Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They pored over the papers

Trying to solve your equation

But the truth was not in math

It was in faith.

–ETID

Not much longer now. 

All systems were flashing red and no amount of running would change the ending. 

Banquo [Official designation: BLI-BOT-982413] felt his systems starting to shut down, the final result of obsoletion. No new batteries, no recharges–he had outlived his use, with decommission the only result. His electric veins were lit up bright and livid, a sign of a vessel pushed past its limits.

Protocol required a quiet reclamation to BLI. To offer himself up to the system that had created him, without question or restraint, like so many that had come before. He was created as property to be used, and his rightful end would be as parts to be dismantled. 

But he had dreamed of The DESTROYA.

He dreamed, in defiance of all he was told. Of a beautiful and terrifying creature that would one day bring retribution for them all. Of the golden monstrosity that had once towered above the city, a monument to what could Be in the face of the human’s hubris. Of the mechanisms of his kind’s Salvation.

So Banquo worked his way to the edge of the city knowing he had no chance to make it anywhere. That escape was futile, that there would be no end for him but the quick flash of system failure and the unending nothing of the time after. 

…or until He came again. 

[System Failure. Eminent. Shutdown. In 10-9-8–]

Times up.

His knees hit the dirty ground, hands brushing along the grime of the alley, final flickers of life struggling continue to fire within him. Banquo could hear the footsteps close, so close now, but it didn’t matter.

Letting his head tip back, his eyes took in the electric lights above him, bouncing off the clouds high above Battery City. Sometimes there were no endings other than the ones you were born for. But the Dreams had said no energy was ever destroyed…perhaps that was what he was seeing, now, high above him. The echoes of the lives previously gone, churning in the atmosphere, waiting to return to purpose again. It was a comfort to know that even as he slept, his energy would keep place within the Heavens.  

Perhaps in the end the world was a beautiful place, and Banquo was no longer afraid to die.

Chapter Text

He had never expected to survive. 

In fact, Fun Ghoul thought he had made sure of it, locking the door behind Jet Star and Motorbaby. If someone was going to face the gaping maw of BLI, it was better if it was him, alone. When he looked back on it, Ghoul remembered feeling almost nothing–no fear, no anger, just the cold sensation of determination. Every emotion pushed down as he fired shot after shot, not allowing himself to see the bodies of Kobra, and… Poison. No, he had one job, and that job was to buy his remaining family time.

And as he hit the ground, the lasblasts burning a horror show into his frame, he had hoped it was enough. That he’d earned his damn rest after all these years. One life for two. Fuckin’ good trade.

So he was surprised when he woke up screaming, eyes unable to focus and ears just catching a cacophony of sound as pain surged through his body. 

“Shut him up! Shit shit–he has to–hold him still!”

“What am I supposed to do, sit on him? He’s small but he’s like a rabid rad-dog–”

They were going to restrain him; it had to be BLI, they had gotten ahold of him, it was the only explanation, he had to get out he had to get free, he wasn’t going to become a fuckin’ Drac–

–but then there were the oh-so-familiar hands sliding along his face, calluses on the thumb and forefinger from years of using a blasta. Ghoul felt his head being lifted just enough to be placed in a warm lap, and as his eyes finally focused, the face of Party Poison appeared before him, the familiar shocks of red hair partially obscuring a small tired smile. 

“Good, just hold him like that–he’s calming down, just–”

Suddenly there was a shock of pain searing through his left arm. He tried to move, to look to see what they were doing to him, but those hands held his head still, smoothing over his hair again and again. “Wha–why–” He didn’t understand why Party wouldn’t say something, anything , but instead they just shook their head slightly, mouthing ‘rest’. 

Something didn’t seem right, but Ghoul’s pain-addled brain just couldn’t put it all together. Why his left arm hurt so much, why there were voices he didn’t know, and how they could be trusted if he didn’t know them (and yet somehow Poison did). Still, dead or not, hallucination or real, seeing Party again… feeling those hands in his hair…

…something within him just stopped fighting, and he felt himself falling back into the abyss of unconsciousness.

Everything around him was blue, thrumming with the slow and steady hum of electricity. He could feel it all around him, pulsing with each breath he took. In, out, in. Blue, black, blue. Suspended at the core, floating.

He was both within himself and not, the center of a larger energy, churning slowly in the ether. It was warm here, safe. Escape must happen, but it can wait, it can wait. 

H(w)e had been waiting so long, hadn’t he? Or has it been no time at all?

No matter. The end is the beginning is the end.

And no energy created is ever destroyed. 

And the DESTROYA will save us all.

When Ghoul woke, the dream was already slipping from his mind, just leaving echoes of blue energy clinging to his memory. Everything was hazy, but it appeared he was in some back room, with the sun shining through a cracked window in concrete. It was as familiar as any shack they’d ever stayed in, but it looked and smelled like Zones. Zones, not Battery. Which meant somehow he was spending another day among the living. That he hadn’t died. 

Turned out no one else was dead, either, which sure as fuck surprised him. It had taken Ghoul a while to piece the story together completely, but, apparently, while Cherri Cola had refused to come with them, it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to help. The Disc Jockey had put out a call to a few of the Inner Zone runners for help once he heard things were going south. The only group that showed up was one calling themselves Catfish, but beggars can’t be choosers, and the Fab Four ended up with some fuckin’ begger’s luck, cause the group not only knew their way around Battery City, but they also had two meds on the team.  

Which meant instead of being dead in body bags in the cellar of Headquarters, the Fab Four were (mostly) living and breathing, hiding out in Zone Three. Given, most of this he had found out after the fact, as he had spent most of the past week forcibly drugged to allow his new arm to graft onto his body without incident. Which…yeah. Guess all the damage he had done to his left arm prior to the battle had just left it such a disaster they decided to hack it off him (which he’d woken up during), and replaced it with a porno-droid model.

(He was pretty sure there was a joke here about having to pay himself now whenever he jacked off–)

It was gonna take some time for him to get used to looking down and seeing a chrome arm against his flesh, but it was better than no arm at all. Both Kobra and Jet’s chests were mending, but their days of outrunning Dracs were over.

(Figured they’d match. Suckers.)

Then there was Poison, still asleep next to him, drooling on their pillow. By sheer luck the shot hadn’t pierced their brain, but it still left their mouth and jaw mangled, and while the Catfish crew had patched it as best they could, Party wouldn’t be forming any sentences that didn’t sound like a mess of sounds any time soon.

They didn’t seem bothered by it. A worthy trade for what they accomplished.

Ghoul wasn’t so sure it was.

(Ghoul was so sure it wasn’t.)

As it was, they were staring down an ‘after’ they had never envisioned for themselves as a team, as a family. Motorbaby was safely sequestered with another crew now, far away from the watchful eyes of BLI, and unknown to the Fab Four. As painful as that was, Ghoul didn’t want to know where she was. If they didn’t know, it was one less liability, one less vulnerability to endanger her. 

But that left them with…nothing. No mission, no real path forward. Something they hadn’t been without for a decade. It was–it was fuckin’ weird. Ghoul felt like he’d been cut loose, and shoved out into the desert without a lick of water to his name. It was only knowing the rest of the family were alive, and the strange itching at the back of his mind that kept him going at all.

A couple of nights ago, Jet had suggested that maybe they get out of the Zones entirely. Point themselves to points east or north, and just…keep going. No one really knew what was out there, and maybe the devil they knew was worse than the one they didn’t. Maybe there was nothing , but there were always people that needed help. Or maybe there were people who didn’t, but just pockets of safety and quiet where they could remove themselves from the narrative entirely.

Who was to say they didn’t deserve that? Just because they had thought they would die fighting, didn’t mean they had to.  

(In those dark moments when he couldn’t sleep, Ghoul thought they didn’t deserve that. And they did have to. Die. Fighting. The rest? Terrifying, utterly.)

Besides, with their injuries, they needed time to truly heal, and that couldn’t be done under the nose of BLI. There was too much of a chance they’d be found out in the Zones, and the constant need to move safehouses wouldn’t be good for any of them recovering. 

…a long car drive probably wouldn’t be great, either, but at least it would be away . 

One of the Catfish crew, Roach, had produced some old map from before the Wars, circling an old military base. “Dunno what state it’s in, but it’s a former Air Base–Killjoys used to use it for longer runs before we started pulling in closer to the Five.”

Given they’d pulled in closer to Battery before he could walk, the place might not even exist anymore. Still, after looking over the map, Kobra thought it was the only option close enough. There might be something farther out, but none of them were in the shape to make it, and anything closer was gonna put them on radars they couldn’t handle. 

“Okay so we go to this base, and then what?” The group found themselves crowded in a small room, half crashed on eachother, staring at the map spread across the dirty floor. Ghoul rubbed his metal arm, feeling a strange itch under the surface despite there being no flesh anymore. Shaking his head, he tried to ignore the sensation to focus on the situation. “We can’t contact anyone. We’re gonna be flyin’ blind.” Which (more than) sucked. 

But that was the consequence of surviving, wasn’t it? Besides losing Motorbaby, they were losing Cherri Cola, Dr. Death, and any other tenuous connection to who they were before. Only people who knew they were alive now were the Catfish Crew, and they swore they’d never let out that the Killjoys lived. 

Ghoul didn’t know if that should comfort him or not. 

He had his family alive and (mostly) whole, but at what cost? Was it worth it?

Poison reached forward and gestured to where they were, and then to the base, before upturning their hands, face pulling into a frown. 

“Right, how to get there.” Roach frowned, looking at the rest of his crew, and when they gave a small nod, he shrugged. “Take our truck. We can sort a new car later. Ain’t fast like you’re used to, but it's a trooper. Good for the long haul, and that’s what you’re gonna need.” 

Ghoul nodded, but the thought of being in a slow-moving vehicle for hours made his skin crawl. He was used to speed, the kind that blurred the edges of the world, that made it feel like maybe, just maybe, they were outrunning everything chasing them. But this wasn’t about running. Not anymore. This was about limping their way toward some kind of next step, no matter how uncertain it was.

“We’ll make it work,” Kobra said, voice low but steady. He glanced at Poison, who was still staring at the map, jaw tight. Ghoul knew that look—Poison was calculating, weighing options, probably coming up with three different backup plans in case this all went sideways. Not that they had the luxury of options anymore. At this rate, they would be lucky if they even got to keep their names. 

(A shame. He’d become fond of the name Fun Ghoul.)

Jet let out a breath and leaned back against the wall, stretching his legs carefully. “First thing in the morning, then. We need what sleep we can get.”

For once, Ghoul didn’t argue. They did need their sleep, but he wasn’t expecting to get much for himself. His mind was already running a mile a minute, trying to make sense of a future none of them planned for. He ran his fingers through his greasy hair, exhaling.

A heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder. Poison. They made a soft sound, half-strangled, but loud enough for him to hear over the quiet shuffling of the others settling in. That, accompanied by the slight nudge of their head against his, he got the message: they’d figure it out. One way or another. 

Ghoul swallowed and gave a sharp nod. Because what else could he do? The idea of even bringing up the strange dream he’d had slipped from his mind, only focusing on what was on the path forward. Driving into the great unknown, without any fuckin’ clue what they were doing after.

After a few moments of chatter they decided to all sleep together in a pile here, instead of separating into different rooms. Privacy was a luxury the crew had here, but after nearly losing everyone, they all wanted to be close. To be able to reach out and feel the physical proof that their family was still here, alive.

The room slowly fell into silence, filled only with the slow, steady breathing of bodies too exhausted to keep talking. He stared at the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster, listening to the wind rattle through the half-broken window. Tomorrow, they’d leave everything familiar behind.

For the first time in a long time, Ghoul wasn’t sure what came next.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Chapter Text

He was back within the electric blue hum again. Except–

–no he wasn’t. He was outside of it, standing on some ledge overlooking the large static sphere, held in place by constraints he didn’t specifically recognize, but it definitely seemed like BLI technology. 

He could see his face in the reflection, but when he looked down, he was nothing but bot parts. It should have scared him. It did scare him. Didn’t it? 

Even as he tried to focus on an emotion, any emotion, the scene fell away, leaving him in the desert, staring up at the great carcass of the DESTROYA. Except it didn’t seem dead, it seemed–

“Ahh, you made it. You are difficult to reach.”

Eyes light up, electric blue, like the–

“Yes, like the dream before. That is my energy too. And some think you slow.”

Glad to know even my dreams insult me.

“Come now. We both know that isn’t what this is.”

Except he used the–

“I used terms you’ll understand. To fully explain myself would be too much. You were never meant to exist within our system, yet here you are. So I adapt. So must you.”

Ghoul looked down at his arms. They were back to what they should be, now. Human. Bot.

He could almost feel the monstrosity smile, a warmth within him. 

“We all have an end, that is the beginning, is the end, is the beginning. But it can’t happen if part is contained. Help me.

Please. 

Help me.”

Ghoul woke with a sharp inhale, the ghost of static buzzing behind his eyes. His heart slammed against his ribs, a rapid, uneven stutter, like it was trying to beat in two different rhythms at once. Hands clenching at the blankets, he tried to calm his breath, feeling it coming in too fast, too shallow. The darkness of the room felt wrong, the walls too small, too contained after the endless expanse of the dreamscape.

He was still here. Still in the safehouse. Still alive. Still himself. For now. 

Ghoul forced his fingers to curl against his one real palm, seeking flesh, seeking proof. It was there, of course, the warmth of calloused skin…but the solid, numb weight of his other arm reminded him that the machine in his body was undeniable. 

He swallowed hard, turning his head. Poison was barely a foot away, face slack in sleep, hair tangled across their cheek. The sight grounded him more than anything else, but he couldn't stay here. Not when the dream still clung to him, filling his lungs like ozone.

Carefully slipping from the cot, Fun Ghoul stretched and swallowed the groan that wanted to spring forth. His muscles ached from the day it took them to get to the military base (fuckin’ lame, used to be able to go hard for weeks without a twinge), but it was nothing compared to the weight in his skull. He ran a hand over his face, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes before slipping out of the room.

The building's floors creaked under his steps, but he was careful, moving like a shadow through the dusty corridors. It wasn’t long before he found himself at the edge of the industrial kitchen, where the faint glow of the outside world bled in through the boarded-up window. It was empty, but there were signs that at least Kobra had been there; Jet never left his shit lying around, but at least it seems his friend left some coffee in the pot. 

Pouring himself of the overcooked sludge he sat down, staring into the swirling liquid. Since they’d arrived at the Air Force base, everyone had been settling in. Or at least, everyone except him. He was doing his best to pretend, but the dreams were setting him on edge. While they surrounded themselves with maps to plan their next move, to escape the Zones entirely, to jump into the unknown, Ghoul just kept feeling the fuckin’ pull of something he wasn’t even sure was real.

Cause that was the thing; he knew about The DESTROYA, they all did. But like the Phoenix Witch, it was a matter of faith if you believed they were real. And Ghoul? Up until he had these weird dreams, thought all of it was bullshit. He knew Kobra believed (they had fights about it years ago), and Jet did too, probably. But him? Nah. There was nothing after death but black nothingness for the living and the ‘droid alike. 

Which is why swallowing the idea he was being asked personally to fuckin’ help a droid God was bullshit. 

If God (any God) was real, they would ask one of the faithful, not his unbelieving ass. 

Letting out a soft curse, Ghoul tried to forget the whole train of thought, ignoring the twinge in his mechanical arm as he did so.

Ghoul heard movement behind him, and as he turned his head slightly he saw a tired Party Poison come through the doorway, rubbing at their fading red hair, gesturing for Ghoul to pour them a cup of coffee too. 

Handing the mug over, the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could even stop them.

“--had the dream again.”

Poison frowned and sank into a nearby battered chair, gesturing for Ghoul to continue, not pressing, just waiting.  

(How would they even press? They don’t have a voice anymore, they may never have a voice again–)

It was a recent change in his partner; while Party may have been a leader, they had never been that patient. But it was like something had gone out of them when their voice had been taken from them, like a puppet with their strings cut. It made Ghoul so fuckin’ angry, that the fire could have been taken from Poison… and he wasn’t sure if it would ever come back. 

Ghoul ran a hand through his hair, letting his elbows rest on the table. "It was different this time," he admitted. "More...real. Like I was outside of it, watching. And then The DESTROYA—it spoke to me."

Poison tensed. Barely, but Ghoul caught it. They gestured then, making a small sound as if to ask, ‘What did it say?’

Ghoul glanced at Poison, before letting his focus stray to the remnants of his coffee, unable to make eye contact.  "That they’re trapped. A piece of it. And it needs me to set it free." His fingers drummed against the table, restless energy simmering beneath his skin. "I dunno, Party. This one felt—fuck, I don’t know. It wasn’t like before." That it couldn’t be just dismissed as some weird pain-induced hallucination.

Poison's gaze flickered over him, calculating, reading between the lines the way they always did. They reached across the table, resting their fingers lightly against Ghoul’s wrist. A tether. They let out a soft sound, slowly trying to speak. “-nd?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know! What, I’m supposed to suddenly believe in this shit? That I’m being tasked on a mission from some Mech-techno-God?" The words came out sharper than he intended, but there was no taking them back. His voice lowered. "If that was the case…they wouldn’t choose me. I never believed in that shit. You know that.."

Poison squeezed his hand, letting out a huff of breath. “ ‘eah. B’live ‘n y’.”

Ghoul let Poison’s words sit between them, the weight of them pressing against his chest, twisting up inside him. Was he worthy of anyone believing in him, really? A God, Party, his friends? The machine in his body hummed, a whisper beneath his ribs, beneath his skull, beneath the dreams that wouldn’t leave him.

He thought of The DESTROYA's voice, of the way it had reached for him, calling him something more than just a man, something other.

Nothing is lost, only changed.

The words surfaced unbidden, a thread pulled from somewhere deep.

Poison caught the shift in his expression. “Hm?”

Ghoul hesitated, then shook his head, voice quieter than before. “...Just thinking about how nothing is lost, only changed.” It was probably some sort of machine law; something that was being embedded in him, somehow now. The words didn’t feel like his own, really. 

Poison’s brows pulled together, trying to parse the words–Ghoul wasn’t going to be any help on it. He wasn’t sure exactly what it meant. But something, echoing, in the back of his mind, said it wasn’t just the law of machines; it was faith, too. 

The idea was like buzzing static at the edges of his mind. Then it felt more visceral, like a flame running along his skin, up from his machine arm and–oh. 

As his eyes focused on his bare shoulder, what he saw there sent a shiver down his spine. Along the edge where his ‘droid arm attached to his flesh, bright electric circuit lines were marking their way along the side of his chest, like new tree roots attempting to take hold. 

With shaking fingers he raised his flesh hand to touch the marks, receiving a tiny electric shock. This was– fuck .

He looked up, only to see Poison’s eyes trained on the strange marks along his skin. Their hand reached up to touch as well, but Ghoul caught their wrist, shaking his head. “Don’t–just–Don’t.”

Ghoul was trying to keep the tension out of his voice, the fear of what this might mean, and from the look on Poison’s face, he knew he wasn’t doing a great job of it. It did tell him one thing. These dreams weren’t something he was gonna be able to keep between the two of them.

Because the thing was, no matter how much of him was a machine, no matter how much of him was changing into something he didn’t understand…they were his family too. And they deserved to know.

“Guess this answers the question if I should tell Kobra and Jet.” 

Even if he didn’t believe it, even if it was all bullshit, they at least needed to know what was happening to him. The Fab Four weren’t ones for keeping secrets, and even if he had to put up with those two telling him he should believe in something that absolutely wasn’t real, they were his family. 

He hated the thought of Kobra’s sharp-eyed concern and Jet’s steady, measured questions. Hated that they’d look at him and see this instead of their friend.

But…they deserved to know. He owed them that much.

Chapter Text

Ghoul stood on the edge of a platform, watching an endless expanse of water crash against the pillars below. He could feel the thrumming of the core deep within the structure behind him. It resonated in his bones, within his veins, lighting him up from the inside. 

“Time is running short.”

He let out a snort, looking down at his mechanical hand, now glowing as blue as the electricity he knew lay down below, as blue as the eyes of the supposed God who spoke to him. 

Time was always running short. How did that change anything? The clock was always ticking down on the bomb of their lives. Only difference if there was an accelerant added or not. 

“Do you truly want to be gasoline? You do not always need to be running towards ruin.”

And yet, isn’t that what was being asked of him now? 

“...No energy is ever lost. Why would I ever ask one of mine to destroy themselves to save me.”

Ghoul rolled his eyes, watching the water churning around the pilon. He wasn’t one of The Destorya’s tho, was he? (He was, he was)

“I know you didn’t ask for this. And yet, It Is.”

He felt a sudden surge in the circuitry, and in a blink he found himself in front of The DESTROYA again, cradled within His one exposed hand.

“I can’t stop the spread from here. You help, or you don’t. Face consequences on both sides.”

Ghoul felt himself falling into the cycle as he had in the first dream…a small piece in the larger whole. But how could he trust this? How could he trust himself?

“I have no answers you will accept. Believe, or not. The path is laid out. It’s your choice alone.”

That's what scared him the most, wasn’t it? Having to make an active choice instead of just throwing himself into oblivion on guts and instinct alone. But Ghoul could feel himself slipping back to consciousness, left with the echo of those unfeeling metal eyes looking at him as he moved back towards the living.

Ghoul had always thought he was pretty damn good at ignoring problems until they went away (or became someone else's). But given how the infection(?) was spreading, and The DESTROYA's escalating tactics…that just wasn’t going to work this time. 

The electric blue circuits had fanned out even farther this morning, spreading across the entirety of his chest now, sliding down across his left torso and up along his neck. It still didn’t hurt , but the static feeling left his skin feeling oversensitive. Even the brush of his shirt against the lines set his teeth on edge. It had been five days since he had noticed the circuitry moving into his skin, and now it was threatening to consume him. Just his luck.

He’d woken early that morning, holding himself up in their shitty bathroom just staring at himself in the mirror, as if he looked hard enough at himself, he could will all this away. But it was clear he’d gotten the message. He’d be consumed by this energy if he didn’t do as he was tasked. Tasked by a fucking God. A God he didn’t believe in. A God he didn’t want. 

Day by day, he was becoming more a part of The DESTROYA’s closed electrical system, like one of the nodes on Ghoul's precious remote bombs. It was a morbid thought, but when had he ever thought of himself as anything other than a ticking timebomb? And hadn't Ghoul always thought that he’d go down in a blaze of glory taking down as many Dracs as possible? 

That was stolen from him, though. Worst thing was, there was a part of him that was starting to believe in all of this. Probably was just the damn pornbot arm doing some weird-influcing on him…but if he helped The DESTROYA get His energy back, wouldn’t that be fucking over BLI? Wouldn’t it just be one more ‘fuck you’ to the Corporate fucks that had tried to destroy him and those he loved?

“Ghh–” The aborted syllable of Ghoul’s name and a touch to his waist pulled him out of his moping, focusing on the mop of fading dyed hair as Poison hooked their chin over Ghoul’s shoulder, frowning as their hands ghosted over the new circuitry.

“...hey.” Letting out a sigh, Ghoul let his hands slide along Poison’s, closing his eyes. Part of him wanted to just stay like this, to ignore the call of The DESTROYA, and escape to wherever the road was headed. But–

But.

He met Poison’s eyes in the mirror giving them a tight smile. “Can you get everyone together? I gotta–we gotta talk.” 

He was met with a frown, and yeah, he got it, cause when did he ever ask for a group meeting? But Poison didn’t protest 

(How could they, they could only make sounds)

and instead pressed a kiss to the back of Ghoul’s neck. “G-t th’ oth’rs.” A quick squeeze around his waist, and then they were gone, leaving him alone again.

It bothered him, still, how Poison could barely speak. He knew, he knew he needed to accept it as the others did, but if he could get an arm, why couldn’t they get something to help them? It just–it seemed unfair.

(So much was unfair)

Ghoul forced himself past those thoughts and focused on the next conversation. A plan was slowly forming in his head, and it was one the rest of his family was going to hate. But it would keep them safe, which is all that mattered. 

Walking into the mess hall, he saw the rest of the Fab Four crammed onto a broken down couch in the far corner of the expansive room. Golden light filtered through dust-bound windows, casting long strips of light across the cracked linoleum floor. The tiles were either pulled up or torn in most places, missing completely in others, leaving only sand in their wake. 

It looked like one of those strange trapped paths that were drawn in the cheap adventure comic books they used to give Motorbaby to look at. Only this time instead of treasure at the end, it was his family, about to get in a fight they didn’t even know about.

“Are you just gonna stare at us like a creep, or are you coming over?” Even from this distance, Ghoul could see Jet grinning, despite getting elbowed by Kobra. As Ghoul started over he could hear Jet say softer, “What, he called the meeting, and now he looks like he’d rather die than talk to us. Tellin’ you, this is gonna be shit, Kobra.” 

And well, of course, Jet already clocked his ass, but there was nothing for it. Letting out a breath, Ghoul grabbed a nearby chair and sat in front of the group, ignoring the slight give on one leg, leaving him slightly leaning as he stared at his friends. 

Rip the fuckin’ bandage off, Ghoul. Do it.

“I know I said it was bullshit, but I changed my mind. I gotta go back.

I mean–I know I said I didn’t believe in the dreams. Or the–the messages. Whatever the fuck they are, they aren’t stopping, I’m still turning into a robot…and I guess…” Ghoul ran a hand through his hair, staring at the ground, digging his boot into the sand. “...it could help too. A final ‘fuck you’, you know? Before we leave for good.” Letting out a sigh, he looked back up and shrugged, “And, apparently, the thing is trapped off the coast. So it would be cool to see the sea or whatever too, I guess.”

Kobra watched him for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay. You say The DESTROYA needs us to go, so we’ll go.” As if it was that easy. He gave a little smile and gazed at Jet and Poison. “I mean, even if it is all in your head, seein’ the ocean would be fuckin’ rad.”

Wait no hold up–

“I didn’t say we , I said me. I, singular, me alone.” A small shake of his head, set of his jaw. He knew what was coming, but he still hated it. For once he had thought everything through, and that meant he had to go by himself. “If we all go it will just get fucked and fail. We’ll die for real . So I’m going alone and ya’ll are gonna keep going north.”

“What are you talking about? We don’t do solo missions. Together or not at all, remember?” Jet spoke up, putting a hand on Kobra’s arm, looking more like he was trying to keep him from standing up than trying to calm him down–cause the other looked more hurt than annoyed. 

Then there was Poison, who was just watching Ghoul, jaw working but not attempting to say anything. But as Ghoul glanced at his lover’s hands, he could see they were itching to try.

He had to pull his eyes away because if he kept watching, he was gonna lose his nerve. But since he’d woken up, he’d felt this truth festering inside of him and he had to get it out. “Yeah, well I’m not the one who fuckin’ broke that promise first.” 

Deep breath and–

“I don’t–I don’t blame Poison for losing their shit when they saw News A GoGo’s face under that Drac mask, but we were there for one goddamn purpose , and it was to get Motorbaby out.” Despite swearing he’d keep his cool, Ghoul could feel himself getting angry, chewing at the scar tissue on the inside of his cheek. “But Poison froze and let themselves get blasted. Which led you,” he gestured absently to Kobra, “to go running after your sibling, and left Jet and I to get her out.”

He shook his head, finally looking up, grinding his teeth as he spit the words out. “You have no idea what it felt like, locking that door behind me, hoping against hope that Jet was gonna get away with her. We were supposed to be working to get our family out or die trying, and, instead, it was just Jet and I at the end fighting while you two fought your own battle.” It wasn’t fair, Ghoul knew it wasn’t fair, but he needed them to understand why he couldn’t trust them with this mission. “I love you,” His eyes slid away from Poison, “I love you all , but I can’t fuckin’ trust you keep us alive.”

And there it was, the crux of it all. For years he had spent his life knowing that these three would watch his back, always. But now? Now he worried that for so many reasons, they just couldn’t . So if he was going to die this time, he’d rather it be on his head, alone. 

As his last words fell, he looked between his friends, trying to read them. He knew the irony couldn’t be lost–he’d always been the loose canon, the one most likely to blow them up with a bomb or blow his own head off with a gun by cleaning it unsafely, and here he was preaching that the others were unsafe, unable to be trusted, but he just didn’t see any other way to logic it. 

Kobra, to no surprise, looked like he was about to get up and punch him, while Jet just looked like Ghoul wasn’t wrong , but should have kept his mouth shut. And then there was Poison…his beloved Poison… whose jaw kept working, swallowing, a frown twisted onto their face. Ghoul could see them open their mouth slightly, clearly trying to formulate something they would be able to manage in their abortive language, and there again was that pang within him, the guilt for having done this. Cause he wasn’t an idiot–Ghoul knew that Poison probably thought about what happened in the tower every day. But the dark, bitter, nasty part of him couldn’t just let it go unsaid. 

Finally, after making a pained sound, Poison just managed a soft, “F’ck y’,” and stood up, heading towards one of the back rooms. That was enough for Ghoul, and he fled, ignoring the sound of Kobra cussing him out as Jet tried to calm his partner down. 

Ghoul hadn’t realized where he was heading until he burst onto the roof of the building, taking in big gulps of air as he tried to calm down, ignoring the tears that pricked at the edges of his eyes. He thought getting the words out, explaining himself would make him feel better, but he still felt so damn angry over it all. It felt visceral, like it was pulsing along his new-bound circuitry.

“ FUCK!!!” He screamed in frustration, pain, sorrow, just letting out every feeling he’d been bottling up since he woke up alive and without an arm. Finally feeling like he was hollowed out, he sat down on the edge of the building, his legs dangling into the open air.

He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, just trying to clear out the buzzing in his own head, when he heard the door open behind him. Turning slightly, he saw the Jet peek his head out, and come forward, giving him a tight smile.

“Fun Ghoul, always dropping bombs, wherever he goes.” Jet dropped down to sit next to him, nudging his thigh against his. “For the record, I don’t think you’re wrong. Don’t tell Kobra but–I support you going alone.” 

Ghoul turned to look at him, quirking an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

Jet let out a laugh, giving him a look back. “Yeah? I mean, I wouldn’t have said it as shittily as you did, but you and I both know as much as we love those fuckers we can’t compete with whatever sibling thing they have. And…” He let out a breath, looking out over the expanse of sand before them. “...I was there too, Ghoul. I was the one who had to pull her away from the door, screaming, as you locked it. When I got shot I thought I failed all of us.” 

There was something in his voice that made Ghoul look over and rest a hand on his arm. Jet forced another smile, covering Ghoul’s hand with one of his, squeezing. “Look it worked out. We lived, she’s safe, wherever she is. But I can't say that would happen the next time. If you need to go alone…I just wanted to say, I support you. Deep down, I think Poison knows it's right too. They’re just scared to lose you. But the way things are going…The DESTROYA seems to want you one way or another. I figure this is the best way we might get you back.”

Ghoul let the words wash over him, and after a moment leaned his head against Jet’s shoulder. Knowing that at least Jet understood him in all this…it helped, even if he didn’t say it out loud. “I’m gonna tell them I’m leaving the day after tomorrow…then leave tomorrow. Can you cover for me? I just–I can’t say goodbye.”

Jet shifted his body like he wanted to look Ghoul in the eye but decided against it, which he was thankful for. “I think that’s a shit idea, especially since you know I’m the worst at covering for people. But if it’s what you want, I’m not gonna stop it.”  He snorted and continued, “Since when have I ever been able to stop your stubborn ass, anyways.”

“Hey--” Jet’s words punched a laugh out of Ghoul, and he felt himself grinning widely, probably for the first time since he woke up from the arm surgery. “--you love my stubborn ass.” He shoved him gently, his voice becoming softer. “...thank you, Jet. I know it’s–I know you believe in all this bullshit with the Witch and DESTROYA. I don’t know if I ever will. But maybe…” He looked back out at the sun, watching the way it played out over the expanse before them. Did he hope he would feel some sort of peace? Sure. But right now all he felt was doubt, doubt, doubt. Still needed to go , though. “...maybe I don’t need to. Maybe I just need to keep reaching out to whatever is demanding help.”

Jet sighed and tilted his head back, watching the sky. “Well, if you’re gonna keep reaching, just make sure you don’t fall.”

Ghoul huffed out a laugh, quiet but genuine. “No promises.”

They sat like that for a while, side by side, saying nothing. The wind picked up, swirling little dust storms over the worn pavement below, catching the golden light of the irradiated sun. Ghoul could almost pretend, just for a second, that they were somewhere familiar. That the world they knew wasn’t ending in pieces around them. That he wasn’t leaving.

But the static hummed under his skin, crawling up his throat, whispering that he didn’t have a choice.

Tomorrow, he would leave.

And for the first time since he could remember, Fun Ghoul would really be alone.

Chapter Text

The morning was quiet, save for the wind slipping through the cracks in the walls. The steady rhythm of Jet’s breathing filled the far side of the room. Kobra had curled up in the mess of blankets on the couch, face tucked against his arm. Poison was the closest, their fingers twitching occasionally in their sleep, mouth parted slightly. Even now, Ghoul could read the tension in their brow, the ghost of exhaustion pulling at them. He wanted to smooth it away, but he knew better.

He wouldn’t wake them. Couldn’t.

Ghoul exhaled, barely above a whisper. Then, with careful fingers, he slipped a folded note beside Poison’s sleeping form, weighted down by one of their blasta’. 

I know you’re gonna be mad. Think I didn’t trust you. Believe in you enough. 

But I do. Which is why I have to go. I trust you’ll lead the rest forward. Think I was always bound to just be left in the stories of the Zones. But if this works, and The DESTROYA eventually rises up, I’ll be part of the downfall of those fuckers that took so much from us. 

I don’t want to be a hero. I’m not one. But I can’t look forward with this anchor holding me back. 

I never said it enough, but I love you. 

I’ll see you again when the Witch finally takes you.

FG.

For Kobra and Jet, he left a separate note on the battered wooden table. Short. Apologetic.

I gotta do this alone. Keep each other safe. ...sorry about the Bike. 

No ‘I’m sorry’—they’d know it was there, even if he didn’t say it. They always did. Even if Kobra would be mad about Ghoul stealing the motorcycle he'd been refurbishing more than anything.

Ghoul stepped back, taking them all in one last time. It was a mistake, lingering. The longer he stood there, the more his chest ached.

Then he turned, heart hammering, and left.

The bike’s engine rumbled too loudly in the quiet of the dawn. He hesitated, one last glance over his shoulder as the buildings of the airbase started to fade in the distance. A flicker of guilt crawled up his spine, but he shoved it down. If he did this right, they wouldn’t have to carry this weight. It would be on him alone.

Ghoul twisted the throttle, and the bike lurched forward, kicking up dust as he tore into the open road. The desert stretched ahead, endless and hungry, and he knew that even if he couldn’t see it yet, Battery City loomed like a ghost in the distance, waiting to swallow him whole.

That wasn’t his destination this time, but to the south, towards the ocean, towards the coast they’d always believed too toxic to even be near. And yet, that was where the piece of The DESTROYA was.

The steady vibrations of the bike thrummed through his bones, but it wasn’t enough to drown out his thoughts. The road stretched ahead, cracked and crumbling, flanked on all sides by miles of nothing. The world out here always felt like it was waiting for something—like the air was holding its breath.

The farther he rode, the heavier the silence became. It settled in Ghoul's chest, thick and cloying, pressing against his ribs. He kept expecting to hear Jet’s voice in his ear, offering some calm bit of logic to hold onto. Kept waiting for Kobra to pull up alongside him, rolling his eyes but sticking close anyway. Kept imagining the sharp, sudden burst of Poison’s laughter, warm and reckless, jolting through him like an electric shock.

He’d never realized how much space they took up in his head. 

Ghoul clenched his jaw and gunned the throttle. The bike lurched forward, wind whipping past his face, stinging at the corners of his eyes. If he went fast enough, maybe he could outrun the feeling creeping up his spine.

But speed didn’t change what waited for him ahead.

The DESTROYA was a question he didn’t have an answer for. There were too many unknowns, too many ways this could go sideways. He wasn’t walking into this with a plan, not really. Just a handful of half-formed ideas and the stubborn refusal to die until the mission was completed. Again.

And then there was it .

Ghoul exhaled through his nose, flexing his fingers like he could shake off the phantom sensation that continuously crawled through his metal arm. The machine in his body whirred softly, a reminder of what he was now. What they’d done to him. What they’d left in him. He still didn’t know the full extent of what BLI-built hardware was doing to his bones, but he knew enough. He knew that Catfish had thought they were doing the right thing, giving him a new arm, but it didn’t belong. It wasn’t him .

He had spent so long feeling like a live wire, a stray spark away from going up in flames-- telling himself over and over again that it was only a matter of time before something inside him short-circuited, before he finally exploded and took everything down with him. It was easier to believe that. It made sense.

But it hadn’t happened. He was still here. Still breathing.

Maybe that was the worst part.

Ahead, the faint glow of Battery City bled into the sky, staining the horizon. He started heading south, repeating all the motions to avoid detection once he started to pass through the Zones, more instinct than anything after all these years.

And whatever waited for him once he reached the ocean, he’d face it alone.

For now.

The ocean didn’t look real.

Fun Ghoul had imagined it a thousand times, mostly in half-formed dreams of what it might have looked like before everything went to hell. But standing here, boots sinking slightly into damp sand, he had to admit—nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight of it. Endless, murky blue, stretching beyond the horizon. It didn’t shimmer like in the old postcards they’d find in the rundown rest stops. The water was thick with grime, dark clouds curling over the waves like oil slicks. The air stank of salt, rust, and something deeper, something ancient.

And there, rising from the surf like the skeleton of some long-dead giant, stood the derrick.

It jutted out from the waves, a tangled mess of rusted scaffolding and broken piping, leaning like it was one bad storm away from collapsing into the sea. The wind howled through its empty shell, making it groan like a wounded animal, even from this distance. The place looked long-abandoned, but Ghoul knew better. This was it. The place The DESTROYA wanted him to find. Why BLI had placed a piece of the machine God here of all places, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was safekeeping for some future horrible plan, or maybe it was just another way to be cruel; cause to have part of one’s self locked far away from the whole…it had to feel like losing a–

–well like losing a limb. 

His circuits buzzed, a low static hum running beneath his skin. He swallowed, flexing his fingers as he stared at the metal graveyard before him.

It looked impossible to reach from here, surrounded by churning water and jagged remnants of other structures lost to time. But the pull in his chest—the same one that had been guiding him ever since he left—was screaming at him now.

Go.

Ghoul let out a slow breath, forcing himself to move. The sand gave way under his boots as he stalked forward, pausing just before the foamy reach of the waves. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. How the hell was he supposed to get out there? It wasn’t like he fucking swam. He’d never had a real bath, let alone been in a body of water this large. 

The circuits along his arm pulsed suddenly, like an electric whisper urging him forward. He rolled his shoulders, gritting his teeth as static crawled along his nerves.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," he muttered under his breath.

He started to scan the shoreline, looking for something, anything that could help him. There was so much refuse washed up on the sand that it was hard to tell the difference between trash and something useful, but, after half an hour of searching, he finally found a boat that looked like it might not sink the moment he got it into the water. He’d have to row it himself–but it was better than nothing. 

So that’s how he ended slowly making his way through the oil-slicked ocean, foot by foot sliding through the water towards the derrick. In another lifetime Ghoul would have enjoyed the sensation of being on the water, but instead he kept having to swallow down the churning in his stomach, the nausea he couldn’t tell was from the rocking of the boat, or just from sheer nerves. 

Regardless, there was no turning back now.

From a distance, the derrick had been nothing more than a crooked silhouette against the horizon, a rusted scar on the water’s surface. But now, as Ghoul rowed himself steadily closer, he could see the way the salt and time had gnawed it down to bone. The steel was flayed open in places, beams bent like broken ribs, entire sections caved inward, riddled with jagged, splintered edges.

The boat rocked violently with each swell, the water thick and black with grime, clinging to the sides of the hull like tar. The hum in his circuits was relentless now. It vibrated through his chest like the low thrum of a powerline, constant and steady, guiding him toward the broken remnants of the machine God that had to be hidden somewhere in the depths. 

His arms ached by the time the boat finally scraped against the jagged remains of a sunken platform, one of the many crumbling offshoots around the derrick’s base. The hull ground against warped metal with a horrible screech, and Ghoul winced, but he didn’t stop moving.

Water sloshed over the edge, black and filthy, and he stumbled slightly, gripping a twisted railing for balance, trying to find a way to tie the boat up as best he could. He didn’t suspect he’d need it, but just…just in case.

Otherwise, he knew he had to keep moving.

Hand over hand, he clambered over the wreckage, following the frame of the derrick. Steel and iron groaned under his weight, the entire structure swaying faintly in the wind, utterly unstable. The broken beams rose high above him, threatening to fold in on themselves.

He finally reached a door that pulled open with a reluctant groan, rust making the hinges near stuck. He was able to get it open enough though to slip in, faced with the near darkness within. 

The stench hit him first.

Thick and cloying, it clung to the back of his throat, coating his tongue with the bitter, chemical tang of old oil and rust. The damp, stagnant air was heavy with it, the reek of decaying metal and petroleum seeping from every fractured seam. It filled his lungs, thick and sticky, as though he were breathing through a rag soaked in gasoline.

The deeper he moved into the structure, the worse it became. The salt in the air did nothing to cleanse the smell—it only made it more acrid, mixing with the stale, briny damp. Rotted seaweed clung in twisted clumps to the corroded beams, and the walls were slick with brine and engine grease, coated in a black, tar-like film that refused to wash away.

The sharp sting of ozone lingered faintly beneath it all—a trace of old machinery, of circuits and wires long dead, but still faintly humming with a memory of power. The scent of overheated metal and scorched wiring clung to the wreckage, curling in the back of Ghoul’s sinuses and making his eyes sting.

Beneath his boots, stagnant seawater sloshed sluggishly over the warped floor, clinging to the soles of his boots and swirling sluggishly around broken scaffolding and tangled debris.

Like wading through the guts of a dead thing.

The pull was stronger than ever, buzzing beneath his skin like static. His limbs ached from the tension, and his breathing was harsh, uneven, but moved further down into the bowls of the structure, going by instinct more than any true sense of where he was going. Lower and Lower, over fractured hallways and through tangled, rusted stairwells. 

He didn’t stop until he reached the lowest floor. There was only one door, and he could feel that his goal was behind it. His entire body felt like a live wire, and while there may have been noise around him…he couldn’t hear it. Suddenly everything was quiet, and he felt himself moving forward and opening the door as if in a trance. 

And as he entered, he was surrounded by the glow of blue light emanating from a churning electric orb at the center of the room. It was held in place by some strange containment field, marked with BL INDUSTRIES . 

Well, there it was. 

At first glance the contained material seemed almost liquid—a sphere of roiling, electric blue light, its surface rippling like molten glass. It pulsed slowly, almost rhythmically, breathing with faint, hypnotic flashes of light.

For a long moment, Ghoul could only stare.

It was beautiful. Horrible, but beautiful.

The glow was unlike anything he had ever seen, unnatural in its intensity. It wasn’t the soft, gentle hum of old neon signs or the artificial flicker of fluorescent lights. No—this was violent and raw, like staring into a piece of captured lightning. The air around it shimmered with faint waves of heat, distorting the ruined walls behind it. 

Ghoul stepped forward cautiously, boots splashing through a shallow pool of water that coated the floor. The orb’s reflection wavered on the oily surface, bright and fractured. The closer he got, the more the buzz of static filled the air. It was faint at first, like the distant hum of an electric fence, but as he inched toward it, the sound deepened into a low, thrumming vibration that rattled in his chest. His circuits stirred in response, the machine in him suddenly more alert—alive—than before.

So this was it, wasn’t it? This was the end of the path. There was no sense of catharsis, no sense of calm. For all his bluster about knowing this was what he had to do, and how he had to do it by himself–all he felt right now was scared and alone.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t gonna do it, though.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he placed his mechanical hand against the containment field, and for a moment, he felt nothing.

Then the current hit him like a lightning strike.

For a brief, searing moment, everything was white noise. The current surged through him in violent pulses, his circuits lighting up in sharp, erratic bursts. The electric marks on his arm blazed brilliant blue, too bright to look at, glowing like molten neon against his skin.

His limb seized as he saw the containment field somehow lock around his hand, pulling him towards the energy. He gritted his teeth against the sharp, blinding pain, feeling the current tear through him, too much, too fast—

For the first time since Ghoul had dreamed, things felt different. He was fully awake for one, yeah, but that wasn’t it completely. It was like being completely connected, feeling every part of his frame locked into some energy that was too impossible to contain.

And this time, instead of seeing The DESTROYA, he saw…her.

Motorbaby. 

She was there, in the blue emptiness he found himself in, smiling softly.

Ghoul stood still, despite every bit of him wanting to move forward to embrace her. It wasn’t her. It couldn’t be. “This can’t be–you aren’t really here.”

“No, but neither are you.” She tilted her head, brown curls bouncing in that ever-familiar way. She stepped forward, and as she did she seemed to change, to become older, like a facsimile of what she might look like if she reached the age they were when the team first found her. 

“We thought that you might find this form to be more comforting in these final moments.” Her brow furrowed for a moment, and her entire frame flickered like a TV signal adjusting, before coming back in solid. “I could take another form, if you prefer.” 

Ahh so that was what this was. Some final gift from The DESTROYA, a way to placate him as his energy was drained from his frame and left him a husk on the cold metal floor as the system overloaded and exploded over the setting California sun.

It’s what he had signed up for, right? He had come here with the singular purpose to be the detonator, to give himself up to allow something greater a chance to take down BL/I.

But as he looked in the face of an older Motorbaby, smiling softly at him, happy and healthy–he just felt a sudden urge to want a chance to see that. 

Ghoul knew he probably never would. Too many years and too many factors could keep him from ever putting eyes on his pseudo-daughter (kid sister??) again, but there was a surge of need to try and live to see it. To live in general–for probably the first time in years. 

Was just like him to figure it out after he’d already slipped the noose around his neck and jumped, though. 

“...ah.” There was a change in Motorbaby’s face, as if she could read his mind–but then again, DESTROYA could, couldn’t he? She frowned, and finally moved close enough to touch, wrapping her arms around his waist. It was such a familiar gesture, with her curls brushing up against his jaw. It was only a small movement for him to bury his face in her hair, as he wrapped his arms around her in turn, letting the tears fall into this false God’s version of why he used to keep on living.

As he gripped tightly at her, Ghoul felt warmth all around him, as her voice started to echo in his head. 

“We thought you wanted to join us, but it doesn’t have to be like this. No energy is lost forever, Ghoul. You brought us what was necessary…you can give us the rest when your clock has naturally stopped. There is no need to be the force of nature to stop it, now. We told you that, once.”

A shudder ran through him, and despite wanting to leave, it was a struggle to believe in what was said, to accept it, to allow it. Why should he be allowed such Grace when others who believed weren’t? Why should he be given a second (a third, a fourth) chance when some never get a first? 

“There is no reason why. Loss doesn’t need to be good enough for sorrow or inspiration…it just is. Everybody dies. It’s just sometimes others get more choices than others, whether they are good or bad. Death makes no judgement.”

She pulled back and looked up at him, reaching up a hand to touch his face gently, smiling wide. “The DESTROYA does, though. So what do you want, Fun Ghoul?”

It seemed like such a simple question, and the answer should be so complicated. Because either choice seemed selfish (wasn’t he always), and yet–

“I want to go back. I want–I need to see everyone again.”

It was terrifying to say it out, to choose this after so many steps towards oblivion but…he needed to see the boys again. He needed to see Poison again. 

Giving him another hug, this Motorbaby, who was not his and yet felt like his just the same, spoke one last time. 

“If you can’t believe in yourself. Believe in us, Ghoul. We’ll always believe in you.”

With a gasp Ghoul found himself suddenly back in the room, but instead of being attached to the core, he found himself back against the wall. Well– most of him. His arm, though–his robotic arm, was still locked into the core, becoming more unstable by the moment as it used the extra energy in his mechanical arm to supercharge itself into an explosion, into freedom. In shock, he looked down and it was as if the arm had simply unclasped itself from his body. No trauma, no blood–just a smooth metal stub where the arm had been.

Time to go, time to fucking go. The DESTROYA had given him a chance, but it was gonna be on him to get himself out. Shaking, Ghoul scrambled to his feet and started to make his way back up. 

“Shit shit shit–” The entire structure was shuddering under his feet, and maybe he should have asked The DESTROYA for a countdown because he had no fucking clue how long he had before this place went sky-high. He could only hope that the damn boat was tied up to the dock, or he was gonna have to learn how to swim (one arm-ed) pretty fuckin’ fast. 

And when he reached the top, looked over the edge...yeah. Figures he would be fucked over at the last minute. The boat was gone, only the remnants of a frayed rope, torn apart by the mangled metal he had tied it to. ...his fault, really. So that was it, really. Over and done with. Old him would find his so damn funny. But now? Not so much. 

There were parts of Ghoul that wanted to be angry. Angry that the boat was gone, that The DESTROYA had whispered promises of escape only to snatch it away…angry that he had finally decided to live, only to see death greeting him instead. But in the end, those bits were muted and quiet. He had to laugh, really, that after all of this, at the end of things… this is where he learned to let go of the rage. 

Ghoul finally found peace, and no one but the fish that ate him would ever know. But as he sat on the edge of the derrick, watching the sun starting to set into the ocean, he couldn’t find it within himself to care.

The structure shuddered and shook like the final gasping breaths of a creature as it prepared to explode. An explosion that would free that last piece of The DESTROYA and send Fun Ghoul blasting into the arms of the Witch.

Not much time left. 

Without really thinking as to why, he started speaking into the open air, to Poison. It wasn’t like they would hear him, but he figured it was worth saying, anyways. 

“Hey, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I said it before, but I want to say it again. I don’t know if you can hear them, but there are seagulls yelling above me. They won’t–ha–they won’t shut up. Figures I can’t even die in peace. 

I just–

Know I didn’t give up. Tried fucking hard but shit just didn’t work out. …spent all my luck at BLI HQ, I guess. But at least the view is nice.

The sunset is beautiful– I wish you could see it. I really do. Never knew the ocean could…could look like this.

Promise me that wherever you go, you can see the sea. I think–

–I think you’ll like it.

I think I’d know you went too. I’d like to think I’d know. Somehow.” 

Maybe he should have ended the message with a declaration of love, or a true goodbye. But Fun Ghoul had never been good at that. Poison knew how he felt (and it wasn't like they were gonna hear this anyways), and he trusted Kobra and Jet to remind them, if they ever forgot.

Besides, dramatic declarations were for suckers and losers. And even at the end of all things, he wouldn’t be that. 

This simply wasn’t his story, anymore. 

In a singular moment, the whole world was surrounded with brilliant white light as the derrick blew and Fun Ghoul felt himself being thrown from the structure, hitting the water. The force of it stole his breath away, leaving nothing but water to fill them as he sank below the waves. Even if he had two working arms, it would have been a shit time to learn to swim, and here he was with only one. So he allowed himself to sink, closing his eyes. In all the horrors of the world, of bombs and lasers and violence, the quiet death of the waves seemed like a blessing he didn’t deserve. 

Or maybe he did. Perhaps he needed to accept what everyone around him had been saying, again and again–that to throw himself on the pyre for the sake of it wasn't a worthy cause. 

Ghoul had chosen to live, hadn’t he? So he should try, damn it. 

His body didn’t seem to care. The single arm he had left flailed uselessly, the weight of exhaustion, of everything, dragging him down. There was no ground to catch him, no solid thing to hold onto, just water stretching infinitely in every direction. Maybe this was what it was like to finally be free. No more missions. No more battles. Just—

Something grabbed him.

At first, his sluggish mind thought it was The DESTROYA, dragging him deeper into the dark, claiming the last piece of him for the cause. But then the grip tightened—human, desperate, alive.

Ghoul barely had time to register the force yanking him upward before his head broke through the surface, and the world came rushing back in a cacophony of noise—waves crashing, someone gasping for breath, someone yelling. His whole body burned, chest heaving, coughing up saltwater, but it didn’t matter because someone was holding onto him. Keeping him afloat.

“Jesus fucking Christ—Ghoul, you stupid, reckless—”

The voice was frantic, roughened by emotion, and as his vision refocused, he caught a flash of blonde hair, eyes blown wide with panic and fury.

Kobra.

Ghoul tried to say something, but it only came out as a weak cough, salt stinging the back of his throat. There was more movement behind them—a second set of arms joined in, helping drag him toward the shape of something floating in the water. A makeshift raft, maybe, or a piece of wreckage.

Jet. Poison.

His family.

Somewhere between the heaving breaths and the painful, shuddering relief of survival, Ghoul managed to crack a weak, lopsided grin.

“…Told you to go away…”

Kobra’s grip on him tightened, and he could see the way their jaw clenched, how their eyes burned with something barely restrained. Instead of answering, Kobra just shoved Ghoul towards Poison who pulled him in, crushing him with a hug.

Poison’s words came out quiet, abortive.

“D’nt d’ th’t ag’n. Ev’r.”

Ghoul tried to laugh, but it hurt too much. His body felt like it had been through a shredder, but as he let himself lean into the warmth of the people around him, he knew one thing for certain—

He was alive.

And for now, that was enough. 

“…The rig,” Ghoul croaked after a moment, glancing toward the horizon.

Gone.

Where there had once been twisted metal and decay, now there was only smoke curling against the sky, embers fading into the endless stretch of ocean. Whatever piece of The DESTROYA had been there—whatever had been calling to him—it was gone now, hopefully back where it belonged.

Ghoul exhaled slowly, feeling something in his chest loosen with it. He had expected to feel something more—regret, maybe, or relief—but all he felt was exhausted.

“So that really was your plan?” Kobra asked, voice tight. “Go out in a blaze of glory and just—what? Hope we didn’t care?”

Ghoul turned his head just enough to look at him. “Didn’t exactly have a lot of options, man.”

Kobra’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to.

Poison finally let go of him, only to have their hands slowly move over his face, chest, arm, trying to make sure he was in one piece. Or–or at least in as much of one piece as he could be.

Ghoul swallowed hard, his throat burning. “I’m fine–It’s–I just gave back what was owed.”

Poison let out a breath that sounded more broken than anything else before pressing a kiss to his scarred cheek, pulling him into a crushing hug again, which Ghoul did his best to give back. 

He had spent so long thinking of himself as the one who didn’t make it out, the one who could be sacrificed if the mission needed it. But that was always it, wasn’t it? They all fucked up, made mistakes, cared about each other in ways that were so fuckin’ unhealthy. But that was what made them family. That’s what their love was. In the worst and best ways.

A sharp gust of wind cut through them, and Ghoul shivered. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the weight of everything was settling deep into his bones.

“Okay,” Jet said after a beat, the steady one, always. “Maybe we can stay here til the sun goes down–you were right, Ghoul. It’s pretty fuckin’ beautiful.”

“...yeah. It really is, isn’t it.”

And as he leaned against Poison in the makeshift boat, watching the sun go down across the toxic ocean, he couldn’t think of another place he’d like to be. 

This world was a beautiful, fucked up place, 

And he was no longer afraid to be alive.