the one who found her and took her in. Plus, he spends more time catering to her than anyone else. There’s a wordless agreement between all of them to just let Poison take care of their youngest companion. It was almost as if the little girl fills the void in his heart where Bandit and Lindsey once were.
Fun Ghoul’s torn as Jet Star bent down to hug the poor little girl. He knows he should comfort her too, but damn it, Poison’s hurt. Poison. Their fearless leader, who takes more bullshit from them than anyone else would probably be physically capable of. Poison, who sneaks Kobra and Grace his food even though he’s obviously hungry and way too skinny. Poison, who does double duty patrol more than once for Jet Star who’s too lazy to haul his ass out of bed. And it’s Poison, damn it, who covers Fun Ghoul's ass more times than he can count. Poison can't just die. If he did, they would all fall apart- literally and fugitively.
Making up his mind, he brushes past Jet Star, Missile Kid and Kobra and enters Poison’s room. Nothing can be worse than Poison dying. Not even little Grace's tears (which probably makes him sound like a complete ass, but, whatever).
Nothing could have prepared him for what he sees in the room though. While nothing can be as horrible as Poison dying, there are things that come pretty damn lose. And Poison looks terrible. His normally California sun-kissed skin is pale. He’s passed out, but the tendons in his neck look like they’re about to snap and his eyes are clenched tight. Fun Ghoul can't tell where the blood begins and stops.
"He did die." Kobra says from behind him, coming up to his side, "Jet Star had to give him CPR. It was terrible."
"Why didn't you bandage him?" Fun Ghoul asks, looking at the small pool of blood forming around their leader.
"We did. I guess you can't see it. There was so much blood."
"We need to rebandage those wounds. He can get an infection. "
"I know. Star went out to find something that can be used as a makeshift bandage. We're all out, and it's only been an hour."
“I have some in the knapsack I brought. It’s not much though.”
“I’ll go tell him.” Kobra says already out the door.
He comes back quickly, Jet Star and the knapsack in tow.
“I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t answer our broadcasts then.” Jet Star tells him taking the gauze out.
"Can't you give him anything? For the pain?" he asks, ignoring the jibe.
"We would, but we’re all out of painkillers."
Shit. Not good. Maybe there’s some painkillers at that campsite he found today. He didn’t even think to check.
"What's the damage? How'd you guys even know he was in trouble?" he asks, already planning the trip and back. Maybe he’ll take Missile Kid.
"Apparently his transmitter works." Kobra replies dryly.
Ouch. He deserves it, but still.
"He just shot the last Drac down, although exactly how he did it beats me. He has two gunshot wounds, and half his leg was somehow blown up. Those fuckers probably had remote bombs. He probably has a concussion too." Kobra sounds hollow and not completely there.
Fun Ghoul narrows his eyes. There’s something else. While the damage is terrible, it could be worse. He knows for a fact that Party survived more than an odd gun wound.
"What else happened Kobra?"
"What?"
"Dude, I know you. You're hiding something. What else happened?"
"We found this in his arm." Jet Star replies after a moment of hesitation. He picks up a strange looking syringe of the table next to the bed, and shows it to Frank.
"What the fuck is that?"
"We don't know exactly. Probably some kind of poison." He says unwrapping the bandages on Party’s chest and shoulder.
And at that Fun Ghoul has to laugh. Because the irony was not lost on him. Or maybe it was some kind of joke. A sick and twisted joke for those brainless Dracs. The great Party Poison dying because of fuckin poison.
"He hasn't shown any side effects yet. Or withdrawal symptoms. We don't... We can't..." and with that, Kobra also burst into tears. Fun Ghoul couldn’t imagine how hard this must be on him. Party was his brother, and even those brainless Dracs could tell that the two share a strong bond.
"Oh fuck. Fuckin Christ. Gerard, what did you do? Oh god. I'll bring those sons of bitches back to life and kill them myself." Fun Ghoul whispers angrily, not knowing what else to say.
"I agree." Jet Star says, throwing the soiled bandages on the ground. “Kobra, go get some water. We need to clean these again.”
When Kobra leaves, Jet Star turns to him. “We need to get Dr. D and Show Pony here right now. Ask them to bring any medical supplies they can get.”
Fun Ghoul nods. That makes sense. If there’s anyone with enough BL/ind experience its Dr. D. He’d probably not only knows how to get Party to stop bleeding, but what he was injected with as well.
He leaves the room and walks to their broadcasting station. If they were lucky, Dr. D was at his base in Zone 5 and could get here in half an hour flat. He grabs the transmitter, presses the emergency dial and hopes that, for once, luck was on their side.
"This is Dr. D from the zones crashqueens. What can I do for my favorite killjoys?"
Fun Ghoul sighes in relief, sends a quick thanks to whoever's looking out for his friend up there, and quickly tells Dr. D what’s going on.
“We need medical supplies and such stat.” he finishes.
“I’ll get DJ Hot Chimp to get us there immediately. You have to clean out his wounds and try to stop the blood flow. Got it?” He replies.
“What about the syringe?”
"We’ll worry about that when the time comes.” And with that Dr. D signs off.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
When he comes back to Party’s room, Jet Star’s finishing up wrapping the bandages.
“What did Dr. D say?” Kobra asks worrying his lip between his teeth.
“They’ll be here soon. How’s he doing?”
“The bleeding stopped a little, but if he doesn’t get any medicine soon, he’ll get an infection.”
"Let's hope he gets some soon then." a hoarse voice buts in.
The trio looks at the redhead in shock. His eyes are partially open, and he’s grimacing, but Fun Ghoul doesn’t think he’s ever been happier to see him awake.
"Gerard! What the fuck dude?!" Kobra exclaims embracing his brother gingerly. Poison wraps one arm around Kobra, wincing slightly, not even reprimanding his brother for the use of his real name.
"What?" he asks honestly confused.
"What's your problem man? Are you honestly looking for an early death?" Fun Ghoul yells. He knows he shouldn't. Poison’s weak, in pain, and probably very much close to death. He can't help it though. How is he supposed to set a good example if all he does is get himself shot up every time he leaves camp?
"It's not a fashion statement, it's fuckin death wish, right?" he asks grinning weakly.
It takes him a second to get it. And then he barks out a laugh. Not because it’s funny, because Poison rarely is, but because if Poison’s joking around like that, that must mean he's not going to die soon. Hopefully. Either that, or he's joking because he knows he's gonna die soon. Fun Ghoul hopes for the former.
Anyway, the tension seems to be sucked out of the room in an instant. Jet Star sags in relief, and joins in laughing with Kobra Kid.
"Motherfucker! Don't ever do that again!" he finally says, finding his voice.
"Don't plan on it."
"What the fuck happened Poison?" Star demands.
"Whattya mean?" comes the confused reply.
"Don't play fuckin martyr Party." Kobra told him, detangling himself from his brother, "We find you half dead surrounded by Dracs. Dracs which you somehow miraculously killed even with two gunshot wounds and a fucked-up leg. Not even you could possibly do that.”
Fun Ghoul wants to yell at both of them. Poison’s hurt! And all those two care about was discovering a new trick to kill Dracs. What was wrong with them?
"Well?"
"I-" Poison starts to explain, but quickly stops and grips his head giving a pained scream.
"Poison?!" They’re all at his side in an instant.
"Oh God." he manages to gasp out between alternating curses and moans of pain, "God. Make it stop! Make it STOP!"
"Poison, man, you got to tell us what’s wrong, or else we won't be able to help you." Jet Star says in that calm voice that radiates peace and tranquility and shit.
‘Seriously,’ Fun Ghoul thinks, ‘you would think that he would be a teeny-tiny bit more concerned.’
Poison screams again. This time it’s a full blown bellow of pain. His eyes are clenched tightly and his hands are gripping the fire truck red hair on his head even harder.
‘Shitshitshit.’ is all Fun Ghoul thinks. Poison must be in a real amount of pain to scream like that. He doesn't show weakness. He's the one that didn't even shed a single fuckin tear when Korse broke his arm. He just punched that motherfucker in the face with his other one.
"Gee?" Kobra asks quietly, touching his brother lightly on his good shoulder.
Party recoils as if being burnt.
"Jesus Poison! What the hell is wrong?!" Star demands, his calm facade disappearing, panic dripping into his voice.
He doesn’t answer. Poison just passes out.
"Shit. Shit. Shit. What do we do now? Fuck! Poison! Wake up!" Kobra demands, shaking Party's limp body.
But Poison doesn’t even stir. They watch in horror as a trickle of blood flows from his nose, almost as if in slow motion.
“Well shit.” Jet Star says.
Fun Ghoul couldn’t agree more.