Chapter Text
The Fabulous Four were in some kind of warehouse–the roof had long been acid-rained in, skylight speckled the dusty concrete floors, and amidst ruined shop aisles and storage units stood expired makeup, exploded bottles of bleach, and endless powders, creams, and dried liquids. An endless graveyard of cosmetic remains–the Killjoys were thrilled. Kobra Kid dug through a pile of hair dye boxes, Party Poison searched through shattered eyeshadow palettes, and Fun Ghoul and Jet Star were busy trying on lipstick that had melted into its metal case. It was a total score–one they needed after a nasty run-in with a few Draculoids the previous night. After barely escaping a harsh firefight, they ran to Dr. Death Defying’s abode for first aid and to siphon whatever gas the radio station host might’ve had. To their surprise, he told them that a nearby Dead Pegasus had sprung back to life. Fuel, like any resource in the Zones, was hard to come by–this sudden influx would be shut down soon at best, and at worst, it meant S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W operations were beginning in the area. Why BLI/nd had sent gas over before any Dracs set up camp, Dr. D couldn’t say–but he’d spent the better part of that afternoon helping some other Killjoys store as much gas as they possibly could in whatever containers they could possibly find.
The second the sun came up, the Killjoys were on their way. They left the girl with Dr. D–she needed more sleep to recover from the firefight the previous night–a good decision, considering the possibility of Dracs swarming the gas station at any moment. To their surprise, they instead ran into Showpony, Cherri Cola, and a few other misfits working the pumps. Showpony was kind enough to tell the Fab Four the latest rumor–after a scout-out in Zone 6, a previously unseen cement structure was discovered after harsh dust winds decided to settle for the first time in years. They’d have to veer off Route Guano and figure out a path to get to said discovery–but it was bigger than a warehouse, bigger than a few warehouses–it was huge, and seemed intact. With their newfound gas supply, the Killjoys could load their car and bring back all kinds of goodies, should they find anything. And, given that no one had eaten anything other than dog food from dented cans for a few days, the Fab Four were eager to bring back some much-needed morale to the populace nearby the Nest–be it food, clothes, or anything fun.
It was easy to spot, not difficult to get to. Showpony marked the approximate location on a map, and leftover roads dotted this area of the desert. Eight or nine buildings surrounded an empty lot–most of the signage had been lost to weather, or the Helium wars, but one store had odd cement balls out front, and an entrance not buried in rubble–so the Killjoys started digging, each in their own aisles, each stuffing whatever they could find into bags, backpacks, and sacks.
Kobra Kid slipped a small box into Party Poison’s bag–inside, a bottle of red hair dye. Before Party could say anything, he'd already slinked away to keep perusing his piles. Party returned to swiping eyeshadow on their wrist, eyeing their face in a broken mirror. Most of the makeup was too crumbly, or the pigment had been lost, or it looked straight-up radioactive, but some singles had survived. They hummed to themself–whatever the latest mix Dr. D threw on the radio was, it sure was catchy. Some new band, some new song, but made by Killjoys they already knew.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Party Poison jolts upright at the sound of a gruff, feminine voice.
They turn around to find a white BL/ind ray gun pointed directly at their face.
Before Party could pull their own weapon out of its holster, their assailant hits the ground, her ray gun skittering across the floor. Being surprise tackled by Jet Star and Fun Ghoul isn’t new to the other two Killjoys, but this girl was clearly unprepared for the attack.
“Ow! Ow! What the fuck? Let me go!” she shouts.
Jet Star has his chest to the pink-haired girl’s back, forcing her arms up and rendering them… mostly immobile. Fun Ghoul is less helpful–he pins her ankles to the cement floor.
“Jesus Christ! I wasn’t gonna fucking hurt you!” she yells. She kicks Fun Ghoul–hard–and slams her body weight behind her. Jet Star’s helmet hits the floor with a thud, and he instinctively releases the attacker. She scrambles to grab her ray gun before anyone can subdue her again. Slowly backing up, she points it at Fun Ghoul, then Jet Star, then Party Poison. Kobra, hiding in the shadows behind Party, only gets a glare.
“You people,” she says, breathing heavily, “are fucking crazy.” She glances back at Party Poison–the top of the hair dye box sticks out of their bag, the pictures once on it faded into obscurity, catching the girl’s eye. “You’re stealing my dye? Is that why you’re here?”
Fun Ghoul eyes Jet Star, who’s quick to diffuse the situation. "We… didn’t know it belonged to anyone. We didn’t use it yet, th–”
“We’re crazy? You’re the one who pointed a gun at us!” Kobra juts in. “We thought you were gonna ki–”
“Who are you?” Party interrupts. Kobra flanks their side.
The girl snorts. “Didn’t I ask you first?” Despite the initial terror that came with being face-to-face with a BL/ind ray gun, this girl was… very clearly not involved with them. Faded dye stained her shoulders and dotted the white lace on her black top–even her shoelaces were splattered with pink. She lowers her gun to the ground, staring at four bewildered faces. When no one answers her, she sighs. “I’m Sin Mal,” she offers. She fiddles with her ripped pink tights.
After they realize she’s not going to say much else, the Killjoys reluctantly introduce themselves.
“...Jet Star,”
“I’m Fun Ghoul,”
“Kobra Kid. And that’s–”
“I’m Party Poison,” they beam.
“...Cool,” Sin Mal says, shifting her weight. The toe of her boot lifts–it’s tattered, and her socks peek out. Nobody wants to offer more information.
Party smiles. “We’re the Killjoys!” they offer, clearly proud. For some reason, they were less hesitant about this girl–maybe because, like the Fab Four, she was doused in color.
Sin Mal glances over the group. “The killjoys…?” she asks, sliding her gun back in its holster. “Is that the name of your band or something?”
Fun Ghoul starts laughing, trying and failing to cover it up. Kobra Kid glares at him, irritated, while Party responds, “No… we’re just the Killjoys.”
“We want to like… fight BLI and stuff,” Jet Star attempts to explain. “As much as we can, I mean. And protect people in the zones.”
“Yeah! Fight the monochromaticism,” Party says. “That’s our goal.”
“Huh,” Sin Mal nods. She’s heard that term before–monochromaticism–over radio broadcasts, on propaganda pills–it’s everywhere on anything BLI branded. The bleak black and white state of Battery City–it’s depressing. It’s oppressive. She doesn’t like it either.
The corners of her mouth lift. She eyes the group. “So is that why you guys look like a rainbow threw up on you?”
Fun Ghoul bursts out laughing again. Jet Star huffs.
“You look like a fucking flamingo, pinkalicious, you’re one to talk!” Kobra Kid mocked.
Sin Mal giggles, baring her yellow teeth. “Sorry… I like it, I promise. It’s better than looking like a Drac.”
“Yeah! It’s nice to be different, ain’t it?” Party adds. “And you’re pink and colorful. So you’re doing it too!”
Sin Mal smiles. “I mean… I just like pink. But if it sticks it to BLI, I’m all in.”
“Yes! It’s official! You’re a Killjoy!” Party extends their hand–a peace offering. Sin Mal eyes it, unsure of joining this new, odd group–but as far as she could tell, no harm could come from it, and any enemy of BLI could be her friend–at least for the remainder of the day.
She takes Party’s hand, roughly shaking it. “Sure. I’m a Killjoy,” she said, unsure of what exactly she was getting herself into. “So, can I have my dye back?”
“No fucking way!” Party says. “Killjoys share everything.”
“Besides, look at their hair,” says Fun Ghoul. “It’s all faded, way more than yours.”
“Yeah, I’m surprised the Dracs haven’t spotted you from miles away, bubblegum,” Kobra teases.
Jet Star’s eyes widen. “We haven’t had bubblegum in forever.”
Sin Mal smirks. “Well, if you give me some of my makeup back, I do happen to know where we can find some. But you have to promise to give it back.”
“No way! Finder’s keepers,” says Party. Fun Ghoul promptly elbows him.
“Bubblegum, Party. Bubblegum.”
Kobra nods. After half a second of reconsidering, Party agrees. “Fine! But only after we actually get said bubblegum.”
“Of course,” she snickers. “You’re not idiots, after all.”
She begins to walk away, her gun jostling against leather shorts. The Fab Four, or, for now, the Fab Five, set out on their quest for the coveted candy.