Archive of Our Own

By all prior accounts, Sunday the 7th of September was supposed to be a normal show.

Then again, any show performed by The Black Parade would inevitably go to shit, so who’s to say what “normal” is anymore?

Those who worked behind the scenes knew this, or rather, they prayed it would cease to be true. Over the past few weeks, The Black Parade had been…unruly to say the least. Very few, even among those close to them, knew what to expect every night they went on stage with time cards in hand. After the complete and utter fiasco that Chicago turned out to be, those close to the Grand Immortal Dictator convened with those in charge of the band to devise a new plan of attack.

It was time to ramp up the pressure.

They had to get a perfect show.

Ray was the first one to be targeted. Some testing had been done as a part of his reconditioning for Chicago, and it had gone relatively well. They had never seen him as a gambling man, especially not on stage, but it was better to keep him distracted. He was their medic, after all. If they could keep him locked down, most likely the rest of the band would follow. The parts that had worked were heightened in intensity during preparations, and only time would tell how he reacted to it.

Frank and Mikey were interesting cases. Frank had minor rebellions in past shows, but wasn’t proving to be a massive threat. Mikey was by far the most obedient of the three guitarists; he hadn’t ever stepped in to do anything, so there were very few worries there. Reconditioning was to continue as normal for them, but people would keep an eye on them whenever possible. You never know when your greatest ally can turn against you.

Gerard was, of course, the loose canon he always was. In Chicago, he had proven himself to be extra rowdy. The Clerk had needed to wrestle him to the floor to get him to put his jacket back on, an event that would have to be discussed with him too, but that wasn’t the important thing. The reconditioning was doing strange things to him, they had noticed. He seemed to revert to childlike tendencies on occasion, suddenly and without warning. Some were worried this would lead into self-harming tendencies as well, but this had not manifested before that point. For now, there was nothing they could do but wait. He would be kept on the straight and narrow, despite him being neither straight nor narrow, and they simply had to hope for the best. 

They knew their boys well, though. After these past few months, one would say they knew them very well.

And what they knew for certain was that Boston would get one hell of a show.

—

If you asked the band how they thought the night was going before they played The Sharpest Lives, they would probably say it was going pretty fucking well.

Clocking in had gone well, the only hiccup being Frank dramatically sneezing into his time card like it was a handkerchief. The Clerk looked absolutely disgusted by this, a feeling that Frank enjoyed seeing on his face, but he still was a little relieved that it hadn’t come out of his pants like it had a few shows prior. The crowd was responding incredibly well to the band, they had applauded greatly upon seeing the Grand Immortal Dictator, what could go wrong?

The answer to that question is “a lot”. A lot could go wrong. 

The Clerk came onstage again, bearing the first note of the night. Gerard took a swig from his flask. Immediately, he realized it was filled with plain water and not the watered down alcohol usually present. Interesting, he thought to himself. He swallowed hard to get it down, set the flask down near the drum set, and strode over to meet the Clerk.

He held out the paper expectantly. Gerard grabbed it, practically ripping it out of the Clerk’s hands. He looked surprised at the force, just for a moment, then saluted him.

Stomping with his right foot. Raising his right hand. “Death to all who oppose.”

Gerard responded in kind. “Death to all who oppose.”

The Clerk didn’t look satisfied - but when did he ever - so he did it again. Stomp. Raise. “Death to all who oppose.”

Again.

Stand. Up. “Death to all who oppose.”

Again.

Don’t. Stop. “Death to all who oppose.”

Again.

Break. Free. “Death to all who oppose.”

Again.

So they went on, almost moving against their will. They kept saluting each other rigidly, saying those same stupid words over and over until they didn’t sound like words anymore. Still, they continued, like a run-down jukebox playing the same songs again because it didn’t know what else to play. The band and audience alike watched in awe. Some giggled, some groaned, still others just stared.

Back and forth they went, until-

“Okay, okay. Pack it up, fun’s over.”

When the voice received no reply as they continued, the owner of it forcefully shook Gerard’s shoulders from behind.

“Gee, what the fuck?!”

He stumbled backwards for a moment, almost losing his footing. His head spun as he came back to his senses. One moment he was doing his job and then…

“Go on, you dirty dog. Get out of here.”

Frank was next to him. He was shooing the Clerk away, who looked the closest he had ever been to embarrassment in his life. He awkwardly shuffled away, but turned back for just a moment.

At that, Frank raised his hand in a mock salute. “Death to all who oppose,” he said, in a tone one would imagine a child would use when mocking someone. He promptly raised a middle finger when the Clerk’s back was turned. “Fuck you too, then. Jeez.”

He then turned to Gerard, who appeared to have spaced out looking in the direction that the Clerk had left from. “Are you alright? You kind of just went…” He moved his arms in a strange manner as if he were imitating a robot.

His eyes met Frank’s. “Yeah, yeah, I’m alright.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Frank nodded, then gave Gerard a light pat on the back as he passed. “Good, good.”

Thankfully, he didn’t have the time to think too long. He stumbled his way to the mic stand as the first notes of The Sharpest Lives blared through the speakers. He glanced at the note briefly. It said something about “first day” and “no popcorn” or something ridiculous like that. He balled it up and threw it into the crowd. It wasn’t like he could keep it anyway. It wasn’t like it was important.

“Well, it rains and it pours when you’re out on your own…”

—

It took a few songs for something to happen again.

The elexecution went off without a hitch. The four heretics were gunned down with perfect accuracy, and Gerard even threw in a “Let them eat cake” joke for good measure. The crowd had loved that, and even though the venue printed the signs wrong, they resoundingly voted yes.

Perfect. They were playing along.

The Clerk strode onstage again, another note in hand. Great. He didn’t feel like reading another fucking note. He didn’t feel like singing any more notes either, but he’d never say that. He took a swig of his flask, unsure if it counted as a swig if it was straight water, and made his way over.

The Clerk slowly held out the note towards Gerard. He didn’t take it.

“No.”

He looked mildly shocked at that. “‘No’? Gerard, you know you can’t say that.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “I don’t feel like it.”

That wasn’t the real reason, or at least, not all of it. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something had felt odd these past few shows. He’d been having moments similar to what happened with the first note exchange earlier. It felt like he was losing it. He vaguely remembered a strong sense of deja vu last show in Chicago in particular. “Why do I feel like I’ve done this before”, he had said, and he had meant it. It all was starting to bleed together in his brain, and it even affected him offstage. Spaciness, nightmares, a hallucination here or there. 

Maybe he was losing it, but he couldn’t say that. Why would he, anyway? It made for a better show.

“Well, it’s a good thing you don’t get a choice in the matter,” retorted the Clerk. When no reply came, he persisted. “Come on, Gerard. We don’t want His Grand Immortal Dictator to be upset with us, now do we?”

“Well, I don’t know. He’s probably still focused on what happened earlier. One more fuckup isn’t going to kill him.”

“Just take the note,” he said with a hint of anger. He forced the note into Gerard’s hands.

“Alright, you know what? Here’s what I think of your stupid fucking note.”

With that, he tore the unread paper into pieces.

The crowd roared in delight. He threw the pieces into the air and watched them flutter to the ground. Leaning down, hands clasped behind his back, he tried to meet eye level with the Clerk. What do you think of that, he tried to ask without words. What do you think of me ruining your little show, huh?

The events of the next forty-five seconds seemed to happen much quicker than that.

The Clerk’s hand began pulling back, ready to undoubtedly smack Gerard across the face. I suppose that’s what you think, he said to himself. He didn’t move, despite clearly seeing it coming. Boston wanted a show, didn’t they? Draag certainly did, more than anyone. If giving a good show required a slap across the face to happen, then goddamnit it was going to happen.

The impact never came. He hadn’t realized that he had closed his eyes, but he opened them to find a very different situation than the one he had expected. Someone else was there. He could feel it before, but he hadn’t anticipated this. He stepped backwards in shock.

“Mikey?”

He had a firm grip on the Clerk’s wrist and watched as the other man’s hand strained to break free. He released as he practically slammed his hand towards the ground. The Clerk stared at him for a moment, adjusting his suit collar uncomfortably. Mikey moved the strap of his guitar to put it more behind him, then finally spoke. His voice held a quiet rage to it.

“Leave my brother alone, you son of a…”

It was then that the Clerk’s knee found its place square between Mikey’s legs.

Immediately, his knees hit the floor. He quietly groaned in pain as he gingerly touched the place in his crotch where he had been hit. The Clerk straightened out the bottom of his suit jacket, seemingly pleased with himself, and exited the stage. Gerard was dimly aware of Ray shouting after him but couldn’t decipher the words that were said. 

Mikey half-crawled over to where he was standing completely in shock. Neither spoke for a moment.

“You okay?”

Gerard blinked hard as he came back into focus. “I think I should be asking you that.” He held out a hand in case Mikey needed it to stand again.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Mikey, pushing himself up off the floor. “Just don’t do that next time, okay?”

Next time?

Ray came up to him as Mikey walked away, still with a slight limp. “What was that,” he asked, pointing a thumb offstage to where the Clerk had gone. “What was any of that?”

“I don’t know.” He turned back to look at Mikey. He was now whispering something to Frank. “Mikey’s okay, though. That’s what matters to me.”

“I get it. I…”

The first note of Cancer played. Instantly, the crowd erupted into delighted screams. Ray didn’t finish what he was saying, just nodded at him and made his way back to his side of the stage. Gerard turned towards Frank and found him absentmindedly adjusting his tuning. 

He was alone again.

“Turn away…”

—

That interaction shouldn’t have made Gerard feel as strange as he did.

Cancer was usually one of the easier songs to sing given where it sat in his range. The crowd always loved it and as a slow point in the show, it served its purpose of giving the band time to relax after that hard hitting beginning. 

Not tonight, though. Tonight, while he was singing that song, he thought long and hard about what Mikey had said to him. 

Don’t do it next time, he thought over and over. Those were his words. What could he have meant by that? We don’t interact for the rest of the show.

Next to tackle was Mama, which wasn’t really something that needed tackling at all. It was a fun song to do, the crowd reportedly adored the Gentleman, and it was just a good time. Gerard was to take off his jacket, perform without it for a few songs, and then the Clerk would come back and force him to put it back on. He’d put up quite the fight in Chicago, he vaguely remembered. It hadn’t done anything, but the people were entertained at least.

But what had come of that? He couldn’t remember that bit at all. Was that what Mikey was talking about?

The interlude between the two songs began to play, with Ray’s fingers dancing across his guitar. Gerard rigidly began to unbutton the jacket, then flung it from his shoulders. Grabbing it by the collar, he raised it triumphantly towards the crowd, then immediately dropped it to the floor next to him. The onlookers roared with delight. It almost caused him to smile. Almost.

Mama began to pass similarly to Cancer, in a blur of light and noise and song. He tried to keep thinking about what Mikey said, but between the lights in his eyes and the singing he had to do, he could barely do that. It was too much, all of it, but of course he could never say that. What would they think?

The song slowed. The Clerk came out and slipped the dagger into his hand silently. They did not look at each other. He turned it over a few times. Hard plastic.

Well, that’s unfortunate, he thought for no particular reason. A shame that he forgot about that part. He had some anger to get out. Mostly towards the Clerk.

Especially towards the Clerk.

“A dagger, a dagger, please fetch me a dagger for all of our treasonous deeds…”

His grip on the fake knife tightened as he sang. He could feel his nails digging into its hilt and, if it were made of something weaker, it certainly would have shattered. He swung it about with no clear intent of where it should go. It wasn’t really meant for anyone, although the Clerk was on thin ice. It just felt good to hold it and feel like he had some sort of power in this situation. It was becoming increasingly obvious that he didn’t have any.

“...Trust me, this dagger is just what this animal needs…”

That lyric change would likely go unnoticed. It wasn’t like anyone listened to him anyway. But it was enough for him.

Fire began to erupt from the stage floor. The dagger in his hand was suddenly gone and he had no memory of seeing the Clerk taking it from him. He swore he saw the burning man run behind him, but he wasn’t sure where in the show that happened. 

God, he thought to himself. Maybe I am losing it.

I’ll have time to do that later.

“SYLVIA!”

Marianne was absent that night from the show - she had come down with something according to Draag officials - and in her stead was her twin sister Sylvia. Gerard didn’t like her very much. He found her to be rude and insolent, and she had even hit him with her cane sometime before the show for no particular reason. She did, however, have a lovely voice, and that would have to do.

He actually liked the interlude where she would go up to sing on the other stage. It gave him time to just be in that space with everyone. Besides, with the transition into Sleep, it was a solid few minutes where he didn’t have anything important to be doing. Of course, he was doing something during the Sleep transition, but it wasn’t what most would call productive.

He used the Gentleman puppet to introduce her that night. He had been particularly proud of the silly accent he gave it for when it spoke. No one in the band had cared as much as he had, but that was no problem at all. He turned to look at Ray at one point, who seemed engrossed in his guitar, and swore he saw him suppressing a laugh.

While Sylvia sang, Gerard got to think again. He had been doing an uncharacteristic amount of thinking lately. That may become a problem. The officials who oversaw the show didn’t seem to like it when he thought too much. They said he often came up with ideas they thought of as “dangerous” and “inappropriate”, whatever that meant.

Okay. Think, Gee. What happens during the rest of the show…?

He thought he knew how that question ended before he asked it, but apparently he didn’t. He thought harder. What could he possibly… Again, nothing.

He couldn’t remember.

Not just what Mikey could’ve been referring to, no. He couldn’t remember anything.

Well, he could. He knew the order of the songs, of course. It was the order of the album tracklist, that much was easy to remember. He knew the general order of events: take jacket off, put jacket back on, leave stage after round two of The End. But that was it. His brain fired back to the Chicago show, trying to remember specifics of what happened then, but found that he couldn’t.

By now, Sleep was close at hand. The final notes of Mama were being played, and he had descended into a state of mild panic. The Gentleman puppet was long gone from his hands and his gaze turned now towards the chair he would sit in for Sleep.

His jacket was draped over the back.

He didn’t remember putting it there, but there it was, hanging off the back as if it was meant to be there. He vaguely knew that usually the Clerk picked it up after the song was over to give it back to him. Is that where it went normally? He didn’t think so. The gold and red accents stood out harshly against the black, sparkling against the stage lights, taunting him. 

Put it on.

The words weren’t said out loud, but Gerard knew they weren’t his thoughts either. The voice in the back of his brain sounded nothing like him. It didn’t sound like any voice he’d heard before for that matter. It sounded like an older man speaking, his voice low and strained, and he didn’t know anyone like that.

Gerard, he repeated. Put the jacket on.

You’re talking to me?

Who else would this be for? You’re the only one who listens for it.

Listens for what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.

You will. Put the jacket on. A pause. Mikey got hurt last time, didn’t he?

Earlier? Yeah, he did. He turned over his shoulder to look at his brother. I don’t want that to happen again. I didn’t want any of that.

And you know the Clerk fights you so you put the jacket on, yes?

He considered that for a moment. Yes. A new memory. I was on the ground last time. He held me down and forced it on me.

You don’t want Mikey to take that for you.

It was less of a question and more of a statement, a threat even. She was right, though. He couldn’t have Mikey take that bullet for him. The fights he had with the Clerk were his to fight, not because he was territorial in that way, but because he was the frontman. He was the face of the Black Parade, and that meant he took more punches than the others. If something went wrong, it was usually his responsibility whether it was his wrong or not. He bore that burden with pride, however, because he loved his band. They were something more than bandmates now. After this tour, they were family.

And oh, the things you do for family.

Gerard walked over to the chair in even steps. His hand shook without meaning to as he reached for the jacket. Picking it up, he took a deep breath and shoved his right arm through the sleeve. Immediately, he thought he heard gasps from the people in the pit section. He paid them no mind. His left arm struggled to find the sleeve for a moment, then slotted in as well. He straightened out the jacket and pulled his hair away from inside the collar. Letting out another sigh, he took his place and sat down. 

He reached down to pick up the book for tonight, but felt something shift in his grasp. Something fell to the ground with a low thump, but he was still holding onto a book of some kind. He felt the pages move between his fingers and picked it up to look at the cover. Gemini Process Manual, it read. He flipped it over to find the official seal of Draag on the back.

Huh, he thought. I shouldn’t be seeing this, should I?

Read it, said the man in his head.

Now he was certain he was going crazy. This is clearly for official Draag eyes only. 

And are you not in that group? You are a soldier of the Ministry of Complimentary Reconditioning, going out into America to bring the people to see Draag for who they “really are”. I think you are just as worthy to read this as any of those above you.

If you say so, he thought. Although, I can’t blame you if things go awry. They won’t believe me.

Who cares if they believe you? You know it to be true. That should be all that matters.

Gerard hated to admit that this voice was right, but he had to call it like he saw it. With a loud sigh, mercifully unheard, he opened the first page.

The words swam in his vision, the harsh strokes of Keposhka barely readable under the red stage lights. He couldn't understand most of what was said anyway. Luckily, there were a lot of diagrams on some pages rather than words. There were several pages dedicated to brain scans specifically. Accompanying them were mugshot-style photos of the people they belonged to. The lights shifted to blue and white for a moment and it allowed him to see properly who the brains belonged to.

He saw his own face and felt his blood turn to ice.

What? Is that…my brain?

Yes, it is, said the man. They keep you caged. All of you.

Caged? No, no they care for us. They have to! We have jobs, we get to perform every week, there’s not a chance.

Do you not remember? What they do to you at the end? Every time?

No! No, I don’t. I don’t remember anything. I would assume that means it’s not important.

No, Gerard. They make you forget. They make all of you forget. You’re better as puppets according to them.

Gerard began to tremble at that. His grip tightened on the book, bending the pages slightly. Whether it was from anger or fear he wasn’t sure.

You’re wrong, he thought. I’ll show you. I’ll show them.

You’ll see, the man replied. You’ll see when the knife comes out.

Suddenly, and without warning, his brain was filled with chaos.

Visions of the show began to flash in his head. Past, present, future, it didn’t matter. It was all indistinguishable. Him getting slapped by the Clerk time and time again. The Clerk kneeing Mikey in the dick. Frank pulling him away from the loop. The Clown from later in the show. A knife. Flashes of crimson. Blood. Him crawling towards the edge of the stage on his stomach. The Clown removing his overshirt. An explosion of fire and white and black. 

What is this? What’s going on? What’s going to happen to me? To them?!

The voice did not respond.

WHERE ARE YOU? ANSWER ME.

No reply. He was openly shaking now, his legs bouncing up and down in anxiety. His breath came fast and shallow, and he felt a bead of sweat sliding down his face. With more force than he intended, he threw the book to the floor and stood. He rushed to the microphone, almost thinking he had missed his cue, and began to sing.

“Some say now suffer all the children and walk away a savior…”

Maybe if he sang, he could forget again. That would be nice.

—

The Clerk came on stage later. 

He walked straight to Gerard, but stopped midway. He looked him up and down and crossed the remaining distance. He grabbed him by the shoulders and began to shake him.

“It’s really good!” He cried out. “It’s really good!”

Gerard responded in kind. “Yeah, it is…”

He did not look him in the eye. He did not repeat after him. He did not relax until the Clerk had left the stage, and barely breathed until long after that.

He did not think before Teenagers. It was better that way.

Maybe they were right.

—

The rest of the show seemingly passed without worry.

Famous Last Words drew the response it always did. Listening to the crowd scream those words, even through his in-ears, always brought him a feeling of joy. Usually.

Tonight was different. Of course it was. The interaction during Sleep with that voice in his head (Christ that sounded wrong) had scared Gerard. Truly scared him, for the first time in a very long while. Gerard Way was not meant to be scared of anything, yet there he was, shaking and crying over a realization he should have had a long time ago.

Typical.

Frank picked up the violin bow and began to press it against the strings of his guitar. He slid it across, playing in a way that Gerard hadn’t seen before. He didn’t have to sing, so he watched him intently. He looked beautiful. He really did, concentrating on the placement of his fingers and where he strung the bow. Staying in this moment, avoiding the thoughts and the pain, didn’t sound like a bad idea right about now.

Frank looked up and the moment was over. The bow fell from his hand as Ray took to his acoustic guitar. He turned to look over at the other three wearing a smile that reached his eyes. It was easy to see that he genuinely loved performing up there, no matter what Draag tried to do to him. It was genuinely heartwarming to see.

He picked up the mic to sing the show to a close.

“Now, come one, come all to this tragic affair

Wipe off that makeup, what’s in is despair

So throw on the black dress, mix in with the lot

You might wake up and notice you’re someone you’re not.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Gerard saw the Clown maneuvering about the stage. He turned slightly towards Frank’s side of the stage to see him. He usually said hello to him around this time in the song anyway. Why was he moving about somewhere he shouldn’t be? That was against the rules, right?

With the climactic hit of the song approaching, the Clown began to linger around Mikey. He circled him as he played his guitar, like a shark hungering for blood some would say. Singing The End again didn’t seem to be as interesting to Gerard anymore. For now, he watched the pair, dancing around each other like they didn’t know the rhythm, and he sang clips and phrases of the song when he remembered that he was on stage and that he had to perform. He could feel the eyes of the Grand Immortal Dictator boring into his brain, and for once he didn’t give a fuck about it. He noticed the Clown was holding something and tried to get a closer look.

It was a knife.

Wait.

The visions from Sleep came back to him again, stronger this time. Him singing The End. The Clown taking out the knife. The Clown stabbing him while his bandmates played on, seemingly oblivious to his struggle. Him slowly and painfully bleeding to death on stage while his friends were taken to who-knows-where for who-knows-what. It all ended with a bang as the Clown exploded into a million tiny pieces.

This was when it happened. The Clown should’ve been over where he was by now. He should be on the floor choking on his own blood in a matter of moments. So why wasn’t he?

What on earth could they possibly be planning?

The Clown’s gaze locked on Mikey again, and suddenly Gerard couldn’t breathe. He tried to call out but nothing could be heard over the music. Mikey never listened anyway. He always just kept on playing, even when-

With sickening accuracy, the blade found its home in his chest.

No.

Nononononononononono-

Mikey’s hands fell away from the guitar. His eyes widened in shock as he looked down, the knife still embedded in him. His gaze slowly traced its way to Gerard across the stage, who just stood there like a child who couldn’t find his parents. Their eyes met and, for just one terrible moment, he swore he saw the ghost of a smile on Mikey’s face.

Then, the blade was removed, and the world came back into horrifying focus.

Mikey sank to his knees at the movement. He doubled over in pain, hand pressed over the spot where he had been stabbed. The mic Gerard forgot he was still holding slid from his hand, clattering to the floor in a storm of audio feedback. He bolted over to his brother, crashing to the ground next to him and almost violently yanking the guitar off of him. Mikey cried out as he shifted him to lay on his back on the stage floor.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, you’re gonna be fine.” Gerard wasn’t sure if he was saying that more for Mikey or himself, but in that moment it didn’t fucking matter.

Frank had noticed the commotion quickly and was now kneeling next to the pair. “What the fuck just happened?”

“The Clown stabbed him.”

A look of abject horror passed over his face. “What?!”

“I…I don’t know! I don’t know, you asked what happened.” Gerard’s thoughts went in circles for a moment before he turned over his shoulder.

“Ray! HELP!”

Yes, Ray! Of course. Ray was the medic of the group. He would know what to do. He had to. He had earned that sash that he wore every night with every ounce of his blood, sweat, and tears. That had to mean something right now. If it didn’t, then…

He didn’t even want to think about that possibility. He couldn’t. Thinking like that wasn’t going to do anything here. It wasn’t going to keep Mikey Way alive. It wasn’t going to make right whatever that sick and twisted Clown just did to his little brother.

His brother.

His brother.

Ray finally reached them. It was evident that he had practically thrown his guitar to the floor in his haste. It sat in barely assembled pieces near the edge of the stage. He dropped to his knees next to the group and quickly removed the medic sash that he usually wore. Placing it under his knee, he yanked it and tore it open. The fabric tore unnaturally and frayed at the edges, too thin to support its own weight, or any blood for that matter.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself. “Shit!”

Gerard looked around frantically, wondering if the team backstage had a doctor on standby, someone with an actual med kit. Nobody came. He noticed Frank staring at him after a moment and shook his head, trying to answer the question before it was asked.

Why isn’t anyone coming?

“We’ve got you, Mikey,” Ray was saying, his hand now pressed over the stab wound in a meager attempt to stem the bleeding. There was still so much of it, too much. “You’re gonna…”

“No.”

Everyone turned to look at him, a little bit startled. He continued anyway. “I know what you’re gonna say, and you’re wrong. I…” He swallowed hard, the kind that elicited a harsh sound when you came up for air. “I’m dying. And you know it.”

“Don’t talk like that,” said Gerard sharply, perhaps harsher than he had meant. “You’re not a quitter, Mikey. You’re the toughest son of a bitch I know, and you play like one too. You don’t get to die on us here. And I make the rules for the two of us, remember?” He tried to smile but it came out wrong. 

“Wish you were right,” he replied, sounding utterly defeated. He reached out his hand, fumbling for some kind of support, and Gerard took it without hesitation. He tried to ignore how shaky and cold it was.

Ray turned to him. “He’s losing a lot of blood,” he said in hushed tones, as if that would soften the blow. “I don’t have anything to stop it. We need a doctor - a real doctor - and fast.”

“They’d never let us leave early,” Frank said as he leaned in closer. “You know that.”

He was right. The Black Parade had it written into their contract that they could only enter and leave the stage under the watchful eyes of Draag officials. They were always on standby when they were performing too. Mikey had actually been the one to protest this most vehemently of the four, saying that “we’re all grown men here, we don’t need to be treated like fucking horses”. The ruling had stood, but Mikey had always made a point to complain about the ordeal when they left the stage every night.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, Mikey Way was lying on the floor on stage, slowly bleeding out, and there was almost nothing his bandmates could do about it.

My brother can’t die like this, Gerard thought in the haze, hoping against hope. Not a chance I’m letting that happen.

“Well, we’re not staying here,” he practically shouted. “Fuck that. We can’t just sit around and watch.”

He looked off into the offstage area that he was closest to. In the darkness, three men sat watching them. Two of them he knew to be their “guards” that went with the band as they moved about their day prior to the concert. The third, the one who sat in the middle, he didn’t recognize. The stage lights reflected off of his glasses, but that was about it. It didn’t matter who that third man was anyway. What really mattered was the fact that they all just sat there. Comfortably. One of the guards was leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. The other guard, the one on the right, seemed to be smoking a cigarette or something of that nature. The three formed a wall between the band and their freedom, and Gerard knew damn well that there was no way he would get through himself, let alone with Mikey.

So instead, he did the only thing he had ever been good for and raised his voice.

“Why the fuck are you all just sitting there?! You need all of us, don’t you? You’ve always needed all of us, and now you’re letting him die. You’re just watching and waiting! You know he’s better than all three of you put together. Hell, he’s the best of all of us! So why don’t you get your fat asses out of those chairs and DO SOMETHING?!”

It felt as though the floor shook with his words, but there was no reply. Not one of them moved. Gerard even swore that he could hear one of the men laughing. He breathed hard as the rage that had powered him through this entire show left him. In its place came a deep abyss somewhere in his chest and a sudden, inescapable urge to vomit despite there being no need for it.

They really don’t give a shit, he realized. None of this matters. The signs, the protests, the begging? All for nothing. They just want to watch us die, and they will get exactly what they want every time. We’re gonna die anyway.

Mikey’s gonna die anyway.

…

“Oh my fucking god.”

His free hand flew to cover his mouth. Tears started to form, threatening to blur out the corners of his vision. He lightly bit the skin of his palm to keep them at bay, but still they came. Frank reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder.

He felt Mikey squeeze his hand again. When he spoke it was quieter, his voice stuttering like a broken record.

“Gerard. Gee, look at me.”

He did. Mikey tried to speak again but it came out tilted and couldn’t be understood. Suddenly he was coughing, a harsh sound that was forced from his throat and sent Gerard’s heart into hysterics. He hacked up blood that stained his lips and cheeks. His body curled in on itself like he had been kicked in the stomach, and the rest of the group rushed to support him however they could. A hand on his shoulder, soft voices giving false reassurances, Gerard’s strong grip on his hand all the while. 

It wasn’t going to make anything better, but nothing could really do that at this point.

He regained control of his voice after a moment. “You’re gonna be good, okay? You have Frank. You have Ray. And they have you. And the three of you are going to fight like hell to change this place, I just know it. You’ll…” He took a moment to breathe. “You’ll be fine without me.”

“You say that like you don’t matter to this group at all,” said Ray, his own voice shaking. “But you do. You really do.” He looked like he was trying to find a way to express it, to truly capture in words how much this was hurting him, but he couldn’t. There would never be enough words for that. “We love you, man.”

“You know I do too.” 

Gerard’s gaze drifted to the stab wound again. Ray was no longer keeping the blood at bay, but there wasn’t much leaking out anyway at this point. What little poured out came sluggishly, and what had been released before was already dried into barely visible stains on his jacket. 

He’s actually dying…

Ray was talking to Mikey now, words that were lost in the haze of his thoughts. His eyes made their way to his brother’s face. He was smiling at something (goddamnit you’re bleeding to death and still you smile, you really are my little brother), probably something Ray said, but it came out lopsided. His breath came in ragged chunks, the uneven rise and fall of his chest bearing a rhythm just like any of their songs would. 

The tears finally came.

Ray’s cheeks were stained already. Frank rubbed circles into Gerard’s back as he cried, trying to give some semblance of comfort, but it didn’t work. Bowing his head, he pressed Mikey’s hand to his forehead.

“I’m sorry, Mikey.” The words came out in between pained sobs.

“Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is.”

Mikey gave him a sympathetic look, his mouth curling into a half-smile. His words were starting to blend.  “No, it’s not. You can’t see the future, Gee. You couldn’t have known.”

But I did, he wanted to say. I did, and I could’ve known. I should’ve known.

Gerard kept his mouth shut, though. Those words would do more harm than good. He just sat there, helpless to stop the inevitable. Ray took Mikey’s other hand, trying to ignore the dried blood on his own hands. Frank rested his hands on both of their shoulders.

Mikey suddenly smiled again, a full smile one would not expect of someone in his position. A soft laugh broke through. Gerard swore that he heard him saying something, an “I love you” of some sort, but he wasn’t sure.

It happened very quietly. One moment he was breathing-

In, out. In, out.

The next?

In, out. In, out.

In-

-out.

…

—

…

“...Mikey?”

No response. His hand felt cold in Gerard’s grasp. He cried out again.

“No, no, Mikey, please…”

Ray let go of his hand, watching it fall limply to the floor. His eyes met Frank’s, and he reached out his hand. The three came together, with Frank in the middle with an arm around each of them, and formed a wall to block Mikey from view. None of them cared if the audience was watching anymore. None of them thought it mattered anymore, but the man deserved privacy in death at the moment.

In the space of that single moment, in the heat of it all, Gerard Way completely fucking snapped.

A shriek erupted from the depths of his soul, unnaturally torn from his throat. He half-collapsed to the ground, arm wrapped around his stomach, his head bowed. His free hand went to cover his mouth, trying to suppress everything that was spilling out of him. The others tried to hold him up to no avail.

Without warning, Draag decided that enough was enough.

Loud stomping shook the floor. The guards of Draag began to close in on the three. Ray was the first to notice them approaching. He stood up from the wall formation and sprinted towards where Mikey’s guitar lay on the ground. Saying a silent prayer, he picked it up by the neck, strings poking his fingers, and slammed the body of it into the head of the first guard who approached. 

Instantly, blood gushed from the man’s head. It looked for a moment like his skull had been dented, but as he fell to the floor it really didn’t matter. He was dead before his head hit the ground anyway.

Frank looked at Gerard hesitantly before rising to fight. He punched one of the guards in the stomach, then pushed him so he would knock over another one that was right behind him. 

Gerard was ignorant to everything near him. His hands shook as he reached for Mikey. He knew there would be no response. Somewhere inside the depths of his brain  he knew that his little brother was dead. Right then, however, the synapses in his brain did not match his heart’s wavelengths. Nothing else fucking mattered.

“Gerard? Ray?!”

Ray turned in the direction of the voice to find Frank being dragged away by the guards. He struggled valiantly against the restraints of the men’s arms, pushing himself forwards as they tried to pull back. His feet, which he had been using to brace himself against the floor, were suddenly lifted from the ground in the struggle. The men holding him surged forward towards offstage.

Ray shouted after them, still wielding the guitar. Blood stained the white pick guard, a garish crimson that didn’t match the ruby of the rest of the body. He swung it wide. Some of the guards scattered but one ran up and seized it from his hands. The two fought bitterly over it while two other guards came up behind and grabbed him by the arms, the same way they did Frank. He too was dragged away.

They went for Gerard last. Whether out of respect for his grief or because they thought he would be easiest to grab, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that suddenly he was being lifted from the ground by strong, rough arms wrapped around his waist. 

“Mikey?!” He cried out, reaching for him again. “Mikey!”

The guard holding him made the mistake of clamping a hand over his mouth to silence him. Without hesitation, his teeth bore savagely into the man’s palm. He pulled his hand away with a yelp, shocked by the realization that the bite had broken skin. His arm loosened around Gerard’s waist, who surged forward again trying to reach his brother’s body.

It took two other men coming up behind and grabbing his legs and neck for him to reach offstage, and even then he kicked and screamed all the way.

The other two were seated on the ground, trying in vain to undo the knots that tied their hands back. Gerard was pushed into a similar position at first. A hand on each shoulder wasn’t enough to keep him there while the knots were tied and, eventually, he was forced more to the ground. His left side was pressed flush to the floor, with a hand keeping his head still and his cheek against the wood. He struggled bitterly while the rope was wrapped around his wrists.

Tears down his face. Blood in his teeth. Just like the rabid dog he was.

But, then again, what was a dog without a pack?

Dead. That was what he was.

The Clown reappeared at the opposite end of the stage, having hidden after the stabbing occurred. Blood coated his right hand and sleeve. Gerard saw him while being tied up and began screaming.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” He strained against the guard’s hands, trying to wiggle free. “I’ll kill you for what you’ve done! I’ll cut you up like you did him! How’d you feel about that, huh?!”

The Clown moved to sit on the floor near Mikey. Now that shut him up. The guards stuffed a rag in his mouth for good measure. By now, he was secured anyway; he wouldn’t be going anywhere.

Slowly, with intent, the Clown lifted Mikey by the arms and presented him to the crowd, or whatever was left of it now. He stuck a bloody finger in his mouth and painted a smile on his face with the blood from his throat. 

Then, he clamped a hand around his lower jaw, and began to move it. Finally, Mikey sang again.

“Well, they encourage your complete cooperation

Send you roses when they think you need to smile

I can’t control myself because I don’t know how

And they love me for it, honestly, I’ll be here for a while…”

The rest of the band watched in absolute horror. Gerard’s eyes went wild and he struggled again against his chains.

“So give them blood, blood, gallons of the stuff

Give them all that they can drink, and it will never be enough

So give them blood, blood, blood

Grab a glass because there’s going to be a flood…”

He mercifully and unceremoniously removed Mikey’s body from his lap. He landed face down with his head turned away from the only audience that mattered. The three just stared as the Clown stood up again and began his usual dance, seemingly unbothered by the turn of events.

“A celebrated man amongst the gurneys

They can fix me proper with a bit of luck

The doctors and the nurses, they adore me so

But it’s really quite alarming, ‘cause I’m such an awful fuck

I gave you blood, blood, gallons of the stuff

I gave you all that you can drink, and it has never been enough

I gave you blood, blood, blood…”

The smock was off. The vest was revealed. The men watched as the Clown presented his final bow to the world.

From across the stage, Gerard swore he saw Mikey’s finger twitch.

“...I’m the kind of human wreckage that you love!”

“WAIT-

—

Somewhere far away, beyond the stage and violence, the Grand Immortal Dictator began to clap.

—

-NO!”

Gerard shot up from where he was sleeping. The shout died in his throat before it truly began. His breathing came fast and ragged, his eyes darting around the cell. In an instant, Mikey was up too.

“Gee, are you alright?”

He sprinted over from his cot in his corner of the room. He grabbed him by the arms as he hyperventilated. Gerard moved his hands to hold Mikey’s. 

He took a few deep breaths. Breathing felt easier now that Mikey was there. In and out. In and out. In…

“Are you alright?”

…and out.

Gerard hung his head and shame. He nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“What is it?”

“Nightmare,” he said quietly, trying to gather himself. “Don’t remember what happened, I just know I didn’t like it.”

“‘Didn’t like it’ is the understatement of the century, dude,” joked Ray from his corner. “You were tossing and turning all night! I think you were also sleeptalking but…” he motioned to the space between their cots. “I didn’t hear any of it.”

“What time is it?”

Frank was sitting up now. He looked at the clock, which was in his area. “1:46 AM,” he said. “Go back to bed, guys. We’ve got a show tomorrow.” He reconsidered for a moment. “I guess today.”

Mikey turned toward him. “Where are we going this week?”

“Beautiful city of Tampa, Florida. Great people there, I’ve heard. Really sunny, which will be nice.” He nodded towards Gerard with a smile. “Should help you with whatever you’ve got going on.”

Gerard scoffed. “I don’t have anything going on! Just a bad dream, it’s not gonna kill anyone.”

Mikey gave him a long look. It was as if he knew something, but couldn’t put a finger on what. “If you say so.” He turned to walk back to his cot.

Gerard thought for a moment. He had been doing an uncharacteristic amount of thinking lately. That may become a problem. The officials who oversaw the show didn’t seem to like it when he thought too much. They thought-

Have I thought that before?

It popped into his head without warning. He wracked his brain for when he would’ve needed to think such a thing.

Okay. Think, Gee. It was probably during the last show. The one in Boston, you know the one. What happened last show that could have caused that?

The answer did not come to him. He shrugged and rolled over on his cot, facing the wall again like he usually did. The memories of that nightmare began to fade as he drifted off.

What was I so worried about, anyway?

When he woke the next morning, Gerard Way would remember nothing of Boston. He would remember nothing of the brutal death of his brother. He would remember nothing of the realizations he had during that whirlwind hour onstage.

It had happened and yet, to the person who experienced it, it had not at the same time.

Perfect. He was finally playing along. They all were.

—

Somewhere else, far from those prison walls, the Grand Immortal Dictator cracked a smile for the first time in years.