Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

// and through it all

we'll find some other way

to carry on through the cartilage and the blood//

It’s hot in California.

It’s always hot, though, so Frank doesn’t say a word. If Kobra Kid and Jet Star can manage to fight wearing freaking helmets, Frank can sit in a car with his scarf over his mouth and not complain like a little bitch. Which he does, day after dry day, but it doesn't mean that he's happy about it.

The weather isn’t as bad as it has been for the last couple of weeks- the air’s still acrid on his tongue, but he can’t feel the heat of the ground seeping through his boots whenever he steps out of the car anymore, which is a relief, because he swears that the rubber soles of his boots were on the brink of melting. He figures that he’ll give it another few days, and then he might not actually feel like his brain’s boiling inside his skull whenever he decides to try to (because it’s impossible in this heat) wear his mask. Instead, he’s just keeping the scarf around the lower half of his face, his hair brushing his shoulders in grubby canopy of greasy black, and then wearing his glasses over the top. It's not super comfortable, but he'll take it over the grey clothes back in Battery City any day.

He’s got a half-empty packet of smokes stored in the waistband of his jeans and he’s itching to light one- his fingers flexing in his lap in aborted effort to reach for them- even though he can’t. If he did that, Party would likely throw a hissy fit and start complaining because the smoking itself is fine, Ghoul, but not in front of the girl. Her lungs are still developing and they’re all trying to save the damn kid, not give her breathing problems. Frank's been given the lecture at least three or four times in the last month and figures that he could probably recite it straight back at Party the next time he opens his mouth, complete with expletives and emphasisations. Fights with draculoids, nights spent in open deserts and high-speed car chases are fine, but smoking? That's where the line is drawn, it seems. 

Speaking of; the girl’s sitting in the centre back seat of the trans-am, giggling hysterically at something Jet’s said, the mess of brown hair falling over her face as her eyes gleam. Frank figures that Jet Star’s really the father figure for her, the mature one that everyone- even Party- looks to for guidance. He's probably the only level-headed one in the group, because Kobra Kid will follow Party to the ends of the earth and Frank’s just far too impulsive for his own good.

Party’s driving, as usual, the wind catching his hair and the red strands twist and writhe in it, almost dancing, but his face is almost emotionless beneath the yellow mask. He’s always like this when he’s driving, Frank's noticed- lost in his own little world, encased inside his own thoughts and plans. (Maybe his fears too, (but he'd ever admit to that. He tries not to let on, but Frank can wake up at a god-forsaken hour at night and see Party crying in his sleep, fingers twitching as he fights off another enemy and lips forming prayers that never make a sound. It’s heart-breaking, actually, the way that the firelight casts wretched shadows beneath his eyes and make him look even more tired than usual. He usually settles down after another few minutes and Frank watches him, desperately trying to push away the urge push brush a strand of sweaty hair from his face.)

Frank doesn’t realise that he’s staring until Party takes his eyes from the road and stares back, one eyebrow raised. “Ghoul? You okay?” he asks curiously, and Frank just nods and faces the front again, trying to ignore the burn creeping up the back of his neck. He tries to ignore Party’s small smile as he turns back to face the road, too, because he’s still trying to convince himself that they don’t mean a thing.

People- heroes- like Party Poison don’t think about people- losers- like Frank in anything other than a purely platonic manner. At most. People like Party Poison go around kicking ass and looking hot as fuck whilst doing it, and Frank follows after him with dark hair and deceptively cocky smirks and makes lame jokes whilst picking off the few stragglers Party’s left alive.

Although Frank still can’t shut up his inner ‘yeah, but what if-‘ that seems intent on popping up every time he tries to ignore the way Party smiles at him.

They drive for another few hours before they eventually pull away from the main dust track and grind to a halt. There aren’t any roads out here, just strips of land that are less saturated in plants than others, but eventually they find a spot to set up camp for the night. It’s not dark yet, but Frank can tell that it will be soon- the sky’s blushing pink, scarlet dragging lazy fingers through it and intertwining with the setting sun.

He probably shouldn’t, considering the circumstances, but he prefers living out in the vast expanses of desert that surround them. Sure, the dracs will raise their ugly heads once in a while and stir up shit, and maybe Korse will try to ghost them for the thousandth time, but they always survive. And Frank enjoys stumbling around the undergrowth with one of the group at his side, searching for loose wood and plants dry enough to use for fuel for a fire- it sure can get cold out here at night. This evening, he’s trailing after Kobra Kid, again wishing that his legs were as long as his, just so he wouldn’t end up tripping over every other shrub that’s in his path. Over his shoulder, he can see Jet Star with the girl and Party Poison at his side only fifty or so metres away. Never get too far apart, that’s what Party always says. Splitting up leads to breaking apart, and then being picked off one by one.

Frank can hear the girl’s voice from over here, and he’s judging from the way she’s flapping her arms around- almost as if she’s planning on taking off any moment- she’s pretty excited about something. It could be a dream she had, or another plan to save the world, or maybe both at once.  Whenever he sits in the backseat of the trans-am, the food wrappers and wanted posters are all covered in crayon master plans, drawings and diagrams that she’s spent entire journeys on. Party doesn’t knock her optimism either, even though he’s the most realistic one of the entire group. He just congratulates her drawings and then will give her one of his own to keep; Frank’s seen one or two of them before- they’re scrawled out hastily in black children’s crayon onto old chip bags, but they’re still amazing.

Frank almost catches himself wondering once in a while about what they’d all be if what happened in 2012 didn’t happen. Maybe Party would be living under his real name, drawing things out for a living on real paper using real pencils. Maybe Kobra would be running a store filled with the comics he’s so addicted to. He’s not sure about Jet: he’d probably be a musician or something more practical and level, but who knows. He doesn’t know what he’d be doing, either. He’s always imagined that he’d become an internationally acclaimed guitarist, touring the world with fans trailing after him everywhere he went. He lets his eyes wander back to the shock of red hair on his left. Or maybe… Frank reels in those treacherous thoughts and turns his complete focus on the task in hand. No point in dwelling on the ‘maybes’ and the ‘what ifs’ when they didn’t do anything but make you nostalgic for things you’ve never even known.

“Ghoul? What’re you doing?” Frank hears Kobra’s voice and realises that he’s been staring at the same piece of wood for the last thirty seconds.

He glances up at Kobra before turning his attention pointedly back to the stick again, wracking his brains for some sort of excuse for his lack of concentration. Man, a drac could’ve snuck up on him at any moment and he probably wouldn’t have noticed a thing until it was too late. “Do you think this’ll be good for the fire?” he asks, picking it up and twirling in between his fingers. It’s only about the length of his forearm and the width of his thumb.

Kobra gives him a look- one that’s half perplexed, half downright worried about Frank’s sanity. “Is it flammable, Ghoul?” he finally asks.

“Yup.”

“Then you can burn it, can’t you?” Kobra raises an eyebrow turning on his heel and making his way back to the trans-am, his leopard-print shirt flapping slightly in the breeze.

Frank lets out a little sigh and follows.

The firelight catches Party’s hair and makes it glow in an almost ethereal way- vibrant red flickering with darker, almost bloody, scarlet, and it’s as if his entire hair is made of the same fire that’s in his eyes as he maps out their latest attack plan.

The girl’s sleeping in the backseat of the trans-am with Star’s coat draped over her torso. Party had insisted that she didn’t need to be around for the Killjoys talks about murder and destruction, and Frank had to agree. This world, this war… it wasn’t one for a kid.

“Right then,” Party says slowly, dragging every syllable over his tongue as he speak, almost as if he’s contemplating the pros and cons of every word before he actually makes a sound. “We’re gonna drive up to Dr D’s tomorrow. See if he’s got any more news on what the ‘Crows are up to. We can catch up on news, get some more food, chill out for a couple of days before hitting the road again.”

He lifts up his head to meet their eyes one by one. Frank’s last, and he can’t help but shiver. Party’s features are set into harsh, determined lines and sharp edges, and there’s a shallow cut beneath his left eye.

“What about the girl?” Kobra cuts in, and Party frowns.

“What about her?”

Kobra gives a small shrug. “She was asking about the city again today. Wants to know about what’s happened to her parents. I told her that I didn’t know, but she’s gonna keep asking until she finds out.”

It’s dark, but Frank can still see the way that Jet Star shifts uncomfortably, Party’s stiffened, his top lip curling, his expression one of complete disgust. “What does it matter what she knows? She doesn’t need to know anything when she’s with us,” he snarls. “We’ve told her what we’ve had to, what was necessary, and that’s it. She knows that the dracs and the ‘Crows are fucktards and that she needs to keep as far away from Korse as physically possible. We’re protecting her. What else does she need to know?”

Kobra scowls. “Like what’s going on in the city, Party, something like that?”

“She already knows about the drugs.”

“No, she knows that there are drugs, She knows that BLI are using them to ruin every person bit by bit. And she knows that every person left in the city and nothing more than zombies. But that’s it.” Kobra’s furious, spitting his words out like bullets.

“You’re being an idiot,” Party sneers. “You want her to run off? You think she’s gonna get less curious the more you tell her about them? She’s a damn kid, she doesn’t need to know about any of this at her age.”

Jet lets out a reluctant sigh but pipes up anyway. “I’m not gonna fight with either of you here, but maybe Kobra’s right. She’s gonna get more curious the older she gets anyway-“

Kobra Kid shakes his head in disbelief. For the first time in a long time, Frank doesn’t feel like joining in the conversation. Argument. Whatever.

 “Who the fuck even says she’ll get a chance to get any older?” Party Poison leans forward, snarling, and his name suddenly seems incredibly accurate. He’s venomous. “We’re living each day as it comes! What makes you so fucking certain that she’s gonna still be alive next week? Or that she won’t find her way back to the city and get dosed up on Better Living’s shit? We are not telling her anymore about the city, you hear me? Fucking nothing.”

“This is stupid,” Kobra scowls. “Why should we expect her to fight for something she doesn’t even properly understand? That’s not fair, you know it isn’t.”

Party pushes a handful of hair from his face and lurches to his feet. “You know what’s stupid? BLI’s shitty agenda. The fact that she hasn’t got a mom anymore. That we’re just a group of nobodies who suddenly have to protect this little kid until she can help us. And you want to risk it all just like that-“

“- I think you need to learn to trust other people more than you already do.” When Jet cuts in, he’s quiet, softly-spoken, but they all hear him anyway. “That’s the only way we’ve manage to last out here for so long already. That’s not gonna change.”

Party looks dumbfounded for a long second, and then, before Frank can say anything to stop him, he’s stormed away.

It’s quiet for a moment, and Frank turns to Kobra, who shrugs. “Give him a while to cool down. He just needs to think about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“He’s a big kid, Ghoul,” Jet sighs. “He can take care of a few dracs if that’s what it comes too. You don’t need to worry about him.”

“Yeah, I know,” Frank says. “I wasn’t… worried… about him. I just didn’t know-“

“He’ll be back in an hour at most,” Kobra interrupts. “Just drop it, okay?”

Chapter Text

Frank takes first watch. Then he takes the second watch too, and the third, rather than waking Kobra or Jet- slouched over with his back to the fire, elbows resting on his knees and chin on his forearms, his eyes burning every time he blinks. Party isn't back in an hour. He’s not back in two. Party should already be back, should never really have left, and Frank’s starting to worry.

The girl’s still curled up in the backseat of the trans-am but now Kobra’s slumped forward in the front seat too. Jet’s asleep too, leaning against one of the car’s doors in a half-seated position. Frank was meant to have woken him up hours ago. He hasn’t, and Frank can’t ignore the anxiety gnawing at his stomach, his teeth chattering from the cold despite the dull glow of the fire pit a handful of metres away. He tries distracting himself by pitting the few comic-book characters that he remembers against BLI reps in cage fights: Korse vs Batman, The Director versus Animal-Vegetable-Mineral Man. It passes the time well enough, and it's not long before he's using some of Party's original comic characters in the fights instead.

Unfortunately, that just reminds him that Party's still not back, which then just brings the worry back in tenfold. Party’s capable of keeping himself safe and dracs often don’t work out at night anyway.

But still. What if something’s happened to him? What if he was snuck up on? What if Korse has managed to find him? Frank wonders why Party had reacted the way that he did. The Killjoys are fairly honest with each other- you need to be if you're trusting each other with your lives- but it didn’t mean that they told each other everything. Their pasts were kept under close wraps and held close to their hearts. They kept running and didn’t look back. Doing so just slowed you down.

He jumps when he hears the footsteps behind him, scrabbling for his laser gun at his hip and lunging at whoever was behind him.

“Hey,” Party says. “Don’t worry, Ghoul, it’s just me.” Frank can feel Party’s breath on his neck, the bittersweat smell of sweat and leather filling his senses. He’s obviously snuck up right behind him, and if it’d been anyone else, Frank could be dead right now.

“Shit,” Frank breathes. “What the hell you doing, Party?”

“C’mon,” Party whispers, and Frank finally turns around and lets Party pull him to his feet. “I found something. You should come and have a look.”

Frank looks around, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Should I wake up Jet?”

“No,” Party says. “We’ll only be a few minutes. My flare ran out, though, so grab one.”

Frank doesn’t know why he does, but he follows him. Party seems completely different from hours ago, when he stormed off, but Frank decides that he shouldn’t bring up that topic. Party looks completely at ease, his jacket pulled tight against the cold and his red hair hanging heavy over one eye. He throws Frank a grin and grabs his wrist, pulling him faster along. “Come on, Ghoul, grab a flare and follow me. You’ll like it.”

He’s not exactly sure where he’s going, but he lets Party drag him along through the dust, almost tripping over weeds about a dozen times before he finally stops. Frank almost crashes right into him as Party crouches down amidst a pile of weeds. Frank can barely see anything, but there doesn’t seem to be anything different about the pile of plants Party’s rifling through.

He doesn’t say anything though, until Party finally sits back on the balls of his feet. In the flickering red light of the flare, the shadows of Party’s face are deepened, making his seem almost inhuman with his bright red hair. Even more beautiful than usual.

 “Pass me the flare for a moment,” he says, voice lowered to a whisper. He leans back into the plants and rifles through for another minute before standing up again, a proud grin on his face.

Frank opens his mouth to ask what he’s smiling about, but then the music starts to play.

The tape player’s spectacularly old, and the music itself is tinny and faint, barely discernible in the roaring silence that surrounds it, but it’s still beautiful. Frank doesn’t know how Party’s managed to find it, especially not in the dark and half-hidden amongst the weeds, but he doesn’t really care. It’s probably one of the many old mementos thrown out back in 2012, back before everything went to shit.

Moments like this… they’re worth living in fear every moment of every day, They’re worth the sleepless nights and the scorching days, because Party looks down at him, gives him a small smile and sits down on the dirt, legs out in front of him and the toes of his boots scuffing the dirt.

His only hope is that it’s too dark for Party to see how widely he’s smiling. Party has that effect on him- his fingers tingling, his face hot, his head spinning. It’s crazy, but he can’t help it. But he still places the flare down by the old tape player, and sits down next to him, their legs touching, and Frank rests his head on Party’s shoulder, fingers brushing the tough collar at his neck. They look like a couple- Party’s hand is resting at Frank’s side, dragging shivers up Frank’s spine.

The tune that’s playing of soft and mournful, the female singer likely long-dead. Her voice is smooth and low, like silk and sand, and Party’s fingers tap against Frank’s side to the tune of the song. They’re so close that their sides are touching, and Frank wonders if Party can feel how fast his heart is beating. Party’s breath is soft against the top of his head, and he’s so tempted- so, so tempted- to intertwine the fingers of their free hands, but he doesn’t dare.

If he does that, then he’ll be finally admitting that he’s been wanting to do that for years, ever since he first met Party and Kobra at Dr Death’s shack. He’ll be accepting that ever since he made it there- after weeks and weeks of looking, ever since he first managed to escape the city and push away the pills they fed him, he’d finally found the place, he’d had no idea what to do.

He’d hung outside for hours, smoking and scuffing the dust with the sole of his boot, until the brothers had pulled up in a cloud of dust and cheap fuel. Dr D had wheeled out to meet them, and it was only then that he’d seen Frank.

Back then, Party had barely said a word, leaving his brother and Dr D to do the talking, But he’d had a quiet sort of magnetism that’d meant that Frank could barely take his eyes from him,  and after a while, Party looked up and stared straight back at him, brushing the recently-dyed hair from his face. A minute or so later, he’d given him a smile.

Even now, Frank feels the same electricity every time they meet eyes, which is why Frank’s skin is freaking buzzing at Party’s touch.

“It’s weird, isn’t it,” Party murmurs into his ear. “People used to do this all the time, before. They’d listen to music like this at their parties and weddings. And sometimes they’d be friends but sometimes they’d be more than that. They’d dance to the same kind of music and then…” He trails off, and Frank looks up to see Party staring off into space, lips parted. He’s wound his fingers together, squeezing so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

For a moment, the only sound is coming from the record player, but Party drags in a cracked breath and blinks down at him. “I… we can’t tell her about what the pills do, Ghoul. We can’t. If she… knows, she might want to...”

The flare’s dying and Party’s lips are pinched into a thin line. Frank wants to trace them with his fingertips, wants to kiss them until they bleed. “What if she wants to be happy all the time, Ghoul? What if she wants the pills? What if she leaves?”

“She won’t-“

“She might though,” Party interrupts. “And the worst bit is that I can understand why. Why would anyone want to live out here… in the dirt… when they could be happy forever in the city? Where they have whatever they want, whenever they want? Ghoul…” He tightens his grip on Frank’s side and pulls him as close as he can. Their chests are pressed together, Frank’s heart hammering against his ribs. Party’s lips are only inches from his own, smoke-stained breath buffeting his face. He’s looking down at him with eyes of broken glass. “Ghoul…” he whispers, “I don’t wanna be alone. I don’t want people to leave me.”

The music’s fading again, filtering away into the night like sand trickling between his fingers, and Frank drags his thumb up Party’s neck. He leans closer, just slightly, as Party stares down at him. “I won’t leave you,” Frank murmurs. “I won’t leave, Party, I promise. Never.”

He can smell the sweat and cigarette smell of him, can feel his body trembling. Party’s usually so in control, steering the Killjoys farther and farther forward, saving the world one step at a time. But right now, he almost looks fragile, like the cracked porcelain dolls Frank’s grandmother would keep on her mantelpiece. Party looks terrified, but he licks his lips anyway and leans closer, and he just has to move his head just a bit to the side-

And then Frank shifts away. “The music’s stopped,” he says, forcing a smile onto his face and shoving his hands into his pockets. Party’s hands have dropped helplessly to his sides, and even though the flare’s dying out, can Frank really make out a twinge of hurt in his eyes, or is that just his imagination?

“We should get back,” Party says, leaning over and switching off the player completely. He turns back to Ghoul with a forced smile that Frank can barely make out in the dark. “Still, it was kinda awesome that I managed to find it out here. Real stroke of luck, huh?”

Frank has to admit that it had been cool. He picks up the flare with trembling hands and follows Party back to their pitch. It’s not a long walk, a few minutes at most, and the entire time Frank spends it mentally punching himself in the face, because Jesus Christ, why did he pull away? Why the absolute fucking fuck did he pull away?

Everyone’s still alive when they get back thank God, and Party says something about taking watch instead of Jet, but by that time Frank’s ready to pass out on his feet. He settles down next to Party, curling up in the dust and pulling his jacket closer around him.

He always gets cold easily, but he’d hoped he’d be okay as close to the camp fire as physically possible. It seems not, though, because even though his back is almost painfully hot, his face and neck are still freezing cold.

“Hey, Ghoul?” Party’s voice is nothing more than a murmur, and a cautious one at that, as if he’s half hoping that Frank’s already asleep. “I’m sorry. About earlier. I overthought things. I didn’t mean to… you know. I just wanted you to know that.” It’s silent for another moment and neither of them say another word. Frank hears Party shift, sigh, and then it’s quiet again.

Frank doesn’t say anything to Party for a number of reasons, even though he kinda wants to.

The first is that he honestly doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know if he’s even meant to say anything at all. Maybe Party’s hoping that he really is asleep, and then if Frank really did say something in reply it’d rapidly become pretty damn awkward.

The second reason is that he’s not completely certain about what Party’s apologising for. Maybe it’s for storming off after the argument with Kobra Kid, or maybe it’s for disturbing Frank’s watch and convincing- albeit incredibly easily- him to trek off and sit with him under the empty sky. Maybe it’s for almost maybe possibly leaning in to kiss him, but if that was so, then Party apologising for it suggested that he regretted it, and Frank’s not sure how he could take that anyway.

The third is that there’s no reason to anyway. He and Party- they didn’t talk about things that had happened. Which means that this entire night, this little adventure, it wouldn’t leave the half hour it’s been allocated. Tomorrow morning, Frank recites with a shiver, he’ll wake up, piss, drive, and won’t say a word about what (almost) happened tonight. Just like Party won’t mention the fight to Kobra or Jet, except to pass them an extra cracker by means of apology.

And when Frank wakes up the next morning with Party’s Dead Pegasus jacket draped over his shoulders, he knows that they won’t say a word about this either.

Chapter Text

The drive to Dr Death’s only takes a few hours.

Frank sits in the back seat next to Jet and Kobra as the girl rides shotgun. Kobra and Party still aren’t speaking. There’s an icy, stone silence growling between them that fills the trans-am and leaves Frank feeling almost claustrophobic. It’s a complete relief when they finally pull up at Dr D’s place, and he clambers out, shaking the pins and needles out of his feet and dragging a deep breath of dry air into his lungs.

Jet Star leads them into the building like he's the mama bird and then they cluster awkwardly in the hallway, waiting for Dr Death to finish his broadcast. Most of the electrical power than the shack can glean from BLI powerlines goes straight to the radio station, so the little lightbulb above Frank's head glimmers off-on-off-on, like it can't make up its mind. Frank can’t help but admire the guy- BLI have the greatest technology he can think of, and Dr D’s taking them on in a battle over the soundwaves with nothing more than a ratty old microphone and a speaker set probably older than Frank himself.

Still, he gives him a grin when Dr Death Defying signs off to a burst of static, switches off the station and then waves them over. He can’t see Show Pony anywhere though- maybe they’re taking notes of the roads, checking out any dracs in the area. Dr Death’s voice is just as gravely as it always has been, and Frank feels more relaxed than he’s felt in a long time. Dr D’s place reeks of security: it’s the place where everyone can meet, discuss tactics, information on Better Living Industries. No weapons allowed in his place- no ray guns, no killing, no treachery or violence whatsoever. The place almost invented the motto of ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’, because as long as you aren’t taking the pills BLI provides, you’re welcome.

They’re only there for a few hours- they’re told about Korse’s movements, this month’s city escapees, who’s been ghosted in the last few weeks. It’s all the same stuff every time they visit, so Frank scuffs at the wooden floor with the toe of his boot, drawing out patterns and words in the dust. It’s only when he hears something new that he throws himself back into the present. “Wait, what?”

“Korse has got new meds.” D’s face is expressionless. “More potent. More effective. More controlling. You’re still happy, but you’re even more empty too. You’re practically zombiefied, and BLI will have complete control over you. You can’t do anything for yourself.”

Frank bites his lip and toys with the blaster at his hip. “But what can we do about that? We’re not going back into the city again, and we can’t do anything to stop them.”

“And then there’s something else, too.” Frank’s head springs back up at Show Pony’s entrance. They slide to a halt at Doctor Death’s side and nods to Party, who gives them a small smile in return. And Frank doesn’t feel a prick of jealousy. He really doesn’t.

“Yeah?” Party raises an eyebrow and Show Pony turns to Dr Death.

“Remember Adrenaline Ghost?” Pony asks, and Dr D nods. “She broke in BLI’s place a week ago, wanted to tamper with some of the pills before they were released. Found herself in an office instead and snatched herself some notes. There’s something new in production, but neither of us could understand it.”

Jet steps forward. “Do you still have them? The worksheets?”

Show Pony shakes their head, voice muffled. “We got jumped. Ghost went one way and I went the other. If she got snapped up then the notes did too. The most I could work out, it's all pyscho-mumbo. Twisting and knotting your mind up so they don't even need to use meds anymore.” With the helmet visor, Frank can't be sure that they're looking towards Dr D. "I'll tell you some more later on. 

Party suddenly looks very pale.

They stay for another few hours, stocking up on canned food and checking over a map Dr D had lent them. Dr Death-Defying himself turned back to his pirate radio station long ago, swarming the soundwaves with music. At one point, Frank thinks he hears the tune from the tape player, but then the soundwaves lurch and it’s lost again.

They’re just finishing off as the broadcasts begin again.

“Look alive sunshine. One-oh-nine in the sky but the pigs won’t quit, you’re here with me, Doctor Death Defying. I’ll be your surgeon, your doctor, your helicopter…”

They pack up, load their bags and fix up their weapons, and Frank’s glad for the burst of energy that the few hours’ break has rewarded him with. They drive off again in a cloud of dust, radio turned up as loud as it would go. For a while, Frank’s doing great, and then the draculoids turn up to kill the fun. Which is fine at first- because what’s a few more dracs on bikes?- but then there’s the familiar growl of tires and Korse’s vehicle swerves into view.

Frank swears. Jet puts on his glasses. Kobra readies his blaster. And Party turns up the radio.

It’s this- this is what he lives for. The chase. The adrenaline. The music so loud that he can feel his heart stutter.

The excitement surging through his veins in tsunami waves as he ducks beneath a white-sleeved arm and fires a blast into the owner’s skull.

The smile that won’t leave his face when he and Jet fire shots just over Kobra Kid’s shoulder and into the drac behind him.

The kid’s grin as he pulls her out of harm’s way, like Frank’s her own personal superhero, as if all four of them really are capable of saving the world.

Frank’s laughing through most of the chase- because Jesus Christ, he’s been waiting to use that grenade launcher on a drac for ages- and the girl’s smiling too. Jet isn’t too impressed with Frank encouraging her to be the one to pull the trigger, but he doesn’t say a thing. They’re all covered in dust and ash, and they all reek of burnt hair from all their close calls, but Frank’s had the best day for a long time.

Until it all goes wrong.

Korse and his cronies catch up with them, and the Killjoys don’t notice that they’re there until there’s no time to run. There’s four Killjoys facing the three dracs and Korse himself, the girl standing apart with the boombox in her arms, like she’s some tiny referee- as if she’s about give them a lecture on no biting, no swearing, no hair-pulling, that she wants a nice clean fight to the death.

Party’s pulled on his clown mask and the red hair dye beneath his chin is starting to remind Frank of a cut throat. His face is expressionless, even as he stares Korse down and the wind tugs his hair into bloody, twisting tendrils, like tortured souls desperate to escape into the blood-red wind.

It’s almost sundown, the air getting cooler by the second, and Frank only just has time to shiver before the girl starts the music and the lasers begin to fire.

It’s finally sundown.

The sky’s so red that it looks like it’s bleeding to death.

He can’t move. Can barely think.

His limbs feel dead. Feel like they’re encased in stone. Can’t move them.

Thoughts feel sluggish. Hard to make out what’s happening. Hard to remember what’s happened.

His chest hurts. There’d been a flash of light. Hit him straight in the chest. Should’ve died. Didn’t die.

Tries to move his head. Difficult, but he manages.

There’s two white figures standing a few metres away. One’s face is as pale as their clothes. The other’s masked. The masked one is holding a struggling shape. A small shape. A small shape with bright clothes and masses of hair.

His thoughts feel weighted. Like each one is swamped in treacle, but he finally realises that it’s the girl. She’s dropped the boombox and is fighting the drac as well as she can, but she can’t break free.

She’s too small, too weak.

The pale-faced figure is staring down at something on the ground. There’s a smile on his face- as cruel, as cold and as sharp as a knife blade. Frank catches a glimpse of red hair amidst the dirt.

Party.

His brain jarrs back into focus, and he tries to turn, tries to stand, tries to lurch to his feet, but he still can’t move. He doesn’t know where his gun is.

Frank just needs to think of something, anything.

Korse’s saying something- his thin lips are moving as he levels his own blaster at Party’s face. Frank can’t tell if he’s even alive, let alone awake, but if he is, then Frank knows that Party won’t let them take the girl. Together, they’ve got this.

If only he could move.

Korse smirks, gestures to his drac, and they turn away, begin to march away in the direction of the cars, leaving Party lying on the ground, the girl in tow. She’s still fighting, her legs kicking, feet throwing up clouds of dirt. Frank needs to get up, he needs to help-

He tries to roll over onto his front, but the second he lifts his head the world begins to dip in and out of focus. He can taste blood in his mouth and his head’s beginning to pound. He can’t move. Nothing’s working.

He almost yells out of frustration, but he can’t find the voice.

And out of the corner of his eye, he sees Party rise. First to his knees, then to his feet. Slowly, Painfully. As if every muscle in his body was screaming to stay lying down, just like Frank’s is.

But he’s standing, red hair twisting in the cold wind. He’s lost his clown mask, but his face is twisted into an expression of pain, so much pain, and fear, unadulterated and furious desperation. Frank doesn’t realise that Party’s got one of the draculoid’s blasters in his hand until it’s raised towards the retreating backs.

They’re already at least twenty metres away, the drac struggling as the girl writhes in his arms, but Korse still staggers when he’s hit.

But he doesn’t fall.

Why doesn’t he fall?

Frank’s head’s still spinning. His vision is beginning to blur.

He tries to move again but his stomach twists, a spear of red-hot pain shooting through his chest.

He’s going to pass out any moment. He can feel it.

But he can’t. He’s got to help Party. Got to save the girl.

Korse straightens, turns around slowly, and the blaster drops from Party’s trembling fingers. Frank’s vision is beginning to fade, but he can make out the stuttering rise-and-fall of his chest, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t take his warm, hazel eyes from Korse’s empty ones. Not even when Korse steps towards him, movements as deadly and fluid as a rattlesnake’s.

Frank passes out just as Korse’s pale hands wrap around Party’s throat.

Chapter Text

When he opens his eyes, they’re all gone.

Korse.

The dracs.

The girl.

Party.

His eyes close again.

“Ghoul! Ghoul! I swear to God, if you're dead I'm gonna-“

Frank jerks awake, lashing out and almost smacking Jet Star across the face. His hair’s even messier than usual, and one side was completely caked with blood. He’s not wearing his shades and his voice is as cracked as the sun-baked ground. The composure that Frank is so used to has been replaced by blind panic. That's the terrifying thing.

Jet sits back on his heels, drags the palms of his hands over his face. When he drops them again, he looks like he's about to cry. Frank’s heart clenches. “You’re okay. Thank fuck, you’re okay. Thought you were dead for a minute there, Ghoul. Really had me worried.”

Frank sits up. His head’s still pounding, but at least he can move now- his fingers are buzzing with pins and needles, but other than that, he’s okay. There’s a fierce smell of burning, but when he looks down, he realises that’s him. There’s a large scorch mark in the centre of his jacket, directly over his sternum. When he shifts, a piece of the material about the size of his thumbnail dissolves into ash and tumbles onto his lap.

Frank’s not so sure how he’s managed to survive a direct hit like that. Should’ve frazzled his heart from the inside of his ribcage and destroyed his nerves. But he’s not. He is quite clearly still very alive. Party’ll want to know about this- oh fuck, Party.

“Where is he?” Oh god oh god, Party... His voice is trembling far more than it should be and his throat feels raw, like he’s been breathing in the desert dust.

Jet doesn’t look at him. This isn’t good- if Party was fine, then Jet would have to ask who Frank meant.

No.

“Jet? Where’s Party?”

No no no…

Jet’s crying now, silently, tears trickling down the side of his face, running over a spot of dried blood on his chin. He looks back down at him, and Frank knows.

Nononononononono.

“He’s gone,” Jet whispers. “Fun Ghoul, Party’s gone.”

Kobra Kid hasn’t slept properly in a week. Sometimes Frank can hear him crying.

It’d taken the combined effort from both Frank and Jet to drag him back to the trans-am. He’d lost his sunglasses, his hair was a mess, and the blood seeping through the sleeve of his jacket was the same colour as the material itself. He’d been staggering around for hours, shaking both of them off with the hand that wasn’t clutched against his chest, screaming himself hoarse.

His brother’s names. Party Poison. Gerard. Over and over and over again, until the sound of it has been scorched into his brain.

After they finally managed to calm him down enough for him to be able to ‘stop screaming for one minute, Kobra, because this isn’t going to help anyone out at all!’ he’d simply collapsed into the dust, knees giving out and his entire body crumpling, like he was made out of paper.

Frank’s never heard someone scream before. Not the way Kobra had- dripping red, soaked in razor wire. Acidic, sickly, bursting into the quiet air like lit gunpowder kegs. And it was almost terrifying watching him, watching the grief rip its way out of his lungs like it had claws, because Kobra Kid sounded as if he was in so much agony that he was being torn apart there and then. It was wretched and animalistic; it was an inhale, then a howl. Inhale. Scream. It went straight through Frank's skull. Jet held him like he was scared that if he didn't, Kobra might fall apart there and then. 

Frank was numb, though. Still is. Detached, kinda, like he’s just watching the three of them from above, as they stumble aimlessly through the deserts with no idea where to go, no idea what to do. He watches the following days through eyes that aren't his own, with a body that doesn't feel like his. Catch up with Show Pony once, whenever they’re seen on the road, and give them the news. Beat the shit out of any ‘crows or dracs they find. Keep an ear out for any news of a red-haired killjoy with a blue jacket and an infectious smile. Keep up trying to find out whether Party’s even alive.

He won’t be.

You don’t keep people like Party Poison alive, anyway. People like Party Poison don’t break- they flex, they bend, but they don’t break. They don’t give up either. They’ll keep coming back for more and more until they’re ghosted.

Frank’s not an idiot. He knows this. Jet does too, but Kobra’s nowhere near to accepting it. The problem is that BLI know this as well, and if Frank knows Korse well enough (which he does) then he knows that Party will have been eliminated immediately. Just like the rest of them should have been. Frank’s still not sure why they weren’t.

Tear down the roads with two empty seats in the trans-am. Check in with Dr Death-Defying once every few weeks, see if there’s any news on BLI’s new drug batches. They’re trying to fix together futures when half the pieces are still missing.

Frank’s never bothered wearing watches, even before 2012. They always just seemed pointless: you don’t need a watch when you can just check your mobile for the time instead. But for the last week, Frank’s starting to wish he did have one, just so he could count the hours that Kobra’s actually slept, because there haven’t been very many. Each morning, Kobra’s eyes are that much more bloodshot, the shadows beneath his eyes growing deeper, almost as if they're trying to join up to the hollows in his cheeks.

He’s barely eating either, but neither Frank nor Jet mention it; there’s no point anyway, because Kobra either stops talking or changes the subject completely. He always had been a skinny kind of guy, but Jet’s terrified that Kobra will become nothing more than a skeleton at this rate, and if some dracs attack him… well, he’d sure as fuck be no match for them.

Frank’s not sleeping well, but that’s more because every time he does, he’s trapped inside a nightmare. And it’s always the same one. Fuck. He wakes up choking on his own scream, drowning in his own self-loathing and ‘FrankFrankwhatthefuckdidyoudoyoulefthimyoulethimdie’. And then he’ll pass out the next night and it’ll be the same thing, stuck inside a nightmare he can’t wake from.

“You hungry?”

Jet’s holding out a can of food for him, and Frank shrugs but takes it anyway. He’s not hungry, his stomach’s churning, but he robotically peels the lid open and helps himself. Gotta keep his strength up. The food’s plain and boring as fuck, and Frank’s pretty sure that he’s eaten cardboard with more taste. He forces it all down anyway and crushes the can beneath his boot.

His chest still hasn’t recovered from the blast to his chest- he’s managed to scavenge a shirt that’s pretty much identical to his old one, which he’d thrown on the fire. Jet’s still cemented on the idea that BLI have developed some new blaster, one that’s not set on ‘kill’. Frank listens half-heartedly and throws a "yeah" or "sure" in whenever there's an expectant silence. Kobra doesn't even bother with that. He knows that there's no other way they should have survived that fight with Korse. He knows they should be dead right now, their bodies should be on show back in Battery City with the ‘EXTERMINATE’ posters torn down and crushed up in the dirt. He knows, he just doesn't care.

Frank wonders whether Party Poison’s poster has been removed yet.  

Jet Star sighs, fiddling with lace of his boot. “We need to catch up with Dr Death again this week. See if we can find out any more about the new pills that BLI have cooked up. Or ask him about these new weapons. How about it? We could set off tomorrow.”

Kobra doesn’t look up when Jet glances at him, but Frank shrugs. “Sure thing,” he says, and that’s that.

They’re not really much for conversation these days.

Red.

Red in front of his face.

Red consuming his vision.

Red hair, lank and greasy, hanging limp over his eyes like a scarlet canopy.

White.

White clothes too big for his body.

White skin- pale from the lack of sunlight.

White walls. White ceiling. White room.

Everything’s white: the room, his clothes, the chair he’s strapped into, the medication they feed him, the face of the dead-eyed person watches as they feed him the pills again and again and again.

Their eyes are dead but their smile is cruel as a knife edge.

Everything’s white.

White room. White clothes. White fog in his head.

Red hair.

Red as the blood they tug from his veins. Filling up countless vials of red and leaving him dizzy.

Too much red in the vials and not enough in his body.

White uniforms and white masks leering close.

Soon enough, he almost can’t remember what colour the sky is.

One week later, they find a group of dracs on patrol through the desert. The dracs don’t see them until it’s too late: there’s a scream of tires and a cloud of dust, the music screaming out of the speakers and mixing with the laser beams filling the air.  There’s five, six of them, or maybe it’s seven- Frank can’t be arsed to count properly- but he takes as many of them out as efficiently as he can. Doesn’t say a thing, not even when he loses his blaster and beats one into unconsciousness with his fists instead.

It takes him a minute or so to retrieve his gun from where it’d been knocked underneath a loose bush, but when he turns back, he freezes. Kobra’s crying again, fists clenched and shoulders shaking, glaring down at the dead drac sprawled at his feet.

“You okay?” Frank hedges, and he’s tempted to take a step back when Kobra turns that furious glare on him instead. He’s not wearing his sunglasses for once, but his eyes are brimming with anger, and for the first time, Frank’s terrified of him. The guy’s on breaking point.

“Am I okay?” Kobra repeats, voice dripping with venom but shaky, like broken glass that could shatter at any moment. “My brother might be fucking dead, Ghoul. Do you get that? You realise that I've got to hope that my own brother is dead? I've got to stay here hoping that he's dead because it's better than the alternative? We couldn't even protect a little kid. And we're alive with people in Bat City like zombies and BLI getting stronger each day, except there's nothing we can do about it. So I’m fucking great thanks, how are you?”

Frank isn’t too good either, but for once he walks away and doesn’t say a word.

Their car journey to nowhere is filled with impenetrable silence, even when the music’s turned up so loud that Frank’s surprised that Korse hasn’t heard them from Battery City.

Kobra doesn’t speak to him for the rest of the day, and to be honest, Frank understands why. He doesn’t want to imagine what it’d be like if Kobra finds out what Frank did. Or what he didn’t do, really: he didn’t get up and save Party when he had the chance. God, he can’t believe it. All that talk with Party Poison about never abandoning him, and at the very first chance, Frank lets him down completely.

Kobra’s crying again- Frank can hear the tell-tale muffled sobs and stuttered coughs, but he keeps still, staring up at the sky and playing dot-to-dot with the stars. One particular cluster looks like the outline of a camel. Another looks like a draculoid’s mask and he shivers.

The sharp, sudden sound of an automatic door sliding forces the temporary fog from his head.

White. White everywhere.

White room, white chair, white clothes.

The lack of colour’s going to drive him insane.

He looks up at the women smirking at him from the doorway and glares at her, but if anything, she only smiles wider.

The other figure is standing only a metre in front of him, leering down at him with cold, dead eyes.

They don’t say anything at first: stare down at him with empty eyes, as if he’s nothing more than a carcass on a dissection table, waiting patiently for them to take him apart bit by bit, ready for them to find out exactly how he works.

The pale face looms closer and he has to stop himself flinching away.

Sharks have dead eyes. Dead, cruel eyes- black, evil eyes, only ever focused on the prey. Rolling up into their skull as they lunge for the kill. The figure’s eyes remind him of a shark’s- They’re cold, like marble, and he knows that the figure is going to tear him apart.

He can’t move anyway. The metal bands securing his legs, arms and chest to the chair is icy cold, seeping through his white clothes.

The figure doesn’t take their eyes from as the woman slips into the room, her high heels clicking sharply against the floor. “You are under containment for terrorism,” she states, and he can’t find it within himself to reply, “for the careless and brutal murders of BLI employees and multiple attempts to destroy the peace and contentment of our system. You also refused to answer any of our questions-“

-questions, he thinks, more like interrogations-

“-so our two remaining options are execution or enrolment to the BLI program. And if I am honest, to kill you would only make you a martyr. It would only inspire others to take your place.”

He doesn’t take his eyes from hers, even when the figure’s hand snaps out and grips him by his chin, hard, fingers digging into his skin, twisting his face from one side to the other, and the women looks down at him, analysing him, as if he’s a piece of livestock to be bought.

He curls his lip at her, trying to fill his glare with enough venom to kill. It would be perfect if it was that simple- just scowl at the woman and her attack dog until they both keeled over and died- but he can’t imagine that actually working.

Reality doesn’t work that way.

“So therefore,” she continues, “the logical conclusion would to make a draculoid out of you. To give you a mask and turn you against your old allies. But with our current rejection rate, I'm not hopeful that it'd prove successful. The last thing we want is for someone like you to usurp the system we've worked so hard to develop.”

He feels so special, causing BLI so many inconveniences.

The woman leans closer and he can smell the peppermint on her breath. She smells of hospitals- of medicine and antiseptic- and leather. He doesn’t think anymore of it, though, once she whispers something in his ear and steps away with a cruel smile on her face.

The tall figure- he knows their name, he knows who they all are, but it’s all so fuzzy- remains emotionless. Like stone. Marble. Stares at him. Stares through him.

“You're going to be part of our new project.” the woman says.

He doesn’t understand anything, but that might just be the drugs drowning his thoughts.

“And don't you worry, honey,” she purrs, “you’re going to be something unique, how does that sound?”

Chapter Text

Frank has a really, really stupid plan.

Like, on the scale of zero to not taking your own weight into account when testing out the first parachute, Frank figures that this is about a ‘not letting Hitler into art school’.

So essentially, really, really, really stupid.

Frank’s totally up for it.

They got jumped by another patrol only a while ago- it’s kinda crazy, actually, Frank figures- because the amount of dracs they’ve encountered in the last week is twice the amount they fought in the two weeks before they lost Party.

It’s only been a week. It’s scary- it feels so much longer, like each second’s been dragged out into ten, then into sixty, like each breath takes an hour. Everything hurts, like Party’s taken an important part of Frank with him, and Frank can hardly thing about it with his chest tightening every single time.

And then there’s the girl. They’ve lost her, too. When Frank thinks about that, it’s a different kind of hurt- more of a stabbing self-loathing, because hey, what good are they if they can’t even protect A FUCKING EIGHT YEAR OLD, HUH?! But they couldn’t have helped that. That’s what Jet continues to insist- like some dumb mantra he can’t get out his head so throws it Kobra and Frank’s way instead.

Like sure, Frank gets it. They fought as hard as they could. They lost. They opened their eyes and oh deary me, two out of five were missing. Couldn’t help it. Not their fault.

Except Frank opened his damn eyes and saw everything going on but didn’t do anything to stop it.

And he hates himself for it.

Because now, if the girl’s dead, if Party’s head is stuck on some pike on Battery City’s wall (he’s pretty sure they don’t actually do that, but whatever), then it’s Frank’s fault. Because he should have stopped it, but he didn’t. Couldn’t.

But right. Back to stupid plan. Because Frank’s just about the brightest crayon in the box of felt pens.

They’ve crashed out again, a quarter of an hour’s drive away from where they’d met the BLI group. It’d only been two, three, bikes, and two of them had crashed into each other within seconds. The third one had been in pretty decent condition though, when Frank pulled it out of the ditch, and now he can’t stop thinking.

Fifteen minutes, give or take a few. At sixty-five kph, that’d be… sixteen kilometres? Okay, so he’s sixteen...ish kilometres away from the BLI bikes, which are lying on the open road, pretty easy to spot, still with some maybe-dead riders still nearby.

He's pretty sure he could make five kilometres in an hour, at a basic walking speed. So at slowest pace, it'd be three hours and a bit for him to get back to the bikes. He could manage that.

Fuckin' maths. And he'd whined back in school about how that shit'd never be useful.

Frank glances up at the sky. Jet and Kobra are sitting around the fire, stony silent, the sky flushed blood-red above them. He could take the last watch. Then he’d have energy, as well as a splash of light to help.

He could get to the bikes before Kobra and Jet even wake up. He knows he could.

This is a really stupid idea. Frank’s totally gonna do it.

Kobra wakes him up for the third watch, just as he said he would. The sky’s overcast, stars impossible to make out through the thick veil of clouds, but there’s still moonlight- enough to make out the surroundings- the road, the dead scenery, the sleek shape of the trans-am lurking metres away.

He groans, sits up, rubs the sleep from his eyes. Kobra doesn’t even bother to give Frank a smile- he practically throws himself back down into the dirt and passes out almost immediately. Frank waits for a long time, his legs stretched out in front of him as he stares out over the desert until his legs start to fall asleep.

Kobra starts to snore, and Frank figures that yeah, they’re not going to wake up now, as long as he’s careful.

Right, it should be easy though. He’s just gotta find the dracs’ bikes.

He sits up, brushes the dust off his pants, and then stretches, stepping away from Jet and Kobra curled up on the ground.  He’s just got to be quiet. He can do that. He’s the stealthiest mothafucker that ever stealthed. Frank steps past the trans-am. So silent. He’s one with the shadows. The creature of the night. So silent, so quiet, so-

“Ah shit!” Frank manages to trip over some uneven patch of dirt that he’s so sure wasn’t there a moment a go, losing his balance and falling backwards, almost smacking his head on the boot of the trans-am.

He manages to catch himself before the hits the ground, but he still manages to make a hell of a sound before he does.

Frank freezes and holds his breath. He doesn’t dare to turn back to see if the others have woken up- he doesn’t want to see the angry looks in their eyes when they raggedly patch together their own idea of what he’s doing.

Another long moment of heavy silence, like lead, pressing against his shoulders, and Frank lets out his breath, He can’t hear anything. They can’t have woken up. How the fuck they've survived so long is beyond him- they could probably sleep through a fucking nuclear detonation. 

He takes another step, then another, and then he’s walking as quietly as he can possibly manage away from the dying firelight, finding the disturbed dust trail of a road and following it. Right. Three hours. It’ll take around three hours to get where he wants to be. Three hours until he has the means to get to Battery City and save Party’s ass.

He keeps walking, eyes fixed on the horizon, one hand resting on the blaster at his hip at all times. The desert’s always cold at night, even though the days are burningly, blisteringly hot, and he shivers, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. He needs a smoke, already, at least he remembered to bring those- he’ll find the bikes and then he’ll have one. He needs to ration them, after all- he has no idea how long it’ll be until he finds some more traders to barter another packet from.

He’s lost in his own thoughts for a long time; perhaps a quarter of an hour or so, immersed in the sound of his own footsteps, the whisper of the wind over the sand, the gradually-increasing light that seeps over the horizon, and it takes the sound of a rapidly-approaching vehicle to jerk him back to reality. He’s got his blaster out and ready- aimed just above the centre-point between the headlights, where the windscreen should be- before the car gets closer and he curses.

Damnit. Damn damn damn.

The trans-am ploughs past him and then swings to a stop metres away, throwing up a cloud of dust, and it’s barely stopped moving before a figure steps out of the passenger side, starting up a flare as they walk towards him. The red light illuminates their face as they throw a quick remark to the driver and march towards him. Frank can make out the scowl twisting their expression.

Shit. It’s Jet.

And he looks pissed.

Frank starts to turn back around, but Jet’s running now, caught up with him, grabbed his arm and pulled him back, almost off his feet.

“Get off!” Frank yells, trying to yank his arm free, but Jet grips tight onto his sleeve. “Dude, seriously, get the fuck off me, you piece of shit!”

“I’m the piece of shit?” Jet snarls, and Frank’s never seen him so angry- upset, sure, and irritated, but never trembling with rage, jaw set and his expression burning. Frank’s half worried he’s about to punch him. “Are you kidding me? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Frank tries to pull away again, but it’s almost like Jet’s made of stone. “I’m saving Party, alright? I’m getting into Bat City and saving him and the girl because no one else is doing anything!”

“And this is how you’re going to help them? By running off in the middle of the night to Battery City and getting yourself killed? That’s really your master plan right now?”

The hiss from Jet’s flare, the hum of the engine, makes the tension even heavier, like a weight on Frank’s shoulders, the red light flickering like snakes across Jet’s face.

Frank forces himself to calm down, dragging in a deep breath and refusing to try and wrestle his sleeve out of Jet’s grip. Maybe he can try and reason with him. That’s the best plan.

“Listen,” he says carefully. “Remember the dracs we ghosted earlier? With the bikes? It’s not hard, man, I can just pick up one of them and-”

“What? Ride straight into Battery City on one of them? Is that the best you could manage?” Jet looks so unimpressed that damn, Frank’s actually offended.

“Well, duh,” he says. “I’m not gonna leave you two high and dry in’a middle of the desert now, am I? Like that’d be a dick thing to do-“

Jet interrupts him again, and that angry look is back “So running off in the middle of the night isn’t a dumb thing to do? When you-“

“I wasn’t running away,” Frank mutters sullenly. “I was walking. Fucking difference.”

“When you know that Kobra’s taking it twice as hard as either of us,” Jet continues, not even acknowledging Frank’s words, gesturing with his free hand back towards the trans-am. Frank guesses it must be Kobra in the driver’s seat. “He barely holding it together as it is. You know that if he realised that you’ve gone to save his brother he’d tried to join up with you, and he’d end up dead. He’d get himself killed if it means that Party would be safe.”

Frank would do the same for Party, but he knows he shouldn’t mention it. Not when Jet’s like this.

“It doesn’t matter,” Frank growls. “Kobra’s not here. I’m gonna get one of the BLI bikes and get to Battery City, and I’m going to get Party out of there because no one else seems to be trying to do that.”

“How?” Jet says flatly. “What? You just going to drive straight into the city and they’re not going to ghost you the first chance they get?”

Frank shrugs. “Drac masks. If I dress up as a drac, take the BLI outfit from one of the guys we took out yesterday, I can get straight into the city and into BLI before they realise who I am.”

Jet looks at him for a long moment, and there’s a splutter as the flare in Jet’s hand gives up and dies. The light’s slowly starting to drag itself into the sky with bloody red fingers, and in the growing light, Frank sees Jet shaking his head, almost he’s disappointed in him.

“Dude,” Jet says slowly. “Don’t be such an idiot. When someone puts a draculoid mask on, they’re broken. You know this. They see every runner as a monster and try and see every person who isn’t City-approved as the enemy. What? You think you can overpower BLI tech with your own willpower?”

Frank’s expression twists into a scowl, clenching his fists so tightly that he can feel his bitten nails dig into his palms. He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need Jet questioning Frank’s plans and blaming him for Kobra’s reckless loyalty to his big brother. All he wants… all he needs… is Party back, Party safe.

He just needs Party.

And he hates himself for it.

“Fuck off!” His yell almost shocks him, takes Jet by surprise too, and he takes the moment to push him back a couple of steps. He doesn’t care if he has to knock Jet out right now and get to the bikes anyway. Maybe he can convince Kobra to hijack the bikes and go to Bat City with him. Kobra would want to help. He knows it.

He glares back at Jet. “I’m going, motherfucker, just watch me.”

He’s turning on his heel, ready to drag Jet with him if needs be, but then something hits him, hard, on the side of the face, sending him reeling, the world spinning. He staggers backward, trips over his own feet, and lands gracelessly on his butt.

His face is burning. His throat feels tight. Frank looks up at Jet with wide eyes, and he can’t believe it- he can’t believe that out of everyone, it’s Jet, the kind, caring one, that-

“You hit me,” Frank chokes, hand pressing to his cheek. His face is burning. "You sonofabitch!"

Jet’s standing above him with his fists clenched, and he looks even angrier than before, but sadder too, like the anger's just filled up the empty space that the sadness had hollowed out. “I’m not having you get yourself killed too, Ghoul,” he says, voice cracking, and then the anger’s all gone and it’s just sadness rushing to take its place. “We’ve lost the girl. We’ve lost Party. We’re losing Kobra. I can’t lose you too, okay?”

Frank had a really, really stupid plan. It was reckless and hundred-percent suicidal, and it’s only now he realises it.

God, he hates himself sometimes.

They make their way back towards the trans-am, Frank’s palm still pressed against the side of his face (he never realised how hard Jet could punch, damn), and Kobra looks back up at them as they approach.

“You finally done?” he asks with a bored expression.

Jet nods, opens the backdoor and pushes Frank towards it. Frank clambers in without a word, and while he’s settling down, Kobra twists around in the seat to look at him. “Dude,” Kobra says. “If you’re gonna try and run away on a suicide mission in the middle of the night, try not to be so loud while you’re doing it, okay?”

Frank shakes his head. “My plan was pretty solid, thanks.”

“Super predictable,” Jet adds, and Frank almost wants to smile.

He crashes out in the backseat of the trans-am for the next few hours. By the time he wakes up again, the sun’s blindingly bright, the mark on the side of his face fading into a remarkably impressively-sized bruise on his cheek. And even though he’s lost one of the most important people in his life, he half thinks that he can make it through with his other two best friends he’s ever had by his side.

Chapter Text

They hold a funeral four weeks later.

For a long time, they’ve been able to hold back the cloud of finality that looms over them, which will inevitably implode into rain when they finally accept that both Party Poison and the girl are dead. You see, you can tell yourself something as many times as you want, but it still doesn’t mean that you’ll accept it as truth. Frank can tell himself that Party’s long gone until his lips bleed, but it still doesn’t mean that he can bury that tiny flame of hope in his chest.

Because maybe Party’s still alive, somehow. Frank can’t completely accept that he’s not.

Not, at least, until they’re at the dump, digging through rubbish half a mile away from the city limits but still too close to be safe.

Frank’s face hurts.

He’s got a bruise clinging to his cheekbone, mottled purple and blue, his cheek swollen and tender.

When he'd been dragged back to the trans-am, Jet hadn’t spoken to him for an entire day afterwards. It was infuriating- Kobra smirked and raised his eyebrows in amusement whenever Jet cut Frank off, almost as if he was getting kicks out of Jet’s pissy mood. Frank couldn't help but think that hey, maybe Kobra resented him for it, if it hadn’t been for the night after, when Frank sat awake with Kobra Kid, Jet snoring softly in the front seat of the car. They all knew Frank wasn't going to run off againwho looked at him for a long moment, before saying softly- “it’s my fault.”

Frank had lifted his head, blinked the sleep out of his eyes. “What?”

Kobra’s expression twisted, not with anger, or even sadness, but almost as if he was disappointed. “I should’ve gone with you. Or I should’ve gone by myself sooner.”

“Hey,” Frank said softly. “He might still be alive. It’s Party, remember? If anyone can destroy an evil organisation from the inside, it’ll be him. You know it.”

Kobra whistled out a soft breath of a laugh between his teeth. “Jet said it was a deathwish, me trying to get to the City and he's right. But I’d still rather die than leave him out there.”

Frank shook his head. “Dude, c'mon, you know that’s a stupid thing to said. He wouldn’t have wanted you to get hurt.” The second he said that, he knew it’s true. Kobra’s a good guy- he does too much kung fu, rarely smiles, and funny in a way that’s almost too dry for some people to notice that he’s actually hilarious. He’s Party’s lil bro, they both dote on each other, and Frank knows Party would run headfirst into death to save Kobra from being ghosted.

Kobra shook his head though, his nose scrunching. “I’m his brother, y’know? I should’ve been the one to try and do something. It was you instead, though, and you’re just a friend.”

A friend. Yeah. Frank felt his stomach twist even though he knew that this wasn’t the time for it, but he nods anyway. 

Kobra looked over at him, silently.

Now, his cheek is smarting, even days later, but he presses a gloved hand to it, the cool leather leeching into his burning skin.

It’s become almost a habit now- they’ve been doing this for years, sneaking through the dump outside the city, even though Party used to hate it. Hated being so close to the city and stepping over empty pill wrappers as he dug through filth. They’re over half a mile away from the city walls, but it’s still too close in Frank’s opinion.

But now, each time they visit, he can’t help look back at the city lights, wonder whether Party’s in there, whether Party’s looking back over the wall and wondering whether they’re out there too.

It’s dumb, and Frank should probably stop thinking about it. He’s a runner. People die. Get over it. 

It’s risky, searching through the dump, sure; they all know that there are BLIs patrolling through it every hour with meticulous timing- at twenty-seven-past every hour, Frank can hear the tell-tale step step step step and will immediately give Jet and Kobra a nod and they’ll slink away. By the time the dracs arrive, the Killjoys are long gone.

When Frank’s trawling through the dump, that’s the only time he can ever check the passing of time. There’s a large clock-tower near the edge of the dump, something that should have been destroyed in the Helium Wars ages ago, but somehow surviving, old and crumbling to pieces, but still functional.

What was that phrase? Oh yeah- ‘time flies when you’re having fun!’ But despite the fact that he never enjoys it, despite the phrase, it’s still surprising when he glances up from the discarded boxes he’s rifling through only to realise that their hour is almost up. It’s not enjoyment, though, that makes the minutes pour through his fingers like loose desert dust, but more the numbness. The segregation of all irrelevant thoughts from the simple, mind-numbing process of rooting through garbage bags. Frank’s always been able to work blankly, loose himself in a labyrinth of mindless tasks.

Jet’s never approved of their trips to the city dump, but he can’t help but accept that they’re necessary. He’s practically the mother hen of the group- fussing over their masks and blasters, making sure that they’ve always got enough food- hence the rooting through the garbage, because sometimes the raids on the dracs don’t produce good enough results- and generally going out of his way to ensure that the two other remaining Killjoys are as least likely to die as he can help.

On the night that Frank finally realises that Party’s dead, he’s already scavenged together four half-empty cans of food and a packet of biscuits. There’s plenty of empty pill packets laying around, but Frank makes sure to avoid them as best he can. Whenever he looks at them, all he can think of is the plastic smiles that looked like they had been painted directly onto people’s faces, the empty eyes and empty minds that accompanied them.

It’s not good thinking about them. Dwelling on the past is never a good thing to do.

He’s just lifting up another can and dropping it with a sigh once he realises that it’s empty when something catches his eye. A dark blue flash of material, hidden beneath a garbage bag.

Frank reaches over and tugs it free, holding it up in the moonlight to inspect.

It’s Party’s Dead Pegasus jacket.

It’s only the figure this time- the woman doesn’t join him.

For a long moment, they stand in front of him, looking down their nose with red-rimmed eyes, but he tenses. This isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last.

He knows he shouldn’t listen to what they’re going to say, but he also knows that he will anyway. That’s how it’s always worked before.

They don’t gloat. They don’t mock him. Instead, they do the same thing they always do.

They repeat the words coming through their earpiece, spitting them out into his face. They say: “you failed them.”

And he does the same thing he always does. He narrows his eyes and shakes his head, but his throat burns too much to deny it.

Their smile is tight-lipped as they adjust the ruffles on their coat.

“You did. They’re better off without you. They’re finally free from you.”

He shakes his head again, this time furiously. No. Not true.

Not true. Not true. Can’t be true.

The figure’s breath smells of the pills that they forced down his throat this morning.

“You know it’s true. They wanted you dead. You left them and they left you. You were pathetic. You ruined everything.”

No. No no no no.

The figure keeps talking.

He tries to ignore them, their voice, their words, but he can’t.

He ruins everything.

No no no.

He’s alone.

No no no.

Yes yes yes.

He screams.

He screams until he can taste blood.

He screams until there’s no air left in his lungs, but he continues anyway- folding into himself and crying at the taste of blood on his tongue.

Frank’s not sure how long he’s frozen for before he hears footsteps behind him, but he still can’t move. It’s like watching Party stand up to Korse all over again- his arms feel as if they aren’t even attached to his body, his legs numb and leaden. All he can look at, all he can think about, is the jacket, who it belongs to, what it must mean if it’s here.

It can’t… Party can’t…

“Ghoul?” Jet calls, “we gotta go in a minute, that okay?” Frank can hear him approaching, and he must be only a few metres away, not to mention that it’s far too dark for him to see the jacket until he’s closer. He’s not sure where Kobra is.

He’s about to throw it away, hide it somewhere out of sight while he can process the mess of thoughts tumbling around his head, but Jet steps up to his and Frank hears him choke on his words.

“Jesus Christ. Ghoul, it that…?”

Frank licks his lips. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

He sits back on his heels, drags in a heavy breath. Damnit.

“Fuck.” Jet runs a hand through his hair and crouches down next to him. It’s dark, but Frank swears that he’s gone pale. His hair’s even messier than before- Frank thinks he can see a discarded potato chip somewhere- despite Jet’s efforts to keep it neat, but he doesn’t mention it. “Listen, Ghoul, we can’t… we can’t tell Kobra. He’s barely holding on as it is. I don’t want to think about what he might do if we tell him.”

Frank nods, but inside he’s screaming ‘Party is dead Party is dead why the fuck is Party dead he can’t be dead’.

He shouldn’t have listened to Jet. He should have gone to Battery City. He should have taken Kobra with him- Jet Star wouldn’t have stopped both of them. Kobra wouldn’t be a mess now if Frank had.

Kobra wouldn’t be like this if Party wasn’t dead.

But Party can’t be dead.

Party can’t be dead.

But the thing is that Party’s dead and this is the proof.

He smuggles the Dead Pegasus jacket back to their car underneath his own shirt, folds it up as small as he can and hides it in the boot. Drives for a handful of hours, set up a fire, cracks open a can of power pup.  Waits until Kobra finally drops into a fitful sleep before sneaking away with Jet, one holding Party’s MouseKat head, the other with Party’s biker jacket and clown mask. They’d found the mask on the floor, just after Party had disappeared, trampled into the dust between a BLI boot. Frank hadn’t seen Party wearing it when he’d tried to shoot down Korse, but he hasn’t mentioned that bit.

He and Jet walk for a few minutes before they find a relatively non-descript area, clear of dead brush, and Frank gets to setting up to a small fire. They both stand next to it- Frank and Jet, their heads lowered- and when the flames begins to flicker, Jet picks the MouseKat head from his pocket and drops it on the fire.

The flames immediately flare up, turning blue as they devoured the fur, the entire head crumbling into ash within minutes. He wants to say something- choke out a handful of memories like they’re some form of compensation- but he can’t find the words, His throat is too tight, his airways constricting, lungs burning.

The plan was to burn the mask too, but Frank can’t make himself drop it into the flames. He looks over and Jet’s crying, shoulders shaking, hands held in front of his face. After another moment, he looks up, the tear tracks illuminated in the firelight and rasps in a breath. “You comin’?” Jet asks, and Frank waves a hand to say ‘in a minute’. Jet gives a nod, turns on his heel and walks away back to the car, back to where Kobra is curled up, asleep, unaware of what they’ve done, of what they know.

Frank starts walking in the opposite direction, further away from the fire, further away from his friends, further into the darkness. The wind’s springing up, icy cold and carrying dust with it, and Frank shivers. He should’ve brought his jacket with him, not just his t-shirt, and he wraps his arms tighter around him.

He takes another few steps, kicking at the sharp stones littering the ground around his feet before glancing back at the faint glow of the fire (he’s walked further than he meant to, damn), the flames still tinged with blue from the burning MouseKat head, before looking down at the mask in his hand.

And then he throws it.

He tosses it as far as he can, watches the shape arch up into the darkness and disappear from sight, feeling the jacket in his other hand, and then he chokes, his head spinning, and he’s sinking to his knees, pressing the jacket to his face and screaming. He’s screaming like he’ll never be able to stop, sobbing until he’s gasping for air and retching. Because Party’s dead and he’s lost Party and he never kissed him when he had the chance and Frank’s failed him, he couldn’t get to him and he’s lost Party now, they all have. And he’s never going to get to listen to Party explaining his latest drawing or singing along to the tunes on the radio or or grinning at something he never shares with anyone else when Frank uses him as a head or footrest and Frank’s never going to see Party again and the truth of it hurts so much that he's almost falling apart.

He chokes and he cries and he screams silently into the biker jacket and he doesn’t notice the BLI vehicle until it’s lurched to a stop and he only looks up in time to see the boot smacking him in the face.

Shut up.

They all need to shut up.

He yells at them to but they never listen.

Then he tries screaming louder, desperate to shut off the noise, but it doesn’t work.

They just grin at him, their mouths as scarlet as slit throats, and turn the radio up louder.

He swears at them, threatens them, but nothing works.

After a while, he just tries to ignore it- instead, he tries to drag his thoughts towards escape.

But he doesn’t know why he should escape anymore- he thinks that he needs to, that it means something, but he can’t pinpoint the reason.

Then he tries thinking about his friends. He… he had friends, didn’t he? He… yeah, he did. He must have.

It takes him a while to remember their names, but he finally does. His tongue feels heavy in his tongue as he says them out loud. He’s not even sure if the names are correct, but he says them anyway. He can’t remember the faces that accompany them though, but he knows that he should.

He knows that they mean something to him. That they used to.

So he says the names anyway, just to keep them fresh in his mind. And he screams them at the wall, at the door, at the pale figure who storms back into of the room with murder in his eyes.

The woman’s back in the doorway, throwing the pale figure a cold nod as they walk past her and into the room.

Red.

That’s the colour of his blood.

It hits the white floor. Splatters against the nearest wall.

The figure hits him in the face again and again, until his blood is dripping from his chin and soaking his clothes.

He sees red too. His vision blurring with anger and hatred, and he feels for the first time in eternity- he actually feels. It’s a revelation, absolutely stunning, bringing everything back to razor-sharp focus

The figure grips his face again, their knuckles covered in scarlet, and he snarls at them through bloodied teeth.

“Fuck you,” he hisses

The figure’s eyes widen, and for a moment, he lets his snarl twist into a grin. The figure looks shocked, and he’s won. Finally. He got a reaction.

And then the eyes narrow again, and the figure raises their fist.

And he screams.

Chapter Text

It hurts too much to move anymore.

He can’t try to fight them- the restraints keeping him fixed to the chair have been tightened, the metal band so tight around his chest that he can barely breathe.

Black and blue, the colours that the bruises should be.

He can’t see though, because they dressed him in new white clothes, and it’s obviously impossible to see the mess made of his own face.

The pale figure left eventually, but that was days ago, and he can’t remember exactly what he had done to result in his punishment in the first place. Everything’s just so fuzzy- the hours are blurred into days and seconds and fragments of moments- but all he knows is one thing:

Never again.

The woman returns and there’s no more pain- his body’s too empty to feel it even if there was, though.

She asks him questions, and it takes him all too long to drag together the answers. There’s too much fuzziness in his head for him to formulate proper words, but he gives them as much information as he can manage.

He can’t remember the people he’s talking about, anyway, so why should it matter?

But it matters to a small part of him. For some reason.

When they drag him into The Tube, he barely bothers to fight them. There’s no point anymore- he’s too tired to try. They lock him inside, and when they turn it on, the scream that rips itself from his throat tastes bitter, sour.

They pull him back out again, he doesn’t say a word.

He feels blank: deliciously, fantastically blank, and he doesn’t even resist when they force the pills down his throat- in fact, he welcomes it. The fog they bring is addictive, comforting, and soon he realises that he needs them.

He depends on them.

There’s a part of him that wants to reject them. There’s a part of him that screams ‘no, stop this’ incessantly, whenever he’s given them, but after a while, he learns to push that part down. Far, far down, where he can barely hear it.

He learns not to answer back. He learns not to complain or make sarcastic comments. He knows that he can’t say the names again, but very soon he can’t remember them anyway.

He’s moved out of the white room.

Frank’s head is pounding. He can feel the tears on his cheeks, the white shape standing above him, too blurry to make out, and he can feel the leather jacket clutched in in his fist. He coughs, blinks up at the white blur above him until it focuses, and it’s only then that he realises that it’s Korse, blaster levelled at his face.

He can’t believe it. His head is spinning- thoughts, emotions rattling around inside his skull like a carousel ride, toppling over each other in their desperation to get to the forefront of his mind- and finally, after a long, long moment, he tries to move, tries to sit up and move away. He picks himself back up onto his knees, clenching his fists, staring down at the ground and dragging in a breath. The side of his face is throbbing- one of the draculoids just missed his nose, but he can already feel his cheek swelling, can already taste the hint on blood on his tongue. 

He’s got to get away. It’s Korse- Korse killed Party, Korse will kill him.

But Korse gets his boot underneath Frank’s ribs- delivers a sharp kick to his side that leaves him wheezing and he folds over like a man made out of paper, his lungs shuddering with the impact. Falling onto his back and wheezing. The stars twinkle down at him, almost like they're laughing.

Damnit, Jet and Kobra are only a few minutes away. It only took him and Jet five minutes to get to the place they burned the MouseKat head- they should be close enough. They’ve got to see the headlights- blindingly, piercingly bright- Korse, the two dracs standing behind him with bleeding mouths and searching eyes.

He gasps again before forcing his eyes open again, turning back and glaring up at Korse with the most hatred he can drag up.

This is when Korse straightens, lowers his blaster away from Frank’s face, and there’s a smile curling across his thin lips, narrow and cold like a knife blade. “Silly killjoy,” Korse says slowly, cruelty licking at the ends of his words like fire. “I told him to keep running. You should have done the same.”

It takes Frank a long time to realise what Korse is saying. He doesn’t understand what’s happening; he’s never heard Korse speak before, but his voice is as merciless as his smile. It takes him a second to realise that Korse is talking about Party, referring to the moment that Frank remembers too vividly- the moment when it was quiet, blood-red sky slipping over the horizon, and Korse was ready to kill Party before muttering something too quiet for Frank to make out.

Frank still has Party’s jacket in his hand, but with his free hand, his fingers run through the dirt and dust, down to his thigh where his blaster is held. The grip is cold and familiar. He can avenge Party, right now, and even if the two dracs take him out after, it won’t matter. His fist clenches around the leather jacket, and he sees Korse’s gaze lower to it, and the snake-like smile seemed to grow. “Someone,” Korse purrs, “has been sneaking through the outer city dump.”

His fingers wrap around the hilt of his blaster and he pulls it free, continues the swing upwards and it makes contact with the hinge of Korse’s jaw with a solid thud. Korse staggers backwards, shock ripping across his face in a wave, and Frank scrambles to his feet, realises Korse hasn’t regained his balance yet and aims his blaster-

The dracs are too quick. They work like a well-oiled machine; one grabs his arm, knocks his aim completely off, while the other throws him backwards, yanks his arm behind his back.

Damnit, damnit, damnit. Where’s Jet and Kobra when you need them? 

“Little killjoy,” Korse purrs, straightening and turning back to him. His eyes are so pale, but also so dark, like pits of oil that you fall into and can never escape from, weighed down by your own clothes until the oil fills your mouth and nose, seeping into every pore. “Don’t you know that you shouldn’t be out here all by yourself?”

Frank growls at him through bared teeth and tries to twist away, but the dracs’ grips on his arms are too strong. Korse’s cruel smile grows after a moment, and his eyes are almost dead, so empty, and Frank feels shivers drag down his spine.

“Or maybe you’re not alone…” Korse’s gaze lifts to the glow of the funeral fire he and Jet had constructed only minutes ago. Then the smile grows as Korse looks back down at Frank. “Isn’t it lucky that we found you out here? Even though it shouldn’t be surprising that a dirty little killjoy like you is rifling through the trash.”

Frank freezes.

For the years they’ve been out on the road, they’ve never encountered dracs here. There’s no roads, and they never leave anything to suggest they’ve been there in the first place. Granted, their luck would’ve run out one day, but BLI should never have known-

Party.

Korse seems to take note of Frank’s widened eyes and nods, just this sickly, self-satisfied little jerk of his head, and just like that, all of Frank’s fears are confirmed.

“Your friend really is the source of all knowledge,” Korse says, and Frank wants to throw up.

“What did you do to him?!” Frank isn’t expecting how raw his voice would sound, like his shout is something animal, ripping its way up his throat and bursting into the open air. “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

He’s trying to pull himself free, wrestling against the dracs’ combined strength, and Frank’s got just enough sense to smash the back of his head into one of the draculoids’ masks. Their grip loosens, just enough for him to wrench himself free from the other drac’s arms, turn and punch them straight in the face.

He has his blaster with him, but he doesn’t want to use it. He wants to rip Korse to pieces with his bare hands.

He ploughs straight into Korse, smacking him directly in the chest and forcing him backwards. Korse struggles, slips and falls to his one knee. His back is to Frank.

“What did you do to him?” Frank roars, and he’s lunging forward, ready to pummel Korse into the dirt, but Korse is moving- spinning back to face him. Frank doesn’t acknowledge the knife in Korse’s hand until it’s shining dully like moonlight, doesn’t register the pain until the blade’s cutting into the base of his jaw.  

He’s screaming, crying, new tears following the same path as the old and mixing with the blood on his lips, filling his mouth. There’s blood everywhere- he can feel it dripping down his chin, and he’s drowning on the stuff. He's reeling back, falling and then catching himself, catching sight of the blood- his blood- on Korse's face through streaming eyes. And he's scrambling back to his feet, turning and running, clutching his hand to his face and feeling the blood trickling through his fingers. He can feel the torn skin beneath his fingers, and the wound's deep- so very deep, stretching to the corner of his mouth.

His vision’s swimming, the sky melting into the horizon before the stars swoop out of view. He can taste the blood in his mouth, like he’s placed a copper penny on his tongue, the tears on his cheeks.He’s still got Party’s jacket clenched in one fist, the other pressed against the slice of agony stretching from his jaw to the corner of his mouth. The thoughts are scrambling through his head, a cacophony of mess and colour and Frank can’t process all of them, not all at once, not when he’s running as fast as he can back to the fires- back to Kobra and Jet.

Faintly, as if he’s underwater, he can hear footsteps behind him, falling away into the distance at Korse’s shout. He’s telling them to stop. Frank can’t think clearly enough to wonder why.

He finally makes it back to them in what seemed like an age but was really only a couple of minutes, gasping and retching, hacking down breath through a mouthful of blood. He can feel it running down his neck, his wrist, a hot burning pain that sinks through his jaw and down his spine, setting fire to every nerve ending in his body. He can see Kobra throwing himself over to him, and Frank just has the sense to gasp out “Korse” through a mouthful of blood before Kobra’s dragging him to his feet.

Minutes ago, he was crying because he thought Party had been killed the instant BLI had him. Now he’s wishing that was the truth.

“Car. Now.”  Kobra’s pushing him forwards and Frank staggers slightly, but manages to reach the passenger door and throwing himself into the soft leather seat. Jet’s in the driver’s seat before Frank can blink, and then Kobra’s sliding into the back and they’re off in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes.

Frank’s head is spinning and it takes him a long moment to realise that Jet’s staring at him as they drive rather than watching the road- his expression a mixture of horror and concern. “Ghoul,” he says, his voice shaking, “what happened?”

Frank can barely speak. He leans out of the open trans-am window and spits out a mouthful of blood before slumping back into his seat, and Kobra’s there then, leaning between the seats to press a wadded t-shirts to Frank’s face. The material reeks of sweat and dirt, but Frank couldn’t care less about that right now. The rough fabric scratches his skin, but it's slowing the bleeding, and that’s the important bit.

Frank forces himself to relax, breathe in through his nose. Blood clogs in his throat and he has to hawk gracelessly out of the window again. The pain's red-hot, agonising, but he can bear it. He can’t speak- moving his jaw sends flashes of pain through his body, and Kobra seems to grasp that fact after a moment, rifling through his pockets and passing him a scrap of paper and a crayon. Frank wants to ignore that it’s both Party’s old crayons and a drawing on the other side of the page.

He presses the shirt harder to his face with one hand and grips the crayon tight with the other.

One the page, he can only manage to write a handful of words: KORSE. PARTY. KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT US.

Frank doesn’t want to think what it could mean. Doesn’t want to have to consider the possibility that Party will have given them up to BLI, what they would have had to do to him for Party to do that in the first place.

Jet nearly stalls the trans-am trying to read Frank’s scrawl, but Kobra lets out a low hiss when he manages to. It’s almost quiet- the only sound the hum of the engine beneath them and the pounding in Frank’s ears. He doesn’t want to look at Kobra.

Finally, after a long moment, Kobra breaks the silence. “Ghoul,” he says softly, “can you give me my brother’s jacket?”

Kobra gently takes the jacket from Ghoul and slides back into the backseat, curling over and wrapping himself in the blue material, like the worn leather could protect him from all of BLI and all the monsters in the world.

His head is full of nothing. Nothing but white.

It’s all fog.

Mist intertwining with his thoughts, smothering every one of them until he can barely remember how to think anymore.

The whiteness is made of tendrils; python-like, as soft and deadly as cyanide, as delicate and seductive as belladonna.

It’s alluring, the hunger for… nothing.

It’s addictive, the emotions they feed him.

Black.

Black in front of his face.

Black hair hanging in a dead canopy over his eyes.

They dye his hair black.

He doesn’t recognise it as his hair at first.

It’s crisp and black as ink, and with his head lowered in exhaustion it covers his face.

His hair used to be red.

It might have been, anyway. He can’t remember.

No matter. It’s black now.

His clothes used to be filled with colour. Or at least he thinks so. The fog in his head is making it difficult to remember.

They dress him up in white.

He looks down at the black mark on his wrist. It’s a stark contrast to the white of his clothes and his skin.

The black mark is familiar, but he can’t quite place it.

After a while, he doesn’t bother trying to remember where it’s from.

He gives in and continues to drown into the white in his head.

Chapter Text

After a week, Frank’s got a line of puckered skin stretching from the corner of his mouth to his jawline, furious red, deep and agonising.

He can barely open his mouth wide enough for him to eat. Korse’s knife (because of course he had a knife- he’s a fucking bounty hunter. His existence revolves around killing, Frank shouldn’t have thought that Korse wouldn’t have a damn weapon hidden somewhere) didn’t cut through his cheek, thank God. So he’s not like that clown guy he’d once read about in the scraps of comics he’d found in Dr Death’s old place, with his entire face cut up into a permanent grin.

Kobra’s rolled the biker jacket up and thrown it into the trunk and hasn’t mentioned it again to either Frank or Jet, like he’s hoping that if he pushes it far enough away, he won’t have to think about it again. He hasn’t brought up the funeral Frank and Jet organised, hasn’t asked why Frank went out walking when Jet went back; in fact, every time Jet’s tried to bring it up, tried to explain himself, Kobra’s changed the subject so quickly Frank could almost get whiplash. Although he’s glad he doesn’t need to talk about it- emotions are necessarily his forte.

He’s not an idiot. He knows that Kobra’s tired of the two of them trying to protect him all the time. They’re always working to spare his feelings, keep him feeling looked after, and Frank can’t imagine how frustrating that must be. The guy’s older than Frank is, and taller too, (but no one mentions that, not if they want Frank to jump on them and yell "WHO'S THE BIG ONE NOW, MOTHERFUCKER?!") but he's always seemed like the one that needs to be looked out for, for some reason. Maybe it's just because Kobra doesn't talk about puny things like emotions and worries, so you can never tell what the guy was thinking. Party had been the same, looking after Kobra Kid from the sidelines, maybe even more protective than the rest of them.

He can’t help but worry about the guy, though.

The one thing that remains at the forefront of his mind though, whenever he wasn’t slipping in and out of blessed unconsciousness, out of the pain ripping through his face, was this-

Why was he still alive?

Surely Korse would’ve wanted him dead.

He thinks back to waking up to find the scorch mark in the middle of his chest. He thinks about Korse yelling at the dracs to stop chasing him.  He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he doesn’t mention it to the others.

Not that he could mention it, because it still hurts too much to talk. Every little facial movement makes his entire face burn, and he can’t even crack a smile at Dr Death’s latest news broadcast.

The worst (or best, depending on who you asked) was the fact that he couldn’t pester Jet or Kobra at all.  It’s infuriating.

He’s furiously poking Jet in the shoulder (again), and when he turns around, forcing the scrap of paper in front of his face.

WHAT IS YOUR NAME, JET

It was a bit of an epiphany, Frank waking up in the middle of the night to realise that he knew Kobra’s real name, and Party’s, but over the many years they’ve spent together, Jet’s never let his identity slip. And Frank’s determined to find it out.

Jet purses his lips, a small smile curving the corner of his mouth. “Ghoul, I gotta drive. Don’t be distracting.”

“Yeah,” Kobra pipes up. “We don’t want to crash into any of the multitudes of buildings or vehicles out here in the empty as hell zones.”

Frank snorts before going back to prodding Jet in the back of the neck, waving the dirty piece of paper furiously.

“Ghoul,” Jet says, eyes fixed firmly on the dust road ahead of him. “Dude, we’ve got the names to keep us safe. That’s the whole point of them.”

Frank thinks for a moment before sitting back in his seat, ignoring the ‘you should be wearing a seatbelt’ from Jet as he scribbled furiously onto the paper. The car’s jolting as they drove didn’t help matters at all, and when he pushes between the seats again, torso hanging over Kobra’s shoulder, Jet takes one glance at the paper and shrugs.

“There is no way that I can read that, dude. You’d have thought that two weeks of just writing would’a improved your handwriting by now.”

This is the point when Frank, as the mature person he is, would have stuck out his tongue, but obviously he can’t do that right now, so he sniffs and turns to Kobra. He sighs dramatically, picks the paper delicately from Frank, clears his throat, and proceeds to speak in a painfully high-pitched voice- “JETTTTTT, THERE’S NO ONE OUT HERE BUT USSSSSS. AND THE PHEONIX WITCH IS GOING TO TAKE YOU WHETHER SHE KNOWS YOUR NAME OR NOTTTTTT”

Jet makes a sound that he sounds like he’s choking back on laughter and Kobra grins. Frank snatches the paper back and scrawls his next message down, but Kobra snatches it back and reads it out again, this time in a croaky voice that sounds like it belongs to someone who’d been chainsmoking since the age of two. “THE FUCK KOBRA I DON’T SOUND LIKE THAT I WILL END YOU.”  He blinks back at Frank. “Yeah, you don’t sound like that at all.”

Frank glowers as the two laugh.

He’s found that there’s a trick to getting through the day.

He’s starting to lose track of time- of course he is, considering there’s no way to track the hours anymore- but he’s going by the amount of seconds he’s awake for, now, which, unfortunately is a considerable amount. Most of the time, he wishes he could sleep the white rooms away, close his eyes and feel it all fade into nothing. 

It doesn’t though, because reality’s a tricky bitch like that, but at least he has a trick now. It’s nothing particularly fancy; he’s long since forgotten exactly why he want to escape, where he’d go if he did, or what his plan would be next. His alternative is pretty neat though, and if he had the capability to feel anything but a dull murmur of emotion anymore then he’d probably feel proud of himself.

The binding around his chest is slightly too tight for him to relax, the metal chair he’s- still- fixed to uncomfortable and cold, leeching all of the heat from his skin, but he blocks it out. No point bothering about things he can’t do anything about. Instead, he presses his forefinger against the pad of his thumb and tries to force himself to breathe.

His wrists are strapped to the arms of the chair, too, but that doesn’t stop the blood tumbling through his veins, his arteries, to and from the tips of his fingers and back to his heart and lungs again. People seem to forget that you can feel your pulse in your thumb- if you’re very, very careful, and have enough time to wait- but you can. Like a feather on a drum, barely there, the tremble of blood beneath skin, and he feels it trickle beneath his finger, not daring to move (even though it’s practically impossible anyway), because then the rhythm is ruined, and the blood sloshes and stutters, and the trick is ruined.

He counts his pulse, counts each beat that qualifies him as living, every day. Or until he passes out again, whichever sounds more suitable.

He's rarely unconscious anymore. He’s starting to miss the promise of falling back into nothingness whenever they started up the interrogations (of course, it’s only interrogations if he’s very, very lucky, most of the time it’s a lot worse), because now he’s almost ran out of questions to answer. There’s not enough for him to remember, actually- the pills wash most of his memories away into cloudy messes of matt white- and this is almost a consolation, if it wasn’t for the fact that the names are still there.

Ever since he shouted them out again, screaming them at the walls like they were rocks, they’ve been burned onto the tip of his tongue. He can’t forget them anymore, and if he’s careful, and focuses very, very intensely, he swears that he can almost piece back together the faces to match the names.

He doesn’t know who the people are, doesn’t know what they’re meant to mean to him, but he wants to.

Everything just hurts too much for him to concentrate, most of the time.

There’s broken skin and bruises, a sharp stabbing pain in his side every time he tries to breathe in too deeply. His scalp burns, furious and red-hot from the handful of hair ripped out above his left ear only sixteen-thousand and seventy-four heartbeats ago (sometimes he loses count, but then he jumps back to the number he lasts remembers and continues from there) and he’s sure there should still be blood there.

The worst thing is that they clean the wounds after. Dress them, leave all the cuts and bruises underneath his clothes, so once it’s over he can’t tell if it was even real anymore. His head is filled with too much fog for him to differentiate between fantasy and reality anymore, even with the pain dragging hot claws through his skin.

His skin burns. He coughs, his throat raw, just as the masked figures slide open the door, carrying a tray of pills in their wake.

After another week, Frank starts to find his voice again.

Jet removes the stitches he’s put in the weeks before- which was, Frank is certain, was actually more painful than having his face sliced open in the first place- and the skin has started to heal (finally).

There’s still a stab of pain every once in a while, usually whenever he yawns or tries to shovel down more food than he should, but he’s starting to cope. The scar’s going to look pretty badass too once it’s completely healed, and that’s not exactly a bad thing. He could use being scarier. Sometimes the tattoos just don’t cut it. 

He shifts gears as they speed down the road and glares at Jet, who’s sitting in the passenger seat.

“Motherfucker, you know Missile Kid is better out of the two,” he snaps. “Mad Gear’s a dumb name anyway. They’re probably an asshat.”

Jet throws up his hands in frustration. “Dude, they're musicians. No one’s even sure that Missile Kid even exists. How can you be a judge of personality?”

“I’m a brilliant judge of personality,” Frank insists, and Kobra snickers from the back seat.

“Yeah, shut up, Roger, Ghoul knows exactly what he's talking about” Kobra says, and Frank can’t help but snort at Jet’s expression.

He looks incredulous. "Really? You're still trying to guess my name, and you're going for Roger?"

 “I’m still calling it as Martin,” Frank offers.

“Henry.”

“Kyle.”

“DuMontford.”

“Brittany.”

There's a long pause, taken up by Frank and Kobra smirking at each other. “That’s not my name, Ghoul,” Jet sniffs.

“Well, it's still better than Missile Kid, so I wouldn't complain too much.”

Jet glares, but Frank knows that he’s smiling anyway. "And that's comin' from a guy who calls himself 'Fun Ghoul', right?"

"'Fun Ghoul's a good name. It represents my personality."

Kobra prods him in the back of the neck. "What's 'fun' about you? Or were you referring to 'fun-sized'?"

Frank's ready to punch him, but he still can't stop himself from laughing anyway.   

Everything’s starting to get better.

The woman’s sneering at him, expression cold.

He doesn’t care.

Her hair’s sleek and sharp, caught like a razor blade at her throat, her features all dark edges and iced angles. Her jacket is grey, just like every other day, like storm clouds sitting over the horizon, the coldest flash of pristine white shirt beneath the jacket.

“Well,” she finally says, and her voice rings in his ears, “we've made significant progress here.”

He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t care too, either.

She continues; “and this dosage is effective?” There’s a buzz of speech behind her, something he can’t make out, but she frowns anyway. “Even after The Tube? He’s resisting… still?”

He doesn’t understand it.

 “Increase the dosage.”

“Any more would kill him. That wouldn’t work in any way.”

There’s a long pause, the woman chewing on her bottom lip. “The new product has finished manufacturing. We’re just going to have to try that instead.”

This time the voice is loud enough for him to hear it properly this time- robotic, monotone: “It hasn’t been tested yet. That could also kill him.”

He lifts his gaze to meet hers, and for the first time in a long time, he can feel a flicker of emotion. He’s scared.

Just as the woman opens her mouth to speak, the alarms begin to blare- a metallic, burning scream, with red flashing lights flashing in quick pursuit. There’s the hurried march of footsteps, more voices- “The girl. She’s managed to get out. She hasn’t been located yet.” Robotic voices, probably belonging to the ones with the masks. Loud, to be heard over the alarms.

The girl. There’s more emotions now. He cares about the girl. He knows he should, anyway.

The woman’s voice sharp as glass, and bitter, tight with restrained anger. Still low, but it can be heard anyway. “This is the final straw. Find Korse. Bring him to me. He needs The Tube again. First he lost the killjoy, now the girl. This is going to stop.”

A killjoy. Someone lost a killjoy. There it is- more emotion now. He doesn’t know what it means, but it’s there. He’s got to fight for it. He's got to hold on tight. 

The woman turns back to him, almost as if she can hear him. “Let’s see what we can do with you.”

Chapter Text

After another two weeks, Frank can finally think about Party without his heart splintering.

He’s lost his mask at some point- left it at a stop and only remembered when they were hours away- and hasn’t mentioned it yet. Neither Kobra or Jet haven’t noticed yet either.

He’s almost ran out of smokes too; he had one yesterday, and then two today, but now there’s only four left, but he’s already starting to really crave another. Even Jet’s starting to get annoyed by Frank’s constant jiggling in his seat, tapping his hand against his leg to the beat of the music.

Doesn’t matter anyway; the adrenaline’s firing through his body, and it’s almost better than the rush of nicotine firing through his system.

They’ve got a goal now, though- that’s the first real good piece of news they’ve picked up in a long time. At first, hell, they were certain the girl was dead- there was no real reason BLI would want her alive, especially not if she’s anywhere near as important as Dr Death-Defying insisted she was when he first placed her in their care- but now there’s a chance they might be wrong.

But maybe BLI aren’t as ruthless as they first thought (Frank doubts it), or maybe they have another use for her, because it was only yesterday when they’d crashed out in a corpse of a motel for the night, fiddled around with the wiring to find that there was still some dregs of power whispering up through half of the burnt-out rooms.

It’s a damn miracle, if you ask Frank, but no one does, so Kobra just calls it “weird how there’s still a connection to the power-lines out there.”

But that’s not important; what is important, however, is that through the constant BLI advertisements that flicker to and fro between the static, there’s one moment that Frank can’t forget. The weather report had just finished, exploded into a burst of static as the rat-faced report smiled weakly into the camera with an ‘-acid rain in the outer zones. And now, signing off from Fact News. The only news.’ as Jet let out a breath of laughter. “We could use some rain,” he says with a grin. “Even if it is acid, ‘cos at least it’d be cooler out here.”

Frank snorts. “It’s crazy how we haven’t melted out here yet. Or drowned, from, y’know, all of the crazy storms the weather reports are saying is a constant out here.”

“Totally!” Jet nods in agreement, wild hair bouncing around the place like it’s developed its own conscious thoughts. He waves over at the room’s open doorway (not like they could have it any other way, considering the door itself had long since been thrown off its hinges). “I mean, dude, look at all of the rain out there!”

Frank giggles, that dumb pot-smoker giggle that he can’t ever get rid of, and turns back to the TV, just as the screen hums and the BLI symbol flashes up again. “Oh, hey,” he pipes up, “we’ve got another report to enjoy!”

This time it’s different, somehow- there’s the same cheerful Better Living Industries introduction, but there’s something more serious behind it, and underlying murmur of apprehension, like the weight of water in the air before a storm. The news presenter is back on the screen again- this time he’s more serious, an expression that would almost be concerned if the guy wasn’t so hopped up on meds that he wouldn’t understand what emotions like that actually were.

“The child is no more than ten years old- reports say she was last seen in the South District of Battery City, unarmed and not dangerous, but authorities insist that it is not to be approached. Its aim is to corrupt our city, but it will be caught before it can do any damage at all. Be assured, this child will not escape, but it is recommended that all citizens remain inside until the end of this night’s curfew.”

And there it is- the girl’s picture behind the newsreader’s shoulder. Her hair’s wilder than Frank remembers, and her skin’s paler, but she looks healthy, better fed than she was back in the zones. She’s still wearing the same jacket though.

Jet Star leans forwards, and turns to Frank. “Oh shit, Ghoul, was that…?”

“That’s her,” Frank says. “They’ve fucking got her. And she’s still alive. Shit.”

He can’t believe it. After so long, even through everything- with Party being dead and Korse ripping Frank’s face open and all the shit between it- she’s still alive.

“I don’t get it.” Jet pushes his hair out of his face and looks out over to Frank. There’s footsteps in the corridor building towards the motel room, just before Kobra pops his head around the door.

“Guys, you good to go? I think it’s gonna get all rainy n’ shit soon, an’ I don’t think we really wanna go and get caught in it all.” He takes one look at their faces and pauses. “Wait, what is it?”

Frank drags in a breath. “She still alive. Dude, the girl's in Bat City, but she’s got out and she’s runnin’.”

Kobra’s eyes widen. “Seriously? Holy shit, man, we gotta go. We gotta get her out.”

Jet’s already on his feet, Kobra’s already turning back out of the door, Frank’s got his blaster in his hand. They’ve got a new mission.  

When they give him the new drugs, everything seems normal. Normal for him, anyway.

He’s still in the same room, strapped to the same chair, surrounded by the same piercingly bright nothing. Everything is still numb, empty, and he frowns. He’s almost feeling confused, but he can’t feel anything.

Then it hits him.

It’s a wall, gets him straight in the stomach, rips the air out of his lungs. He would’ve doubled over, but the restraints are too tight, and he retches, every muscle in his body burning as he strains against the metal bands.

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. His head’s pounding. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

His nerves are burning, the room spinning in and out of focus. He chokes, gets a mouthful of hair in his mouth, black swamping his vision. It’s agonising- more painful than the knives they used, or the electric shocks, or the days without water, or the liquid food they forced down his throat when he tried to starve himself.

He’s screaming, a high-pitched, uncontrollable scream, ripping itself out of his throat with its serrated claws and razor fangs.

He screams.

He doesn’t stop screaming, not even to pause for breath, and it doesn’t take long before the world spins and shakes and blurs as the oxygen is gone, and he’s almost falling in on himself, if only he could, and he’s still screaming, until he can’t scream any longer because his throat is burning and his lungs are burning and all he can feel is pain. And then he screams silently, lungs empty of any air, because whatever he tries to do, whatever he tries to think, he can’t stop screaming, can't stop the ocean of terror washing over him, dragging him down, crushing him-

Then there’s the hatred.

It comes after the pain- worms its way into his veins, washes over him in tsunami waves, making his vision blur, the world turn red. He’s furious, raging at something he can’t identify, screaming at everything. He doesn’t understand it.

He can still feel his heartbeat against his forefinger; but now it’s in his ears too, thrumming heavy through every part of him, deep down into his bones. His pulse isn’t steady anymore though- it’s racing, frantic, almost as if the blood is trying to punch its way through his skin. Dumdumdumdum.

He’s angry at that too. Despises the way he can feel his blood boiling at the sound of his heart humming. He hates that he’s hating it.

He snarls at the locked doors, gnashes his teeth, screams at the one-way glass where he’s certain he’s being watched. Observed. Whatever. He wants to kill whoever’s behind it. He can’t, not even when he writhes against the metal bands, when they dig into his skin and there’s blood running down his arms, over the black tattoo-mark on his wrist that he barely notices after all this time. He spits at it, yells at the silence around him and filling the white around him with red noise.

Dumdumdumdumdum.

His heart is screaming.

Dumdumdumdumdum.

He’s screaming, too.

Dumdumdumdumdum.

He hates them all. Hates everything.

Dumdumdumdumdum.

His throat is too tight.

Dumdumdumdumdum

He can’t breathe…

Dumdumdumdumdum.

His heart is going fast, too fast…

Dumdum-

His heart has stopped.

Everything fades to black.

There’s a figure standing in front of him: black hair, just brushing his shoulders, tattoos dusting his hands- from his knuckles to his wrists, blocks of colours disappearing underneath his sleeves. He looks familiar, even more so when he smiles.

“Hey,” the guy says. “You’re really fucked up here, aren’t’cha?”

“Am I dreaming?” he asks, looking down at his feet. He’s still in the same place- the same white room as always- but that doesn’t mean he’s not asleep. Or unconscious.. “You shouldn’t be able to get in here. But I don’t dream, so I don’t know what this is.”

The guy giggles. His voice is raspy, like sandpaper, but his face is far younger than he looks like he actually should be. He looks familiar, for some reason, but he can’t understand how or why. He’s wearing colourful clothes- a jacket and a black-and-yellow shirt, scuffed jeans and messy boots. There’s more tattoos crawling up his neck.

“Nahhhh.” The guy shuffles forward, his hands scrunched in his pockets. He’s less than a metre away from him now, hair falling forward into his face. There’s a smudge of dirt on his collarbones. “You’re kinda… well, you’re pretty dead at the moment. Heart stopped an’ everything. The drugs fucked you up real bad, just like she said they would, and now you’re in a whole load of trouble. They say your life flashes before your eyes, yeah, but I guess this is a bit more interesting.”

“What?!” he chokes, tries to throw himself forward. “I’m not-“

The guy’s smile is half sad, like he’s something falling apart but still looks beautiful when it does. “You remember before you tried Out the first time? When you took all the pills you could find and shovelled 'em all down as fast as you could. Same thing happened then- they had to shove a needle in your heart to get everything starting again.”

Did that happen? He can’t remember; just like he can’t remember this person’s name. Yeah, it must have happened- he can almost feel the pain in his chest- but he’s sure that he wouldn’t have told anyone, and his brother was already there-

Brother? What brother?

“Listen,” the messy-haired man continues, “this is shit, okay, I know it is. But you gotta live. And you gotta fight. You can't ask why the Phoenix Witch hasn't come for you, but you've got a chance here, 'kay? You gotta fight. I know you’re trying to fight already, but you gotta fight harder. You gotta fight for us. For me.”

But he shakes his head. “I can’t,” he coughs out. “I’m too tired.”

“You’ve got to though. You can.” And the guy’s stepping away again now, the sad smile still clinging to the corners of his lips. “You’ve never been a whiny mothafucker before- don’t start now, okay?”

“Wait,” he calls to him. “You said I’m dying. So are you an angel?”

The smile turns crooked, like he's thought of a hilarious joke that he doesn't want to share. “No chance. I’m more of a ghoul if anything.”

And then the man’s gone.

And he’s waking up.

And he can’t remember a thing.

Chapter Text

S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W MEDICAL RESEARCH

[TRIAL REPORT]

HOUR: 25

DRUG TYPE: [CLASSIFIED]

SUBJECT: [CLASSIFIED] AKA P.P AKA ???

REPORT;

PP suffered cardiac arrest at approx. 0800 hours. Medical death pronounced at approx. 0832, but revived with 1mg epinephrine (adrenaline) shock. PP immediately conscious and calling out for a ‘ghoul’ before attempting to escape restraints. PP sedated and returned to cell.

HOUR: 56

DRUG TYPE: [CLASSIFIED]

SUBJECT: [CLASSIFIED] AKA P.P AKA ???

REPORT:

PP expressing trypanophobia post adrenaline shock (operant conditioning- hypodermic needle resulting in phobia??). PP required to be restrained in order for blood removal/blood sugar monitoring to take place.

Sham rage demonstrated (indiscrimate and unprovoked attempted attacks on BL/Ind employees during drug [CLASSIFIED] administration). Attempts to calm PP only resulted in verbal abuse and physical attempts to pull self out of restraints on chair. Sedated with physical violence (multiple blows to diaphragm and stomach until PP calmed. Upon which point, PP was registered to be spitting out blood. Must investigate.

-

Dressing required for lacerations to tongue received during physical sedation (assumed PP has bitten own tongue to point where quantities of blood were swallowed and immediately coughed back up. Suggestion to either subject PP to light sedated state 24/7.

HOUR: 64

DRUG TYPE: [CLASSIFIED]

SUBJECT: [CLASSIFIED] AKA PP AKA ???

REPORT:

MANAGER ordered directed exposure to DRUG [CLASSIFIED] rather than sedation. During administration, PP exposed to stimulus [KILLJOYS]. Operant conditioning suggests PP should develop negative reactant to target.

Upon first exposure, PP responded as fit with sham rage (indiscriminate- identical as how PP responded to any other stimulus, including employees’ presence and contact) Drug [CLASSIFIED] intake reduced to 20mg dose every 6 hours.

Second exposure included presence of news reports- killjoy attacks on BL/I institutes and killjoy public execution (involving electrocution and lethal injection). Negative reaction included sweating, screaming and crying, however it is not clear whether this is to the public death or the intended negative stimulus.

HOUR: 97

DRUG TYPE: [CLASSIFIED]

SUBJECT: [CLASSIFIED] AKA PP AKA ???

REPORT:

Exposure to negative killjoy stimulus proves continuously successful- presentation of killjoy images and CCTV footage provokes reaction, whilst BL/I employees do not.

Suggested that PP removed from cell on account of potential threat of institutionalisation (becoming so accustomed to life in that situation that it is impossible to adapt later). Relocated to secure apartment base on BL/I institute- separate from all BL/I employees except security. Under 24/7 monitor- cannot leave the two rooms (consists of bed and quiet room.) and is fed on account of any form of kitchen system being provided could lead to potentially fatal occurrences.

HOUR: 103

DRUG TYPE; D.R.A.C [STANDARD BL/I ISSUE MEDICATION]

SUBJECT: [CLASSIFIED] AKA PP AKA ???

REPORT:

PP medication altered to standard issue 200mg D.R.A.C on account of increasing blood pressure, blood thinning and increased heart rate (average of 105bpm- risk of another cardiac arrest if drug [CLASSIFIED] is continued. Hypothesised to be a result of drug [CLASSIFIED], although no long-term effects suggested.

Rehabilitation into new rooms proving successful- no damages or occurrences reported. Reacts positively to visits from staff.

HOUR: 115

DRUG TYPE; D.R.A.C [STANDARD BL/I ISSUE MEDICATION]

SUBJECT: [CLASSIFIED] AKA PP AKA ???

REPORT:

Withdrawal from drug [CLASSIFIED]. Nausea, sweating, tremors. Spontaneous nosebleeds and violent mood changes. Remains in confines however only in quiet room rather than moving around as previously reported. Currently no different to withdrawal from D.R.A.C. Observation to be continued.

However, despite withdrawal, negative reactant to previously neutral stimulus (killjoys) reported to still be present. Upon exposure to images of killjoys (including KK and JS), exhibited emotions such as anger, fear and hatred- proceeded to attempt to break down door and was neutralised by security.

HOUR: 138

DRUG TYPE: D.R.A.C [STANDARD BL/I ISSUE MEDICATION]

SUBJECT: [CLASSIFIED] AKA PP AKA ???

REPORT:

Psych evaluation complete.

Physical evaluation complete. (spontaneous nosebleeds present- not detrimental to physical performance)

Medication evaluation complete.

Rehabilitation in progress.

Subject: PP AKA Poison

“Motherfucker!” Frank yells, kicking at a chunk of rubble, sending it spiralling away from him, the dry plaster throwing up a cloud of dust as another wall gives way and tumbles down into itself. The BL/I compound is barely standing- a mess of dry wall and metal struts, smoking debris and white paper fluttering down like confetti.

Frank must have killed all of the dracs inside. He blew the entire fucking place to smithereens. He has killed the dracs inside, hopefully some mildly-important executives if he’s lucky, but for what?

Fucking nothing.

“Motherfucking shit bitch!” Frank picks up a draculoid mask, throws it as far as he can, and turns to the one remaining intact walls and pushes it. The plaster groans, but it’s still not weak enough to fall, so he smacks it instead, finds the nearest thing he can find (a plastic cup from the institute’s foyer that’s managed to survive the explosion…  how?!) and tries to rip it in half. Failing that, he throws that too, but it doesn’t go very far.

“Okay, Ghoul, calm down, okay?” Kobra’s stepping over to him with his hands open in the universal ‘we come in peace’ sign. “This isn’t helping anything, c’mon. Don’t be an idiot.”

Frank ignores him and goes back to punching the wall. “This- is- so- fucking- stupid,” he spits out between hits. He can’t even tell if he’s doing any damage. “The news said south. As in the south of the city. The fucking opposite of north. And that’s where we are. So where the hell is she?”

Kobra sighs and shakes his head. He’s got a long line of dirt smudged along his jawline and his hair is thrown up into wild tufts, spiked up by the heat of the explosion. “This isn’t the first time they’ve lied to people in Bat City, you know that. And they just said she got found in that sector- it didn’t mean that they wouldn’t move her. This was a long shot, we all knew that, but it’s not like we’ve lost everything.”

Frank throws up his hands. “Of course we have! This is so fucking stupid! I told you we couldn’t trust that droid, didn’t I? She said the girl was gonna be over in this institute but she’s not, and now we’ve lost the element of surprise and a shit load of time. She probably did that on purpose. Probably a BLI sneak for all we know.”

“You just don’t like porno droids in general. The girl tried to help.”

“I wasted an entire stick of dynamite,” Frank snarls.

“You guys okay over there?” Jet calls, his voice raw. He’s got his elbows on his knees, dragging in heavy breaths. He almost didn’t get out in time.

“I wasted-“ Frank emphasises- “an entire stick of dynamite. The explosive things that I traded three packets of smokes for. And I lost it after some walking form of cyber sex decided to start talking to you two.”

Kobra sighs. “Don’t be a dick, Ghoul. You know she was trying to help.”

“Fuck, I know, I just-“ he can’t find anything else to fight- he’s ghosted ever drac within a mile radius- so he throws out a yell, imagining it slicing through the air like a shot from his blaster, tries to kick up some more dirt, and drags his fingers through his hair. They get caught on at least half a dozen knots, a mess of matted greasy black, and he knows that he should probably try and brush it somehow, or maybe just shave it all off, but that’s not gonna happen anytime soon.

“Ghoul, you’re gonna open up that cut on your face if you’re not careful.”

Frank heaves a sigh. “Listen, it’s fine, I am fine. But what’s not fine is that the plan, involving you two sneaking around and getting the girl the hell outta dodge while I blow the place to shit has failed fantastically, because it turns out that she wasn’t here in the first place.”

“It’s still only been a few weeks,” Jet waves a hand in Frank’s direction. “It wouldn’t take much to reopen it. And it might get infected this time.”

Frank rolls his eyes so far that he’s pretty sure they almost disappear into the back of his head. “Can we please focus on the important thing here?”

He actually can’t believe he’s saying this- this is usually Jet’s job, if anyone’s. Frank’s the one that needs to be reeled back in- like a fish on a line, twisting desperately, hungry to escape. He thinks back to Jet pushing him back to the trans-am after he’d tried to sneak away to Bat City. Yep; Frank’s not the one to hold people together- that’s Jet’s job, probably used to be on Party’s shoulders too.

He’s almost so caught up in being indignant that he misses the careful look Kobra and Jet share- but he’s not that blind. “What is it?” He steps forward, shoves his hands of his hips (looking only half the prissy diva he actually is) and gives them both the iciest, most dangerous glare he can manage. Being only 5,6’, it’s pretty tough-going, but Frank figures he’s pulled it off pretty well. Especially when Jet huffs out a sigh and shuffles to his feet.

“Okay, okay,” he says, looking around. “Let’s talk, but just not here, okay?”

Frank looks down at the smoking ruins that he’s made- the one wall left standing, the rubble and dust mixing in with sand and dirt- and scowls. “Nah, c’mon, if it’s something important, then let’s do it now. Let’s talk.”

Frank looks from Kobra to Jet, while they look at each other. Kobra shrugs. Jet runs his hands over his face. “We’re thinking of stopping. The whole looking for her thing. I mean, we’re gonna keep our eyes out for news, but it’s like… we haven’t got any other leads for her, y’know? She’s probably in high security somewhere we've never heard of, and there’s no way we’d be able to get her out with no idea of what we’d be up against and we’re not saying we’re gonna give up on her, just focus on BLI until-“

Frank tunes them out.

He listens to the rattle of air as he pulls it between chapped lips. He keeps biting them, worrying the skin between his teeth and tugging until it stings. Then he takes in another breath, listens to the way the stale air whispers into his lungs like cigarette smoke (CIGARETTES ARE DETRIMENTAL TO BATTERY CITY AND ITS CITIZENS- NEEDLESSLY CAUSING PAIN AND SUFFERING).

His pulse is still slow. He’s on three-thousand and seventy beats. He drags down another mouthful of oxygen. Dum dum. Three-thousand and seventy-one, now. His pulse is soft, apprehensive, nothing more than a whisper, like a feather on a drum (DRUMS AND OTHER MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS CAUSE DISFUNCTION AND DISTRACTION).

One more breath. Dum dum. Blood marching oxygen around his body, as if the red cells are making a parade of it, throwing around noise like gifts at Christmas (CHRISTMAS AND OTHER HOLIDAYS HAVE BEEN BANNED), dancing to a steady beat. One more inhale now, he just has to ignore the way the air trembles in his throat. Dum dum. He should be in agony, but he’s not.

Dum dum. There’s blood on his chin, running down his neck, pooling in the hollow of his throat. Dum dum. It’s harder to breathe than he first thought- the bright light positioned less than a metre in front of him on the table is blinding, fireworks exploding in front of his eyes. He stares back at it though, almost as if he’s daring it to be the one to blink first, a competition with a pre-determined loser. He’s fighting a losing battle, he knows this- even as his knuckles turn white from their hard grip on the countertop, even as his eyes strain and water- but he keeps fighting anyway. Better to fight something like this than to try and take on the world. (TO OPPOSE THE POWER OF BATTERY CITY AND BETTER LIVING INDUSTRIES IS TO TURN ON EVERYTHING RIGHT AND JUST).

The clothes he’s wearing are black as coal and the dark smile in the woman’s eyes. They’re tight, not too much though, and all hard edges- practically shapeless, agonisingly dull. The jacket feels heavy on his shoulders, but something there’s something safe about it too. He catches a glance at his reflection in one of the windows he passes it- clings onto the image, revisits it again and again until it’s burned into his brain (TO OBSESS OVER ONE’S OWN IMAGE IS TO SUGGEST THAT SELF-LOVE IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE LOVE AND DEDICATION TO OUR BATTERY CITY).

Black hair, pale skin- there’s red rings underneath his eyes from sleepless nights that he can’t remember experiencing- shadows hanging like bruises beneath his jaw and cheekbones.

There aren’t any bruises on his face. The woman made sure of that.

She looks up at him now; her nose is wrinkled in… disgust? (ALL NEGATIVE EMOTIONS ARE DETRIMENTAL TO THE POPLACE OF THIS CITY) She turns back to another masked soldier (they still almost scare him, if he could feel emotions like that) and nods curtly towards him.

Oh, his nose is bleeding. He’s almost surprised it’s taken him this long to realise. He raises a gloved hand and wipes his face with it, leaving a dark smudge on the material and the pale canvas his skin has become. The tattoo looks up at him smugly.

The masked figures walk with him, footsteps quick and determined, and he almost feels out of place with his face bare. A strand of black hair catches him and as they make their way down another hallway, and it’s only when he brushes it away that he notices the posters plastering the walls. Hundreds of them, all of the same group of people.

Faces he recognises. Faces he hates.

Black bar across their eyes and a red cross over their faces.

He keeps walking.

‘EXTERMINATE’ the posters read.

Chapter Text

  Grey.

That’s the colour the child’s face goes when she sees him.

They found her, after an hour or so- it’s blurry, drowning in white noise and dull light- but he can remember the scream of the alarm being cut off, almost like it was shot, the distant hiss of voices, like static, the shrill, constant scream of a child.

He’d guessed she’d been caught again.

Brown, like milk chocolate.

That’s the colour of the child’s eyes, filled with horror and disgust as she looks up at him, lips parted in silent terror. She takes in his black hair, his white clothes, and somewhere, amidst the fog, he thinks that he should probably know who she is.

But he doesn’t. He doesn't bother to even try to remember.

She starts to cry as they drag her away- fighting furiously but utterly helpless. A splash of colour in a big white world. She screams names, words, threats, but he doesn’t understand any of it, and he watches, silent, unmoving, until the door’s slammed shut behind her.

And he doesn’t really care. They didn’t suggest he should hate her, so he doesn’t.

Then the woman smiles up at him. She looks proud of what they’ve all created.

He just waits.

The blaster feels clunky, far too heavy in his hand, and the clothes he’s dressed in feel wrong. Alien, for some reason. He’s not sure why they should though- what else would he wear? The citizens in the city almost wear the same thing anyway.

Whatever.

They call him Poison. Nothing fancy. Something familiar, for a reason.

He’s paraded down the street like a prize and barely notices the glances he receives. Everyone he passes either look terrified or curious, as if they’re half-tempted to approach him, half-tempted to run in the opposite direction as far as they can. Maybe they recognise him- he thinks they should, but he can’t exactly remember why.

They move him into a shiny new room, give him a shiny new name to match shiny new pills which keep his thoughts clean and easy. They don’t need to check his blood anymore, either, which is a good thing- that’s one of the few things that bring the emotion back, the needles. Another thing is the dreams he continues to have; the ones about the tattooed man and the smiles and the laugh and the whisper of wind through his hair as colour flashes past him. He’s not exactly sure what kind of emotions he feels, or what the dreams were even about (he’s forgotten them the moment he’s awake, until he’s only sure that they were there, like nothing more than a dream of a dream) but he doesn’t mention them. They’re not right. They’re certainly not approved.  And anyway, he’s sure they’ll disappear soon enough. 

This isn’t the first time it’s happened- he’s the prize exhibition, and the woman in the suit gives a cruel smile every time she sees him. He’s packed up and thrown around Battery City, and it’s almost as if he was someone important, the way they’re using him to promote the new brands of pills.

He’s on stages and in front of crowds- emotionless, robotic, a silent, hulking menace behind the narrow shape of the woman. He’s all in black (from his head to his feet, minus the red symbol on the back of his jacket), like the one shadow left in the white, bright world he’s drowning in.

He notices things that no one else does, like the time he shot a zonerunner dead from the other side of the street. He saw the pink hair beneath their hood, the tattoo on the inside of their wrist that was practically impossible to make out from that distance, and no one else saw them.

But he saw, though.

And he killed them.

No hesitation, no second thoughts. The blaster was in his hand, his arm was steady and he shot the zonerunner from ten metres away in a crowded street- one shot, just above their ear. There was a hiss, a smell of burning he couldn’t make out until he was stepping over to the body, a patch of hair turned to ash.

He was almost surprised that none of the people around were surprised. He was expecting screams, gasps, people to run from the falling person who’d been nothing more than one of them only a split second before. But no; instead, they stopped, took one long look at him without expression and then, as one stiff body, they turned around and continued on their way.

It wakes him up at night, the image of their blank faces. It’s wrong, he’s sure it is (THE USE OF MEDICATION FOR EMOTION CONTROL AND MANIPULATION IS ALL FOR THE GREATER GOOD. BETTER LIVING INDUSTRIES ARE A COMPANY WORKING HARD FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE WORLD)

The day after, he finds the woman waiting for him. He follows her as she begins to walk- one foot behind her, one foot to her left- and waits impassively as he does so. She’s got a clipboard clutched to her chest, which she checks once every few seconds, as if the facts printed on them will suddenly change if she doesn’t keep an eye on them.

Finally she says; “Our hunter, Korse, is currently undergoing rehabilitation.”

He remembers the cold figure, wonders if they’re the one she’s talking about.

“He’s unfit for his duty, and so needs replacing. Temporarily. That position is now yours.”

He hasn’t got an option in this. He’s to do as he’s told. That’s why Battery City’s survived- built up upon orders and blind obedience, until the walls are too high to be climbed. No escape possible.

She turns to him, suddenly, and he almost walks straight into her. Her eyes are needle-sharp, cold, and he feels them stripping him down to the very bones, pulling out every secret thought and question, holding them up into the bright light to analyse. He almost shivers.

“Congratulations, Poison,” she says, a smile as sharp as a knife blade slicing through her expression. “You are now a representative of Better Living Industries.”

He’s pushed through the streets one day, his thoughts awash with bliss, and he knows that he shouldn’t be looking around, but he does, and notices the words scrawled in blood red paint on the side of a building. There were a pack of people dressed in white, black masks painted over their own faces, scrubbing away at it furiously. He still managed to read it though, before he was moved past it:

“PARTY POISON IS A KILLJOY TRAITOR”

The radio’s turned up so loud that Frank can feel his eardrums vibrate. The rain’s battering the roof of the trans-am like fists, and he’s regretting sticking his hand out of the window earlier because now his shirt sleeve is soaking wet and freezing cold. Ah, whatever. He’ll live.

He sighs and leans back in the backseat, letting the music wash over him and push out everything out. Dr Death’s radio broadcasts are really the own thing keeping them up on the events around Battery City, but whenever they get to the Dead List, Frank immediately wants to turn it off again.

Every week, the list grows longer- the Killjoys who’re dead and unaccounted for but presumed dead anyway, because BLI aren’t known for leaving prisoners.

There’s a brief burst of static as the music cuts off and after a moment, Dr Death starts to speak. Frank pushes his hair out of his face and leans forward. “Look alive, tumbleweeds. This is Dr Death Defying, shooting up the sky and bringing the noise. ‘Crows have been spotted up in the north-west zones and contaminating the noise. Keep your eyes wide and your thoughts awake, and keep the sound alive.”

Dr Death starts up the music again and Kobra throws a glance towards Frank. They’re tearing down the road, Jet in the front seat and Kobra Kid at the wheel, and the wind’s tugging at Frank’s hair through the open window because he’s too lazy to close it.

“What do you think?” Kobra has to raise his voice to be heard over the music. “Should we get outta here?”

They’re already in the north-west zone. Have been for a few hours, and the weather might mean that it could take even longer to get out again, and Frank doesn’t want to have to repeat the journey to Dr Death’s in a few days’ time just because some dracs might be out on the road.

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “We’ll be fine. Might not see ‘em anyway.”

Kobra shrugs and runs a hand through his air, but he doesn’t object.

Irony’s a bitter thing. Especially when a pack of dracs swerve into existence almost the instant the words are out of his mouth, the roar of motorbike engines filling the air. Jet cuts the music with a curse, and the roaring silence is trembling with apprehension and the weight of thunderclouds as Kobra accelerates.

“You got this?” Jet raises an eyebrow at Frank, and he gives him a tight-lipped smile.

There’s a crash of thunder as he leans out of the window, raising his blaster and aiming at the nearest motorbike, who’s only twenty or so feet away. There are only three them, and the blast hits the first directly in their chest- the bike topples sideways as the rider slips from the seat, and the two draculoids behind crash directly into it.

They all go flying and Frank whoops.

Easy peasy. Pumpkin peasy.

Jet’s reaching forward to turn the music back on when there’s a flash of lightning, and Frank suddenly realises that Korse’s vehicle is on their tail. The black car is only visible for a split second in the brief flash of light before it dissolves back into the rain again, like a phantom amidst the dark clouds.

Shit.  

“Korse is behind us!” Frank leans between the two seats in front of him.

Kobra’s head snaps away from the road with wide eyes, lips curling into a snarl. “Are you fucking with me?” he growls, and when Frank shakes his head, the trans-am screeches to a halt, swerving horizontal to the direction they’re meant to be going in, the tires throwing up a wall of water, the sudden stop almost sending Frank flying. Through the mess of rain, he sees the black BLI car pull up smoothly behind them, another pack of dracs on bikes sliding to a halt behind.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jet lunges forward to grab the wheel, but Kobra pushes him back. He’s already got the blaster in his hand and death in his eyes, and Frank doesn’t know what to do. He glances back through the window, sees the dracs waiting for them, poised next to their motorcycles.

The thunder growls again, the sky lighting up for a split second, and Frank leans forward again. He’s got a pretty good idea of what Kobra’s thinking and he doesn’t like it one bit. “Don’t even try,” Kobra Kid snarls. “The fucker’s either got my brother or he’s killed him, and I’m going to find out and then I’m going to kill Korse myself.”

“Don’t-“ Frank warns, but he’s too late. Kobra stumbles out of the car and out into the rain. Frank looks at Jet and Jet looks at Frank and they both follow him out.

“Korse!” Kobra howls, the wind tearing through his hair. He’s not wearing his sunglasses. “Get out here, you son of a bitch.”

There’s a flash of lightning, a slamming of car doors, and a dark figure steps smoothly into view, another draculoid at their side. That’s… one, two… six dracs. And then Korse, although his face isn't visible. Frank doesn’t much like these odds, and he can tell that Jet doesn’t either, but Kobra doesn’t seem to care. He’s trembling with rage, his blaster aimed at the head of the figure stepping out of the driver’s side, his hand swaying unsteadily. But the person who should be Korse isn't as tall, and they're wearing black.

It’s too dark to make it out properly, maybe it's just his head playing tricks, but Frank is suddenly sure- Frank swears- that the person Kobra’s aiming at isn’t Korse.

Frank doesn’t want to think about how badly this could go.

Chapter Text

There’s rainwater streaming through his black hair and sneaking down his face. Dribbling down his collar, sneaking between the black material and pale skin. It’s cold, but for some reason, he finds that he can’t feel it.

It’s almost impossible to make out the shapes of the strangers amidst the storm, but one’s louder than the other two, hurling insults and threats out into the rain but not moving, It takes him a moment to see them, but when he does he wants to scream.

The three figures are grubby, their colourful clothes soaked in dirt and smoke. Their messy hair are plastered to their foreheads, and he shudders. Those haircuts are most certainly not BLI approved.

He curls his lip. Killjoys. Terrorists. Criminals.

This is it. His chance. His mission. The pale figure isn’t here anymore- hasn’t been for a while now- and now it’s his own chance. This is where he can change it all.

One of them, the nearest one, almost looks familiar. Blonde hair, narrow face, his red jacket hanging loosely from his frame. They don’t even look at him, but he can’t take his eyes from them.

He can’t- He’s got to-

The name of the person is on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite grasp it.

But all he knows is that the hatred buzzing through his veins is too sharp, too painful to ignore. These are the people who are ruining everything. These are the people who trade a life of happiness for one of danger and violence. The name of the person is on the tip of his tongue, but it’s not, and he knows that it should be.

Terrorists. Killers. He’s-he’s got to get them away from him. Or he’s got to kill them.

He gives a small nod and the draculoids lurch forward, guns in their hands and levelled at the three Kiljoys’ heads. He doesn’t join them though. He waits. He watches.

The Killjoys are good- he’ll give them that. They’re quick, they’re sharp, they work together as a team even better than the draculoids can. One ducks behind their vehicle while the other two separate, working as a well-oiled machine, smooth and almost effortless.

He waits. He watches, with rain streaming through his hair and a blank expression on his face.

He hates them all. Each one of them. He’s been made to say it before, for some reason: back in the city, in front of cameras and crowds and draculoids. He hates them. He hates what they do. And for some reason, his words were treated like something to be published onto posters. His face could easily be found on screens all around Battery City, and he’s still not sure why.

People admire Korse. People respect the woman in the suit.

But him? They’re all afraid of him.

Another draculoid hits the ground in a burst of smoke and burning flesh, and he’s had enough.

The nearest Killjoy turns towards him just in time to dodge the blast he fires, but not quickly enough to stop him ploughing into them as hard as he can, throwing them from their feet and into the mud. His hair’s caught in his face, obstructing his vision, but he still lifts his gun and fires.

The Killjoy rolls out of the way and he fires again as they throw themselves to their feet, scrabbling for their gun. He kicks them in the ribs and they double over with a groan, slipping away from before twisting back, their fist shooting out, but he ducks beneath it, catching their elbow and using their momentum to throw them down to the ground.

They don’t move for a moment, and this is his chance, THIS IS HIS CHANCE and he presses the blaster to the mess of blonde hair, only noticing the blood soaking through the side of their red jacket-

He’s about to fire, when there’s a faint cry of “Kobra!” as he’s pulled backwards by another Killjoy- freak, monster, criminal- who aims a brightly coloured gun at his forehead and pulls the trigger.

They’re fast- of course they are, you don’t survive this long in the desert without fine-tuning your reflexes to a knife point- but he’s still faster. He manages to shift just enough for the blast to rip past the side of his head, singing his hair, but the heat makes him reel back anyway. The Killjoy lets go of his jacket collar and he tumbles back into the mud. They look as if they’ve seen a ghost.

“Oh my god.” Their voice cracks, but he can barely hear them over the sound of the wind. “Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit-“

They take a step back and he stumbles to his feet. He’s lost his gun, but he’s still able to hit them in the face as hard as he can. They go reeling and he hits them again, knocking the gun from their hand. There’s a buzzing in his ears, like TV static, the yells of both enemies and allies as they fight. He straddles their waist as they stare up at him with wide eyes and barely resist as he wraps his hands around their throat. They don’t fight him, almost as if they’re in far too much shock to do so, and as their face starts to redden, their lips begin to form a word, over and over again.

“Please. Don’t. Please.”

They look familiar- long, wild, curly hair, kind eyes- but he doesn’t care. No. He’s got to get rid of them. He’s got to destroy them, this filth. Got to kill it.

Their fingers tap weakly at his own, desperately trying to pry his fingers from their throat, but they can’t. They’re far taller than him, but he’s stronger, furious, desperate, righteous. They’re criminals, all of them. He can’t let them live. Blunt fingernails drag over his face, stab at his eyes and nose, but he leans away and presses down harder, a gasp ripping itself out of their mouth. He glances around for a brief moment in sheer desperation, looking out for other figures in white, more of the same bloody figure that makes his stomach turn. He can barely see anything in the rain, only flashes of colour and light, the faint hum of a car engine…

He lets out a scream of fury but still doesn’t let go of the Killjoy’s neck, the sound of fighting dissolving into the wind as he chokes the life out of them. Their face is purple, their grip on his hands weakening, and it’s only a few seconds… a few seconds more…

“Get the fuck off of him!” Something hits him, hard, the blast ripping through his arm, and the force of it sends him sprawling into the dirt, his vision blurring. He’s burning, his entire right side burning, almost feels like he’s melting, and he falls back and shrieks. His shoulder’s screaming , the pinpoint focus of agony, his vision flickering scarlet at the edges and can feel his shirt clinging to his torso, every movement sending another jolt straight through his bones.

His clothes already feel wet. He’s bleeding, or maybe that’s just the rain, but he’s burning, his limbs on fire. He's still screaming and it’s agonising, but he tries to crawl to his knees, keeping his arm as still as possible. There’s the Killjoy around somewhere- he’s got to kill them, kill them before they recover.

Something looms into his vision and he’s too slow to deflect the boot that smacks him in the chest and knocks him onto his back. There’s a snap of agony that rips through his head, spears of red-hot pain shooting through his entire body from his sternum, the air whooshing out of his lungs in one big exhale as he falls onto his back. The jolt as he hits the ground sends another wave of red-hot pain ripping through his shoulder. He’s got to- got to put pressure on it. Or something.

But he’s got to be quick, so he tries to twist away, but he can’t- everything’s too painful, too cold and dark- and he blinks and the Killjoys is standing above him, their blaster aimed directly between his eyes.  

Not that it matters He should have killed them. He’s failed. The other Killjoy has collapsed to their knees behind him, their hands press against their throat, coughing and hacking, and even though he can barely think straight, he turns back up to the Killjoy above him and snarls.

It takes a long moment, but they freeze, an expression of horror ripping across their face, and they lower their blaster. “Shit,” they say. “Oh my god, what have they done to you?”

The Killjoy standing above him has dark hair too, longer than his own. The rain’s starting to give out, the thunder fading into a faint growl in the distance. His clothes are covered in wet mud and rainwater, and it’s only now that the cold is beginning to seep into his bones, but he still glares back up to them, trying to ignore the panic rising in his throat. He’s got a foot pressing into his chest, otherwise he’d be on his feet, fighting tooth and nail to rip their throat out. And the other two as well.

He tries for a frown. Why aren’t they trying to kill him? Why aren’t they being as brutal, as merciless as he knows they should be?

He’s got to. He can’t let them- his enemy, his worst, worst enemy- survive.

He looks around wildly, but there’s no one left. The third Killjoy is emptying the contents of his gun into a draculoid’s skull with an unnatural vengeance. They’re too far away for him to hear what they’re saying, but over the sound of the drizzle, he can make out a few words, something about a “brother… dead…all your fault… kill every last one of you”

He shudders. They’re monsters. Brutal, twisted monsters.

And then his shoulder screams from that tiny jolt of movement, and he doesn’t want to twist to look at it, but he does anyway, nearly gags at the scent of the burning skin and, the bloody mess his arm has become.

“Oh shit,” the small one is still saying, as if it’s a prayer he can’t get out of his head. “Oh shit, oh my fucking shit, I'm so- Party...“

They drop to their knees beside him, tugging their jacket off, balling it up and pressing it clumsily against the burnt flesh. A screams rips out of his chest, all scarlet and soaked in agony, and he tries to pull away, he’s got to pull himself away, got to get away-

But he can’t move. The pain’s swelling with each second, getting stronger and stronger, and after another few moments, he realises that his vision’s beginning to blur. He’s going to pass out.

There are two other Killjoys around them and he wants to push them away but he can barely move. The blonde one looks half-horrified and half-relieved, as if they can’t decide whether to rush forward and help the first or to shoot him dead on the spot. The third is still rubbing at their throat. They haven’t managed to stand up yet.

“Kobra,” the first says quickly, “I need your help here. His shoulder’s real fucked up.” Their breath smells of old cigarettes and something sweet, like candy. He wonders if luxuries like that are even accessible in the desert. The blonde kneels down on his other side and he ignores them both, staring up at the rapidly-clearing sky. The storm’s stopped completely, water vapour hanging, as if suspended, in the humid air. The blonde one is talking, a faint glimmer of a smile- why are they smiling? Why are they happy?- curling the corner of their lips, but they keep looking at him, like he’s an animal they’ve long since thought was extinct, but here in the flesh. He can’t make out their words. Everything’s starting to filter into silence.

He’s going to die. He’s going to die out here, all because he wasn’t good enough to rid the world of infection. Wasn’t strong enough.

There’s another shift and the jacket’s gone from his shoulder, but even though the blinding pain is still there, it doesn’t change. He wonders if his body has reached the point where it cannot physically process anymore agony and so just leaves it at white-hot and paralysing. He chokes back a moan, biting his lip so hard he can taste blood, and his vison is certainly fading now- dissolving into black- as he feels himself being lifted, his head lolling back, black hair covering his eyes.

“What the fuck?” he hears one of them say. “I shot him, look. Why isn’t his jacket fucked up too?”

Black, black hair covering his eyes.

Black, black clothes stained with soot and blood and dirt.

He can still hear their voices though, growing increasingly frantic but fading away, like he’s sinking beneath feet and feet of ocean. They’re shouting, and he’s sure that someone’s shaking him, but he can barely feel it anymore.

Red, terrifyingly red blood filling up his vision in scarlet waves, pushing away everything until it fades into black and he can’t feel anything anymore.

Chapter Text

Frank can’t keep his hands still. He’s on constant alert- fingers fumbling for a cigarette before dropping it back into the packet, brushing his fringe away from his face as it immediately falls back in front of his eyes again. The rain’s reduced the desert to a gooey puddles of sand and dust, and one moment he can be standing on relatively solid earth and the next he can be submerged up to the top of his boots in mud.

He sighs, looking down at the prone figure lying in the backseat of the trans-am. “God,” he says, half to himself, “this is real fucked up, guys.”

Jet lets out a faint noise of agreement but doesn’t say anything, and for that, Frank’s almost grateful; Jet’s voice is raw, like sandpaper and desert dust and alcohol thrown into one, and it makes both Frank and Kobra wince with sympathy every time he talks. The skin around his neck is mottled black and blue- the vague shape of two hands scarring pale skin. Frank was almost too late- another few seconds, and Jet would probably be dead.

“C’mon,” Kobra says, ripping Frank from his own thoughts, and he lifts his head to look back up at him. “It’s not- it can’t be that bad. It could’ve just been an act, like, maybe he was just pretending to work with them so that he could get out, or- or whatever they have done to him… it’s gonna be fixable. Everything’s fixable. We can fix this.”

Frank’s not so sure.

They’ve patched themselves together about as well as they can manage- Dr D’s always had a few first aid kits, and Frank’s just thankful that they’d had the foresight to pinch a pack last time they’ve dropped by. They can’t do much for Jet’s throat, but as far as Kobra could tell it’d mostly just bruising and swelling anyway. They bandage up the small nicks and grazes, used a generous amount of ointment on an ugly wound on Kobra’s side where a blast had clipped him.

Then they turn back to Party.

Or, y’know, someone who’d used to be Party. Frank isn’t so sure who to view him as yet- an enemy, a friend, neither- but his stomach still clenches at the sight of the mess they’ve managed to make of his shoulder. Blood and dirt and burnt flesh, scraps of material clinging to raw meat.

They’ve got to strip away the black jacket (that’s somehow not burnt? Jet suggests that it’s made of new BLI material, something that’s likely designed to deflect the damage from a ray gun, which has directed the heat from the blast down to Party’s elbow) before ripping away the entire shirt, because there's no saving what little material isn't burnt to hell there, and leaving the rest of it as if is. The wound’s just below his shoulder, and looks relatively clean, burnt so savagely that it’s stripped away layers of skin, reducing it to a mess of blisters and reddened skin, but the area around it is likely teeming with germs that could infect it at any moment. A piece of the shirt that’s manage to get caught in the dried blood takes a long time to pull free.

Frank’s just glad that Party stays unconscious for the entire thing; he might have tried to kill them all (again), sure, but all Frank can think about are howls of pain, bloody and agonising, as they try to help someone who doesn’t want to be helped in any way.

Party flickers between lucidity and sleep as they work. He’s been out for hours, even with Frank sitting in the backseat and Party thrown in next to him carelessly, his good wrist tied to the headrest with a long strip of material from bottom of Kobra’s t-shirt. They drive and drive and drive, just on the off-chance that BLI’s sent more after them, but after a long time they have to pull up anyway. They’re all exhausted, beaten half to ghosts, and eventually they decide to just give up for a while.

Another hour or so after that, they finally agree that they’ve done as much for Party as they can.

Frank offers to take the first watch- Jet doesn’t argue, curling up into a ball next to the fire and closing his eyes immediately, but Kobra sits down next to him, absentmindedly drawing out patterns in the dirt with his finger.

He looks tired; more tired than usual, at least, and Frank’s not sure if he’s really coping as well as he seems to be- you spend weeks thinking your brother’s dead, only to find out that he is alive, but hell-bent on killing you and your friends. Out of everyone, minus Party, Kobra’s the one Frank’s the most worried about. Stuff like that can really mess you up inside.

“You okay?” Frank finally asks. His words come out far quieter than he meant it to, so he clears his throat and repeats himself. Kobra’s head jerks up and he meets Frank’s gaze with tired eyes.

“I’m fine.” There’s another long pause, the sound of fire hissing and dust shifting hanging heavy in the air. Frank doesn’t say anything else, but Kobra finally sighs. “Are you?”

Frank plays with a hole in the knee in his pants. “Yeah. Just, y’know. Worried. And everything.”

Kobra lets out a long breath, as if he’s hoping that he can throw away the nerves and apprehension along with it. “He’s gonna be ok. Party’s tough. You’ll see.”

He’s got one knee pulled up to his chest with his blaster resting on top of it, and Frank ends up watching him run a finger over its side absentmindedly, distractedly. Kobra licks his lips again. “It was probably just the drugs,” he continues. “You remember what they were like.”

Frank does remember. He remembers not being able to feel anything at all, his heartbeat dull and steady, even when he was watching the executions- BLI acting as judge, jury and executioner. He remembers not being at all bothered by the screams of Killjoys and the smell of death hanging heavy in the air.

He remembers, as an experiment once, refusing to take his pills, and despite the sickness and withdrawal and emotions that hit him like a brick wall, it was almost a relief.

He remembers watching the next execution- a girl barely older than he was at the time, her hair blue and cropped short, her scream as the electricity ripped through her body exploding into the air- and almost throwing up there and then.

“Yeah,” Frank says thickly. “I remember.” 

But the problem is, he doesn’t remember ever wanting to rip the people he was closest to limb from bloody limb.

Kobra sighs. “Gerard hates BLI more than anyone I’ve ever met. This has happened before, anyway. He’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“Ooh, it’s Gerard now,” Frank tries for a grin and nudges Kobra with his shoulder. “We’re getting kinda personal now, aren’t we, Mikeyway?”

Kobra turns to him blankly, and Frank shifts. Yeah, okay, wrong time for jokes.

“He’ll be fine,” Kobra insists, looking towards Frank pleadingly, like he’s trying to convince himself as well. “It’s just the drugs. That’s it. Party’ll be fine after that. Nothing will go wrong. He’s gonna be okay.”

“Okay,” Frank finally says, but he doesn’t sound anything near convincing. “Okay.”

Nothing happens- there’s the sound of flames crackling and Jet wheezing in his sleep, but other than that, the desert’s empty and silent. Kobra drops off to sleep after an hour or so, slumped forward with his chin resting on his knee, and Frank plays with a loose lace on his boot until he feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

Party’s watching him. Lying there, not making a sound, just watching him with cold eyes. His wrist is tied to the back door handle of the trans-am, his back pressed to the outside of the car, his good arm fixed above his head. He must be uncomfortable, especially with the wound on his shoulder as heavily bandaged as it is, but he’s been sitting still for so long that his limbs must have gone numb by now.

But he’s staring at him, just staring, with dead, furious eyes, as if all he wants is to lean over and rip Frank’s throat out. The black hair’s a startling contrast to how pale his skin has become, making the shadows beneath his eyes even darker.

Party’s staring continues for another minute longer before Frank starts to crack. “Why are you staring at me like I’ve just killed your favourite pet?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, and he’s trying to force the confidence into his voice that the old Party would’ve seen straight through it. Instead, this new Party’s expression twists, but he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t stop glaring, either.

“You know,” Frank continues, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it, “I read once that more than eight seconds of eye contact meant that you either wanted to kill someone or fuck them. And I’m kinda curious which one it is for you.”

“Killing. Definitely.” Party’s lip curls in disgust at the thought, and Frank can’t help but shiver. At this rate, he’s going to use up all the cigarettes he has by the morning.

“Damn, that’s sure a disappointment,” he says with a shrug, and as he pulls the cigarette back to his lips he tries to ignore how badly his hands are shaking. He hopes Party- is this even Party anymore?- can’t see it.

Frank really can’t manage to sit still. He shifts, runs a hand through his hair, picks at the dirt under his fingernails. It’s another hour, Party’s still glaring, and if looks could kill, Frank would be hung, drawn and quartered, sewn back together again, burnt at the stake, shot and then decapitated.

Fuck this- he can feel eyes boring through the back of his head. Party doesn’t even bother to turn away when Frank meets his eyes. They’re cold, calculating and empty. Almost… dead. They’re so unfamiliar that Frank shivers.

“Party…” His throat feels tight, almost as if the words are caught, and he coughs before trying again. “Party… what’s happened? What’s going on?”

Party’s only been conscious for the last few hours, only opening his eyes after Star and Kobra had closed theirs. Frank half wonders if it’d been purposeful, if Party was trying to avoid talking to them as much as he could, although he doesn’t know why he’d do that. He doesn’t want to imagine why.

Party’s face twists into a sneer. “Don’t call me that.”

Frank lets out a deep breath, imagining it whispering between his lips like cigarette smoke and curling into the air in heavy grey tendrils. “What are you talking about? What’s happened to you?”

Party tries to shift- maybe trying to loosen up cramp in his arms- and hisses at the movement, blood draining from his face, skin turning ashen in the firelight. Frank instinctively reaches towards him and Party growls- properly growls at him, like he’s something inhuman and cruel, something that Frank’s never seen before- and he flinches away again.

“You’re all going to die,” Party snarls. “I’m going to get out of here. You’ll be dragged through the city streets and executed in front of everyone. It’ll happen. You just wait.”

Frank shakes his head. He doesn’t want to listen to this- doesn’t want to accept that this is the same person that he laughed and fought with, the same person he’s wanted to kiss for so so long.

He’s thinner than he used to be- nothing more than a pale skeleton knitted together under a layer of skin, collarbones jutting out like his bones are trying to burst free from his body. He’s lost so much weight. He’s almost sickly now. It’s terrifying.

“Jesus,” Frank laughs bitterly and shakes his head. “You’re so fucked up, man, what the hell.”

“Me?” Party hisses with narrowed eyes. “I’m not the fucked up one here. I’m the one trying to help people. You’re a disease, you’re ruining everything. Hurting everyone. Did you ever think of all the innocent people that you’re ruining the lives of? You’re trying to tear an entire city down for your own twisted agenda.”

Frank raises an eyebrow like he couldn’t care less, but inside he’s burning. He wants to find Korse and kill him. He wants to beat him to the brink of death, bring him back to health and beat him again, catch them both on this endless loop of forever pain and loathing.

“You sure about that? Because you used to want the exact same thing that we did, actually.” Frank’s not sure why he’s antagonising him- this isn’t going to help one bit.

Party flinches like he’s been hit, his face twisting. “No I didn’t,” he spits, like the words are venomous. “I’d never associate myself with the likes of you.”

Frank’s not used to this- he’s made it through these past years by relying on his friends- he wouldn’t have made it this far without them- but now he can’t even trust them anymore. He bites back the stab of pain that slides between his ribs like a knife and shrugs. “Sure,” he shrugs. “If that’s you wanna think, then whatever.”

He sits up and stretches, his joints cracking, and groans to himself. Jet’s lying a few metres away, curled up on his side, and Frank steps over and nudges him in the ribs with the toe of his boot. “Yo, Jet. Your watch now, I’m gonna grab a few hours’ sleep, kay?”

Jet gives a wheeze of a cough as he nods- even in the dark, Frank can almost see the outline of the bruises around his throat. Mottled purple and black, almost making the shape of two hands across his windpipe.

Frank’s just taking Jet’s place, placing his hands under his head and staring up at the mess of stars in the sky. He drops off to sleep, but he doesn’t rest easy.

Chapter Text

Frank wakes up to the sound of Party throwing up.

It’s two days later, and they’re crashed out in some ramshackle building that Frank thinks could have been an old diner before the Helium Wars; there’s a pile of wooden planks thrown into a pile against one wall, a counter top that’s long since been ransacked, some booths still standing in one corner with the seating torn to ribbons. There could’ve been an outbuilding- there’s still more wooden planks outside, and four steel struts stretching like demonic fingers towards the sky. It could’ve been anything though: who knows out in the zones.

Party retches again, the sound ripping out of his throat like it has claws- and Frank looks away, wrinkling his nose. It’s a long few seconds before he hears Party catch his breath and sit back, the thud of his head smacking heavily into the wooden post behind him.

Frank turns back to face him. He’s nothing more than a small shape in the far corner of the room, a rope wrapped half a dozen times around his middle, securing him to the leg of the counter. His hands and feet aren’t tied, but only because they’d figured that Party, with his bust shoulder, would be in no state to untie himself. Not to mention that the rope was fixed behind him, and Kobra ties the toughest damn knots Frank’s ever seen.

Party looks up to face him, and maybe if he didn’t look like utter shit then he’d almost be slightly intimidating. As it is, his skin is grey and his hair is greasy and hanging in front of his eyes. At this moment in time, Frank wouldn't like Party's odds in a beauty pageant. The only other contestant could be a corpse, and there still wouldn't be a clear winner.

As he watches, Party leans sideways and retches drying, spits, then slumps back against the wooden bean with a layer of sweat on his forehead. Frank props himself up onto one shoulder and, because he’s such a dick, raises his eyebrows. “Withdrawal’s a real bitch, huh?”

Party cracks one eye open and stares him down. His eyes are furiously bloodshot, ringed red, and he’s shivering slightly too, as if it was the middle of the night (when the temperature manages to drop almost to freezing on way too many occasions for Frank to appreciate) rather than morning. He’s got his arms wrapped tight around his middle, like he’s trying to stop himself from falling to pieces there and then.

He looks small.  He looks tired and terrified. Frank wants to hate him. He doesn’t answer, though, and Frank can’t be arsed to taunt him more.

“What happened to your face?” Party asks, his voice raspy, like sandpaper.

Frank’s hand instinctively goes to the scar of the side of his face. Korse’s knife did a damn good job- it’s not healed fully yet, and there’ll be a scar for the rest of his (likely limited) days. “A knife happened.”

“Did it hurt?”

Frank forces himself to not think about the taste of his own blood in his mouth, the way that the world blurred into a high-speed mess of agony and wild fear. “Yup.”

Party nods, like he’s satisfied. “Good,” he says, and Frank wants to punch something.

“Right.” He shuffles to his feet, joints cracking, and forces himself not to look at Party anymore.

His body hurts; that’s the one problem with zone running- you’re either sleeping on dirt or crumbling floors, and neither of them are particularly comfortable options. Dust gets everywhere, invades every crevice possible, but floors leave you stiff for hours and on the coldest nights, the material leaches all of the warmth from your bones.

Kobra and Jet are sprawled out on the other side of the room- Kobra’s managing to give a pretty damn good impression of a starfish, his arms and legs splayed out in every direction, whilst Jet’s doubled over one of the diner’s booths in a way that can’t possibly be comfortable. His hair must have doubled in size overnight because that shit is everywhere all of a sudden. Frank stretches again, turning towards the missing wall that they’ve classed as the ‘entrance’, and it’s only then that Party tries to make conversation.

“Where are you going?” he asks, and his voice is drags nails down Frank’s spine. It sounds sickly, raw and as cracked as the dirt outside, and for the thousandth time over the past two days- when they’ve been dragging a half-unconscious enemy from zone to zone, not daring to untie him at any point- Frank’s brain is burning with the one question of- ‘what the hell have they done to you?’

Frank shrugs. “Chill, princess, I’m getting you water. It can help sometimes.”

It’s only then that Party shifts again, twists his arms in a specific way, and Frank sees the tattoo on the inside of his wrist. His blood freezes in his veins. It's the BLI symbol- the face with the black bar struck beneath it- a brand on Party’s skin, like: whatever you think you can do, he’ll never be one of you EVER again. He’s OURS now.

He wants to throw up. Right there and then. And he wants to run. Wants to run and run away from whatever's left of Party and never stop.

Party’s features twist but he doesn’t say anything, and Frank steps out of the building and into the bright light outside, dragging in a deep breath as he does so. The sky’s stained a pale turquoise; soft tangerine hovering above the very edge of the horizon like it’s waiting to jump out at him. That direction’s east- if he walked in that direction for the next few weeks, he’d make it to Battery City. If they drove, it’d barely take a couple of days.

Frank lied though- he’ll get Party a drink, sure, but he’s having a smoke first. Because, you know, priorities. And he sure as hell needs one now.

The trans-am’s a hulking shape parked around the back of the building and Frank shuffles towards it, before hopping onto the top of the hood, pulling his packet of smokes from his pocket. It’s probably not a good thing that his feet don’t reach the ground when he’s sitting on the car, but it doesn’t matter. He kicks his feet and drags in a mouthful of smoke, letting it whisper between his lips and into the warm air.

God, right, that’s better. He can face the day now.

He stays there for a moment more, back against the windshield and one leg dangling from the hood and the other one pulled up, watching the grey dissipate above his head. God, he’s exhausted, and he’s had, like, four hours sleep, which is really good for him. It doesn’t mean that he feels rested though- for the second night in a row since they found Party, he’s had the nightmare again: Party, with his red hair again, screaming his name, desperate, like the sound’s being torn from him. He’d been unable to move, for some reason, like his feet were glued to the ground, but Frank had been running toward him, or at least trying to, but he kept falling. Party would scream at him, beg him to keep moving forward, but Frank couldn’t. And Frank would finally get up, look up for him, and Party would be gone again.

Every time he found his feet, he’d fall again.

Frank’s half hoping he doesn’t sleep tonight, because he doesn’t want to have to face the nightmare again. 

He finishes his smoke far too quickly and flicks the butt to the side before sliding off the hood. Right. Whatever. Back to business.

He doesn’t bother checking the main body of the trans-am- there wasn’t anything in there the night before, so he’s pretty sure that won’t have changed overnight- but he steps round to the trunkand flips it open. The car’s been parked in the shadow of the building, so there’s not plenty of light illuminating the inside of boot, so he leans in and fumbles around for the litre bottle that totally should be in there…

He touches dry leather instead of cold plastic, and it takes him a moment to decide whether he really wants to pull out the Dead Pegasus jacket. He does though, and brushes away the dirt and the dried blood spotted on one of the sleeves. It's crumpled and dirty, but in pretty good condition considering it's been left in the back of the trunk for god knows how long.

Frank was once told that out of every sense, it's smell that's the most powerful trigger for memories, and just holding Party's jacket in his hand, he can almost smell the sweet and cigarette smell of him, almost remember long nights next to the fire, watching the stars and the glow of Battery City's light pollution on the horizon-

“Ghoul, what are you doing?”

Frank jerks up, smacks the back of his head on the underside of the trunk and he reels back, loses his balance and lands smack on his ass. “Holy fuck, Kobra, what the hell?”

Kobra has a small smirk twisting his lips. “Dude, you okay?” he asks, and Frank shuffles back to his feet and shrugs.

“You shouldn’t have snuck up on me like that, man. I could’a ghosted you if you weren’t careful, and then we’d all be screwed.”

“Oh, of course. Totally.”

Frank draws himself up to his full height. “I scare the shit outta every drac in the zones. Don’t underestimate me.”

Kobra readjusts the collar on his jacket and looks him up and down impassively. “Ghoul, dude, as tough as you might be, I don’t think draculoids are gonna be running away in fear from a guy who barely reaches eye level.”

"Shut up," Frank retorts, folding his arms. "I'd fight you right here, but it'd be too easy to win."

"Sure," Kobra says archly. Frank can't tell for sure, but he's almost certain that Kobra's got an eyebrow raised.   

He turns back to the trunk and finally fishes out a half-empty bottle of water. There’s probably a few flecks of dust floating on the top, but it’s likely the last one they’ll have for a while, so he’s not going to complain.

Frank hadn’t realised he still has the jacket in his hand; he brushes the new dirt away before shoving it back into the boot. The jacket’s stuffed into the far back of the trunk, as far as Frank can force it. “We should keep hold of that,” Kobra adds as Frank turns to him, scuffing the toe of his boot into the dust, hands in his pockets. “Y’know, for Party. When he’s doing better.”

Doing better. Frank doesn’t know what Party being ‘better’ would even consist of. How much ‘better’ is even worth imagining?

He just nods. The tattoo. Whatever happens from now on, they both know that it’ll never be the same Party they remember.

(It won’t be the same Party who sat with him under the stars or leant in to kiss him. Or drew him dumb cartoon strips when Frank had been too banged-up from the latest fight to do anything else but watch the world flash past from the backseat of the trans-am. Or complained that the worst thing about being away from Battery City was the lack of coffee out in the zones and joked that Frank was one of the better things, though. But Frank isn’t going to mention this, though.)

The desert air tastes bitter on his tongue as he takes in another breath.

“What’re we gonna do with him?” Frank finally asks, and Kobra looks over at him.

“What do you mean? There’s not many options here.”

Frank doesn’t want to say it, wants to bite down on his tongue until he can taste blood, because it’d still be better than saying what he’s about to. So he spits it out- throws it out into the open air before he can second guess himself, before he can stifle it.

“I just think… like, whatever BLI have done to him, it’s messed up, right? He’d been there for weeks, months, and we have no idea what they’ve done. We don’t know if he’ll ever get better, and it’s-“

“What?” Kobra cuts him off, and his voice has taken a sharp edge, like a knife blade. “You think we should just give up? Just on the off chance that there’s nothing we can do? Don’t be an idiot, Ghoul. We both know that we're not gonna leave him.”

His voice rips through Frank like it’s steel, cutting deep into his skin. And the truth is… Frank doesn’t want to lose Party. They’ve got him back, in a way, and if there’s any chance that he could get the real Party back… well, Frank would do anything for that chance. Would do anything for that one opportunity to sit with him again, except this time to kiss him for real.

Except he can’t say that. “Okay, okay.” He holds his hands up in surrender, but Kobra doesn’t look any less angry. “I just needed to say it, but I know it’s nothing we’d actually do, I know. How about we take him to Dr Death-Defying, see if there’s anything he can do. Maybe he knows some voodoo shit, or can call down Destroya to fix this. Party’s on DRAC or some meds like it, so hopefully it’ll wear off some soon, anyway.”

Kobra still looks mad. Frank should’ve known not to threaten his brother.

“Right,” he says shortly, but he doesn’t look convinced.

Chapter Text

It’s a few hours later that they come across some people to trade with. There’s a droid and another girl; both the same height, the girl’s curly black hair is dragged up into a ponytail and skirt hiked up so high that it’s practically non-existent. Not that it’s a bad thing- Party used to insist that it doesn’t matter what anyone wears at all, as long as they’re happy and comfortable, and Frank still agrees- and the droid’s got ink metal smeared down their face like war paint.

They both look tired, grubby, in pain, but they’re almost pleased when they see Frank, Kobra and Jet, like they’re celebrities worth getting excited about. Frank still doesn’t understand it- he still can’t comprehend the idea that they’re almost a legend in some of the far-off zones, and something of a horror story back in Battery City. They’re just a group of nerds in brightly coloured clothing. They’re really nothing more.

They are just about to set off from the building when the other ‘runners turn up- the girl clinging on to the back of an old BLI bike covered in paint and stickers, while the droid drives, swerving to a stop about twenty metres from them. Party is still tied up inside, thank god, because Frank isn’t completely sure how either group would react to an urban legend turning out to be a drugged-out BLI subject hell-bent on killing them.

“Yo!” The girl hops off before the bike’s even stopped moving. She’s made it a few steps before she looks them up and down, and her face flushes.  “Yo,” she says again, but she sounds more apprehensive this time. “You lot the Killjoys?”

Jet looks at Kobra and then to Frank, and shrugs. “Guess so.”

“Neato.” The droid saunters over, far more casually, metal limbs fluid and steady. They don’t look as impressed. “You guys after anything? We got way too much fuel right now but no blasters, so I ain’t got any idea how we’d stick out in here.”

Kobra crosses his arms. "Might do. How long you two been out here?"

"Coupl'a weeks," the girl says, before jerking her head towards the droid. "Grey here gave me a lift a few days and we kinda ended up sticking together. We both heard a lot about you though. It's hella cool, just so ya know."

"Thanks." Frank nods, because he really isn't sure what else to do.

Eventually, they’ve swapped a week’s worth of batteries and a carton of Dead Pegasus fuel for another bottle of water and a can of power pup. It’s not exactly a fair deal, but the kids haven’t been out in the zones that long, and they’re hiding a lack of experience behind face paint and loud voices. Not that they’ve said anything about it, but Frank knows- if you’re out in the desert long enough, it drags the life from your skin, the energy from your bones. You’re left as a colourful corpse that’s still more alive than it ever was in Battery City, but far more tired too.

These kids haven’t got the bags under their eyes yet. But they will, soon enough.

As a parting gift, Kobra gives them his venda-hack too, for when they manage to find the vending machines on the skirts of each zone. It won’t keep them alive, but it’ll sure give them a chance. The girl and the droid give them each a grin and a wave like they’re good luck charms, But just as the droid slips back onto the bike, and Kobra and Jet start back towards the building (where Party’s very politely kept quiet for this last half hour, although he’s been unconscious for most of it, so it’s not like he had much choice), the girl hesitates and darts back over to him.

“Yo, wait up a minute.”

Frank turns, fiddles with a hole at the bottom of his jacket. “What’s up?”

She pauses, chewing on her bottom lip like she can’t fully pull together the words to use. “So, we’ve not been out of the city for long, yaknow? And I know I said we'd heard 'bout you guys before, but like... Like, so we heard this stuff about your pal, Party Poison, being caught and all-“

Frank’s throat tights, constricts, like her words are forcing themselves down his throat, choking him. “Yeah… it’s, true, I guess. He… yeah, he did.”

Oh shit please don’t have seen him when you pulled up. There’s no reason you should have but oh god if you have then we’re so screwed I don’t want to have to fight a kid.

We’d just say it was a drac we caught. Even if he’s not wearing white. He doesn’t look like a killjoy. Just say we found him out on the zones somewhere. Yeah. We’ll be fine.

She nods, cutting him off. “See, like, we figured he was gonna get killed- I mean ghosted- yaknow? ‘Cos BLI have executions a lot, to show people what would happen to anyone rebelling. But, we saw him at one, or at least we thought we did, but he was different? So we’re not completely sure if it was him? ‘Cos his hair was all black and he was actually watching it rather than-“

Frank really doesn’t want to hear about this.

“-And there were these rumours going ‘round, people saying that he actually took her- the girl you were looking after, right?- to Bat City in the first place? Like all double agent and shit, yaknow? We kinda just didn’t know if that was true or not.”

Great going, Party, you’ve got yourself onto the list of the zones’ top ten public enemies. Great fuckin’ going.

“Nope.” Frank’s biting his bottom lip so hard that he can taste blood, but he shakes his head, forces his voice steady. “That’s all lies. Party didn't do that, okay? I was there when he got- we were all there when they got the girl, and we were all tryin' to save her. If you hear anyone sayin’ anything like that, you tell them, Party Poison was… he is, okay, he is a good fuckin’ guy, and people can’t give up on shit like that, okay?”

He knows it’s rude, and sure, Frank’s not the politest guy around, but he’s not a dick either, so he takes a step back, just to make it obvious that he’s going to leave, but doesn’t just walk away yet.

The girl doesn’t seem to get the message though, “No, but yaknow, just be careful? I know you guys are, but just… more careful, if you get me. We might’ve been wrong, but it’s what a lot of guys were talking ‘bout in the city, so I’m not so sure.”

“Right. Yeah. Thanks. Like I said. We’ll keep looking.”

Now he turns on his heel and starts to walk away, tugging on his fringe and spitting out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. He’s just about to get back to the building, Jet and Kobra fiddling around with their weapons and the glaring Party on the floor, when he hears the girl call his name again, from a distance away, and this time he clenches his teeth. “What is it?”

The girl’s been following, and the droid’s looking at her from the bike with an exasperated expression on their face. The girl shuffles her feet.

“Yo, out of interest, you got any use for a grenade?”

Frank stops glaring.

“No,” Show Pony says.

“What?”

“No,” they repeat, crossing their arms.

Kobra mimics him, glaring. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

Show Pony cocks their head. “No. A determiner defined as ‘not any’. An exclamation used to give a negative response. A noun meaning ‘a negative answer or decision, especially in voting.’ Does that ring any bells?”

“Not really,” Frank snipes. “BLI burnt all the dictionaries a while back, remember?”

“Okay, we don’t need to get pissy here.” Jet spreads his hands and steps forward. His voice a raw rasp, grating on Frank’s ears. “Why can’t we go and see Dr Death? It’s kinda important.”

“Yeah,” Show Pony’s voice is muffled underneath their helmet, but Frank can still make out how sharp their voice is. “You’re not coming any nearer. Your friend’s on BLI drugs, so he’s not coming in. And you’re with him, so you’re not allowed in either. You know how it is.”

“Really, dude?” Frank hisses, and he refuses, absolutely refuses, to look back at the trans-am, parked only a few metres away. Party’s unconscious and tied up in the back seat. He’s not even going to bother wondering how Dr Death-Defying knows about Party already. He knows everything out here. “This is bullshit, c’mon.”

“Nope. If you’re taking BLI drugs then you’re out. That's always been the rules. Dr Death-Defying doesn't pick favorites. And I'm not changing anything for you.”

Frank sighs dramatically and then rolls his eyes for good measure, just to convey exactly how much of a piss-take he thinks this is.

“Listen,” Jet presses his palms together and winds his fingers together, almost like he’s about to start begging or something. “We’re getting him clean. We’re going to fix this, not let him stay drugged up and shit, okay? So… can we just, cold-turkey him, sort him out? And then come back once he’s better? How’s that?”

Show Pony huffs, glancing towards Dr D’s diner that’s only twenty feet away at most. Damn, he would’ve known how to help Party, if anyone could. “Alright,” they finally say, after a long, icy pause that drags itself out far longer than it should. “Dr D says it’s gonna take a bit more than just drying him out, but that’s a good start. You should do that.”

Kobra shakes his head. “This isn’t cool, man. Seriously, you know us. You know we’re not gonna ghost you guys. We just need help on this, is it really too much to ask?”

Show Pony turns to him, or at least towards him, considering you could really never tell where they were looking beneath the dark visor of their helmet. “You should keep moving. Get further out. We won’t tell anyone who comes past that you’ve been here, but people already know about him-“ he jerks his head towards the trans-am- “already. And some of them aren’t gonna be up to listening, considering your friend wasn't during arrests and executions, yeah?”

Arrests. Executions. Frank finally does look back towards the car, where he can just see a wild tuft of black hair throwing itself up into the air, and feels his blood run cold, icy apprehension trickling through his veins. What had Party even done back in Battery City? Did Frank really want to know?

“You’re an asshole,” Kobra hisses, but he doesn’t bother trying to press it any further.  “C’mon guys,” he snaps. “Let’s go.”

He stomps back towards the trans-am, Frank close behind and Jet trailing after. He doesn’t have to look back to know that Show Pony’s standing in the same place, watching them leave.

Party’s still asleep- stretched out over the backseat, hands still tied tightly, lying on his side because his shoulder’s still too injured for him to move it. His face is drawn, the black clothes spotted with dirt but otherwise relatively clean. He doesn’t move when they approach, only flinches when Kobra throws open the passenger side door. “Ghoul. Your turn to drive. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

Frank slides into the driving seat. Party’s still unconscious. Frank leans back between the seats. Party doesn’t move.

He prods Party’s knee. “Yo, sleeping beauty, you gotta move. Jet’s gonna be sitting next to you,”

Party wakes up. Suddenly, with a yell that sounds like it’s been ripped out of him. Shooting forward, almost bending Frank’s finger back in the process, his eyes wide and panicked. He writhes, spits, throws himself side to side, falling off the seat and onto the floor of the trans-am. He’s almost trying to force himself back against the car door, like he can throw himself through the metal and out into the harsh desert light.

“No, no- fuck-fuckin sto-” he gasps, writhing. “Fuck I don’t know anything I just-”

His wild eyes meet Frank’s and then he freezes, and, like the shutter of a camera, the terrified expression closes off. He stops shaking, only for the expression to be replaced with the disdain that Frank’s almost grown accustomed to after these days. Frank licks his lips and opens his mouth just as Kobra forces the opposite rear door open and reaches in. “Ger- Party? Are you okay?” He twists back to face Frank. “Dude, what did you do to him?”

Frank shakes his head. “I didn’t do anything, man, seriously. He just woke up and like, freaked out for a second.”

Kobra frowns anyway, turning back to Party, who’s still folded uncomfortably between the seats. “C’mere, I’ll help you-“

“Get off me,” Party snarls, and Kobra jerks his hand back, and his expression becomes even more cut-off than usual.

“Right,” he says shortly and moves back. Frank doesn’t stop staring at Party though, who catches his gaze and returns it- staring coldly at him until he eventually has to blink.

There's a tap on the window above Party’s head. Jet’s almost got his face pressed against the glass. “Uh, guys, am I good to get in yet? Or shall I just let you sort everything out for another minute?”

He looks so awkward and out of place that Frank huphs a nervous breath, drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “C’mon, Jet, you can get in, man.”

Jet nods, opens the door, and has to manoeuvre his way around Party, who almost falls straight out of the car. “So what’s the plan?” he asks, once he’s finally into one of the seats.

Frank stares out the windscreen. Out of the corner of his eye, he can still see Show Pony watching them. “Well,” he finally says, “the plan is to drive around in circles until Party’s back to normal.”

“Good plan,” Kobra nods.

“Good plan,” Jet echoes.

Chapter Text

The trans-am breaks down five hours later. It’s just as Frank’s starting to get somewhere on the Jet’s True Identity front, which means that it couldn’t be at a worse possible time.

“Okay, so doesn’t it begin with an ‘a’?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cos I think you could almost pull off ‘Alan’ to be honest.”

Jet gives a sigh. “No I couldn’t and no, I’m definitely sure.”

“Damn.” Frank scratches his nose. “Does it begin with ‘F’? Because if your name’s ‘Frank’ too then one of us is gonna have to change.”

“It’s not, Ghoul, you’re fine.”

“Okay, but can you at least tell me what it begins with then? We’re still on a first name basis- I haven’t even started on surnames yet. We can go all ‘I see’ with this thing.”

Jet frowns. “You mean ‘eye spy’?”

Frank shrugs and turns back to the windshield, watching the desert flash past in a blur of sound and muted colour. “I dunno. I haven't played it in years.”

Jet clears his throat, but before he has chance to say anything, there’s a splutter from the exhaust, an indignant hiss from the engine, and a plume of smoke throws itself from beneath the hood and into the clear sky.

Frank blinks at the acrid smoke cloud through the windshield and slowly lowers his feet from the dash. “Um,” he manages, “Jet, maybe you should let me drive again.”

“Um,” Jet echoes, and he looks as confused. “I think it’s a bit broken.” He twists around in the driver’s seat to look back at Kobra. “Dude, I think you should fix this.”

Kobra blinks. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because I don’t know where to start.”

Kobra turns to Frank, who shrugs. “Dude, I’m too lazy to learn about shit like that and I’m not planning on starting now either. This is why you’re around. You do all the difficult things I can’t be bothered to do.”

“Right then,” Kobra sits forward and opens the door. “C’mon, Jet, I’m gonna teach you how to fix a car.”

“Why not Ghoul?” Jet asks, but he’s already climbing out of the car.

“If you don’t want an excuse to not be pestered by Ghoul for another half hour, then sure, he can help out. I’m pretty sure he won’t actually pay any attention and we’ll be stuck out here until nightfall, but if that’s what you’d prefer-“

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Jet grumbles, and Frank mentally awards himself a round of applause before setting his feet back onto the dash and setting his hands behind his head. Good going, Ghoulie boy, good going.

If he was the kinda guy who got way too sentimental about stuff, then he’d probably get upset that the new, sicker, BLI edition of Party Poison isn’t at all bothered by Frank having his feet up like he does. Old Party would’ve almost thrown a metaphorical fit, and figuratively (and possibly literally, depending on the state of Frank’s boots) killed him for doing so. Damn, you know you're getting nostalgic when a memory of Party almost ghosting Frank for getting crumbs and cigarette ash on the dashboard seems like a good time. The guy wouldn't wash for weeks, but 'the trans-am deserves respect, Ghoul'. 

New Party, unfortunately, hasn’t opened his eyes in the last few hours though- he’s curled into a ball in the footwell in the backseat, his knees pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around them, his hands still tied. His hair’s lanky and clinging to his forehead, his skin grey. He’s still wearing the black BLI clothes, because of course there’s nothing else he could have put on, but the jacket’s unzipped and one side’s slipped down, exposing the reddened skin clawing over his collarbones and down beneath his jacket.

Frank’s gut twists every time he looks at it. He’s the one who shot him, after all; he’s the one who saw the shape choking the life out of Jet on the ground, levelled his blaster for the headshot but managed to aim too low. Frank’s so glad that he did- the idea that he could’ve killed Party out there without a second glance or a second thought is terrifying.

Party’s shaking in his sleep, shivers wracking his body, his teeth chattering, and Frank only allows himself a moment to think about his actions before he scrambles over the gearbox and into the backseats, crouching down onto the rear passenger seat above Party’s head. From this angle, he can make out even more of the burns on Party’s shoulder and neck- his shirt’s burnt the heat of Frank’s blaster, so part of the collar’s reduced to frayed, blackened material, and the red skin winds down Party’s collarbones to pinpoint on his shoulder, and although that’s all he can see, Frank knows that it makes its way down Party’s forearm, like tattoos that Party used to insist he was never interested in getting.

So many things have happened to Party without his consent- the medication, the (suspected) brainwashing into the BLI draculoid regime (because he prays it's brainwashing- the suggestion that hey, maybe Party really wanted back in BLI makes Frank incredibly inclined to punch something). Frank doesn’t want to think about the other rumours that have never been confirmed by survivors, suggestions that blacken the zones and make Frank shiver at the very prospect at them. No one deserves tortures like that. The idea that Party could’ve been subject to it makes him want to curl up and cry.

“Hey, Ghoul? Can you check that the battery’s still working?” Kobra’s voice is sharp and loud, shattering Frank’s thoughts like a stone through glass.

“What battery?”

There’s a sigh. “The car’s battery. Check the lights or the radio. See if it’s still got power.”

Frank leans back over the steering wheel, fiddles with it for a minute before managing to flash the headlights. Kobra gives him a thumbs-up over the raised hood, and then, judging from the loud banging sound, proceeds to smack a random car-part with the palm of his hand.

Looking back, Frank sees Party flinch at the noise, his fingers flexing, but doesn’t open his eyes yet, and Frank doesn’t think before he leans down and runs his fingers through Party’s hair, smoothing it away from his forehead. There’s black hair dye staining his fingers when he pulls away.

It’s only been three days now. The withdrawal should- needs to- wear off soon. Frank can’t remember much from the first few days after he stopped taking his meds; the days threw themselves into one another, into a blur of nausea and sleep, because there was never anything else to do when you couldn’t stand up properly. Kobra’s words from the night before- ‘this has happened before’- is still lurking in the back of his brain like a shadow, hulking and black, impossible to ignore.

Frank wasn’t around when Party had relapsed back onto the medication, but he’s managed to pick up bits and pieces of information before, mainly from a low-down Kobra had thrown his way to brush off the awkward questions. 

Back in Battery City, you were given a pack of pills, one for each day, which was topped up every month. And when you stopped taking them for a long period of time, just like Kobra and Party did, you were left with an ever-increasing stash of medication hidden underneath your bed. And when, like Party, you break under the weight of withdrawal pressing down against your shoulders, and take twelve days’ worth of BLI DRAC-standard issue medication in the space of two minutes, they work too well.

Aside from Party, Frank’s never heard of another overdose survivor- the pills strike fast, rush through your veins and drag you under faster than a riptide ever could. Of course, BLI aren't going to promote the idea of overdoses, or even the suggestion of deviating from your enforced dose. 

Party was still twitchy the first time Frank saw him, back at Dr Death-Defying’s place- his hands fidgeting to his hair, to the unlit smoke in his fingers, to the collar of his jacket, and then back to his hair again. Kobra had dragged him out of Battery City the first moment he was able to, built names for themselves out of rubble and colours and noise, even with his brother struggling through the final dregs of withdrawal.

“I miss it,” Party had once said, when it’d just been him and Frank in the car, when Kobra was out of earshot and hacking into another vending machine.

Frank looked over at him from his place in the passenger seat. “What?”

“The medication. From… um… Bat City. I… um… kinda miss them. Sometimes.” His voice was low, hesitant, almost whispered like he was terrified that his brother was close enough to hear him, like it was a secret that even the very desert was listening out for.

Frank frowned. “What do you mean? Like… why?”

The breath Party took rattled. “It’s not that I don’t wanna go back, don’t worry, It’s just that… it made you feel free, y’know? It's prob- Is that dumb? Just- there’s no fear, you know? No… I don’t know, like you just don’t need to worry anymore.”

“I know what you mean, I think. I wouldn’t say that I missed it though.”

Party licked his lips. He hadn’t looked over at Frank once- he was staring fixedly out of the windscreen, out into the empty wasteland like it could hold all of the answers in the world. “But at the same time, I don’t ever wanna feel like that again. You’re always so out of control. I don’t ever want that again.”

“Hey, Kobra, what does this wire do?” Jet asks, and Kobra tuts. Damn, these guys sure know how to interrupt Frank’s flashbacks.

“Please don’t touch that wire, Jet. Or any of the wires, actually. Those are important wires. We need them to work.”

Now, though, Party’s back to the very start again. Thrown back onto the drugs. Tossed out of control. Curled up at the bottom of a zonerunner’s car, with black hair and clammy skin, shivers wracking his body.

Frank doesn’t think properly when he runs his fingers through Party’s hair again, smooths the greasy mess, and leans down, presses- more like brushes, really, it’s too fleeting to be anything but- his lips to Party’s forehead.

It’s only for a split second, but it almost feels longer, and it’s kinda nowhere near as cute as Frank would’ve pictured, considering Party shifts at just the wrong moment, and Frank gets a mouthful of greasy black hair.

“Ghoul.”

Frank snaps his head up so fast he almost breaks his neck. Kobra’s leaning through the window, looking down at him, his expression indiscernible. Shit.

Frank straightens. He wasn’t doing anything. Nope. Not at all. “Yo,” he says. “Jet hasn’t broken the car yet, huh?”

Kobra ignores him, doesn’t even blink.

“I don’t think that’s exactly gonna help anything.”

Frank opens his mouth. He’s not exactly sure what he wants to say yet- ‘I wasn’t doing anything, dude, chill’ or ‘sorry, man, I dunno what I was thinking then’- but Kobra’s slid away again before he has chance to form a coherent sentence.

Just then, the trans-am throws itself back to life with growl and clatter. Jet whoops and Frank clambers over into the front passenger seat just as the other two climb back into the car. Frank catches Kobra’s eye, but he doesn’t say a thing, his expression carefully blank.

Jet claps Frank on the back, so hard Frank can practically feel his heart spasm against his ribcage. He wheezes. Shitty ass lungs. He can evade capture and torture every day of the week, risk his life to burn down an evil corporation, but man, the moment he catches a cold, he is down.

“We did it,” Jet says with a grin. “Told you it was easy.”

Kobra hums from the backseat. “Would’ve been way easier if you actually had a basic knowledge of vehicular anatomy, you know.”

Jet’s grin doesn’t fade one bit. “Just ignore him, Ghoul. I do now, and that’s the important thing.”

Frank snickers. “You’re stupid.”

“And you’re stupidly tiny, so shut up.”

Frank catches Kobra's eye in the wing-mirror and tries for a grin and an eye-roll, like 'can you believe this guy?' but Kobra blinks back at him, emotionless and unimpressed.

It’s just as the sun’s beginning to set that they finally find a crash spot. There’s a Dead Pegasus fuel stop that they’ve checked out at before a handful of times before- it’s a complete mess, with wood, dirt, litter and other crap thrown up into piles everywhere, They’ve emptied the gas tanks long, longggggg ago, so they don’t spare a glance in their direction as they step past- Frank’s staring fixedly at the fuel stop’s entrance: two old doors with twisted metal frames, that probably should have been automatic and probably should have had glass in them until the Helium Wars shattered that suggestion.

They’ve travelled as far into the outer zones as they can manage, so the acid storms really are starting to become more than a cheap monster cooked up by Battery City representatives. The closer you get to Battery City, the weaker the pollution is, until it’s almost none existent over the city itself, but the strength and lethalness of the rain in the outermost zones is still massively exaggerated. Out here- in what? Frank hasn’t bothered keeping track of which zones they’re in, but it’s got to be Five. Probably. Maybe Zone Six. He’s too exhausted to know or even try to pretend to care.

But whatever, the rain’s still nothing dangerous. Since the last time they’ve dropped by this place, the rain’s finally managed to eat through the roof of the gas station, collecting in dark puddles on the wooden floors.

They step around them gingerly, except Party, who drags his feet and stumbles every few seconds, like every breath he takes manages to knock him off balance. He stops suddenly, his head bowed, shoulders hunched, hair hanging like a shroud in front of his face. They’ve managed to make him a rough sort of sling for his shoulder, but they don’t know if it’s helping at all. Party’s still weak as all hell, nothing more than a skeleton, staggering through withdrawal like it’s something he’s never known before, but every time any of them reached out to touch him, he’ll snarl at them, and even Kobra’s starting to look concerned.

It takes Frank a long moment to realise that he’s staring into the puddle he’s standing in, soaking his feet.

“What’s up?”

Even Jet doesn’t try to touch his arm anymore, although, of course, he’s got the best reason not to want to. His voice might have returned, the swelling reduced, but the bruises are still there.

Party’s muttering under his breath, something low, his words like bullets, but Frank can’t make them out. Kobra strides over, but he doesn’t say a thing, not until Party lifts his head again and looks straight at him.

“The water’s bad,” he hisses. “Polluted. They said it’s deadly.”

Frank’s always thought that the water contains a slight grey tinge, something hinting at chemicals and something poisonous. Don’t ever drink the water out in the zones. It might not hurt your outsides (provided you’re not a sensitive soul, and if you are, you’ll end up with a rash at most), but the same can’t be said for your insides. The water destroys your organs, bit by bit, until you’re drowning on your own blood. It blocks your veins and burns your arteries, fills every blood vessel until you feel like you’ve been injected with acid.

The water’s dangerous, with a capital ‘D’. Everything out in the zones is.

It’s dangerous days, these ones. Frank knows that too well.

“Everything’s deadly out here,” Jet finally says roughly, with a shrug like he couldn’t care less,   but the way the bruises on his throat twist as he swallows betray him.

Chapter Text

Frank blows out a soft breath and the murmur of flame grows, jumping from each blade of dried grass to the next, fire flickering and spreading to the twigs and wooden pieces they’ve picked up, orange fingers winding through them and catching, spreading.

The fuel stop’s musty, damp and dark, every window boarded up against the dry light and heavy heat from the desert outside. The stock shelves have been raided long ago, half of them thrown onto the floor. Zonerunners will likely have picked the entire place clean from top to bottom, but Frank can just about make out the faded jumble of prices and labels at the edges of the shelving, advertising a two-for-one deal on candy bars. Frank wonders if candy was nice- he’s heard stories about it, but the majority of luxury factories were blasted to pieces years ago.

He’s thrown a pile of torn paper together with a mess of grass and sticks, trying to get a good fire burning before it gets too dark. He’s cleared the corner of the room, cordoned the grass off with sand, so there’s no chance of the fire spreading too far, and there’s no chance of them being spotted with it being inside. Not to mention that he’s not sure exactly how dangerous it’d be to start a fire outside, next to (likely empty, but he’s not going to take any chance) fuel pumps.

He sits back on his heels, dusts off his hands and pushes the hair from his face. “Hey, Jet, I told you I’m good at this stuff. Budding pyromaniac over here.”

There’s a hum of agreement, but nothing much else. Frank doesn’t let it put him off though. C’mon, Jet, you could gimme something here. Even if it’s a ‘congratulations, Ghoul, you’ve managed a task completed by cavemen three million years ago.’ Seriously, I wouldn’t even mind that.”

Jet still says nothing, but Frank hears him shift and crouch down next to him. Then there’s a long drag of breath, and it rasps, like stone on stone. “Ghoul?” Jet asks, and Frank turns to him. “Do you think Party’s gonna be okay?”

Frank looks back at his fire and he’s not exactly sure what he wants to say. The flames jump higher and he throws on another stick. It takes him a long time to answer. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I hope so, I guess.”

Jet sighs and Frank throws a glance to the opposite side of the room, just by the doorway, where they’ve left him. He’s mostly obscured by the shelving, but Frank can just make out the toe of his black boots, his shadow stretching across the floor, like it’s dragging itself towards them. He lowers his voice, even though he doubts Party would be in any shape to hear him. “That’s what I think too.”

He doesn’t take his eyes from the fire- watches the way the flames flicker and twist, almost invisible in the dim light. “I dunno what to say, man. Do we just wait and hope? Or try and trigger something?”

Jet just sighs. “Man, Kobra is saying we should just wait, but I’m not so sure-”

“What?” Kobra’s silhouetted in the doorway, dying afternoon light streaming past him like water, his hands on his hips, all hard lines and messy hair. Jet sits back from Frank’s fire and gives a wave. Kobra’s not looking at Jet. He’s looking at Frank, and even though his face is drowning in shadow, Frank guesses that he’s not going to be smiling a ‘hey-friend-let’s-go-out-and-kick-ass’ grin at him.

Not that Kobra ever smiles, but whatever man.

“You guys okay?” Kobra continues, voice blank.

Frank stands up briskly, shakes the pins-and-needles from his limbs. “Sure are.”

“Good,” Kobra says. “How about you check the stations for any fuel?”

Frank frowns. “Why? We emptied them-“

“It's really just better to check,” Kobra interrupts. “Don’t worry, man.”

Party’s slumped over in the far corner of the room, doused in shadow, practically invisible to the point that if Frank doesn’t already know he was there, he could easily have tripped over Party’s boots when he steps past him.

Party lifts his head weakly when Frank approaches, his good arm wrapped around his middle and other pressed to his chest, hair caught in his eyes, the longer strands dipping under his cheekbones. They haven’t tied him up this time; Kobra insisted he wasn’t going to go anywhere, and Frank has to agree. He looks so weak that it makes Frank’s gut twist. He hasn’t eaten yet, not since they- what? Caught? Rescued? Captured?- him.

He blinks up at him, hazel eyes carefully blank. “They’re talking about you,” Party murmurs, his voice dry and heavy and flat, like every emotion has been siphoned out of him. Party licks his lips as Frank flinches. “Maybe they hate you.”

His voice is low, so quiet that even Frank is barely able to make out his words. And his voice is so cold, so alien, and he’s sitting so still, that Frank could almost mistake him for a corpse. A dead man with a pretty face.

Party always talked with his hands- he waved them everywhere, almost smacked Frank in the face once or twice when he got really enthusiastic about his newest plans- but not now. He’s almost motionless.

The one similarity Frank can find is that he still talks out of the corner of his mouth, just as he did when he was speaking around a cigarette, red hair twisting in front of his eyes and blue collar wrapped tight around his neck. And Frank focuses on this, he almost clings to it, like he’s drowning and this is the one thing that can bring him to dry land. Like this is the final piece semblance of Party Poison still left, and only that can save him.

Frank knows from experience that withdrawal can last for weeks. Also knows that some people don’t ever return to the person that they used to be- that they lose themselves amongst the fog and the joy and part of them doesn’t really ever want to return.

He doesn’t know if this is all that’s left. He doesn’t think he can live with this new Party for that long. He doesn’t even know what’s going to happen when he’s clean; will he be back to normal? Will he still hate them, want to kill them just as much as he does now? And what will they do if he does?

Frank doesn’t want to think about the few options they’ll have.

He doesn’t want to have to accept that they can’t drag an enemy around with them forever.

Frank shakes his head and glares down at him, tries to throw as much anger at him as he can manage. It doesn’t work, not when he can’t hate Party, not when this isn’t his fault.

He looks back at Kobra and Jet, who’re still in deep conversation, and then back to Party, who’s staring towards them, as if Frank never existed in the first place. His chest still feels tight, but he’s not sure why.

The fuel stop manages to push out a lot of heat, so the warm air hits Frank like a wall, straight in the chest, almost making him cough. Stupid lungs.

There’s eight fuel pumps in total, arranged in pairs, and he manoeuvres his way around the trans-am parked directly in front of the entrance to reach the nearest one, popping up the trunk to pull out one of the few fuel containers they have left as he does so.

Frank glances back at the building as he works on the first pump, dragging out the final dregs of fuel- it’s scummy grey and the smell of it makes him gag, so he takes a moment to pull his bandana over his nose before he continues. It doesn’t help much, but at least he tried. 

He can’t see Kobra and Jet anymore- obviously, with them being on the opposite end of the building and all- but Party really should have been visible. The guy was practically leaning against the doorframe, and the door is only about five or so metres away.

Of course, the car’s obscuring his view, but not that much. He should be able to see Party. He’s sure he should. Unless he’s lay down?

Frank frowns.

And then there’s a sound from the other side of the trans-am. Nothing more than a shift of sand, the scrape of material against the tires, but he hears it.

His blaster’s in his hand before he realises it, dropping the fuel can and to his knees in the same instant. The now-free hand comes to fit with the one already on the blaster and he shakes his hair from his eyes, scouring the area for any hint of movement.

Is it dracs? Is it an ambush? What if Party is being tracked? Shit, they’d never even thought of that. BLI must have all sorts of fancy tracking tech. Shit, they should’ve thought.

There’s a sound behind him and he’s spinning, blaster raised and ready to fire, but something hits him square in the chest, knocking him back, his head smacking into the metal body of the pump.

Ow, motherfucker-

It’s Party, and Frank wants to heave a sigh. Of course it is.

He’s bent double, arm still pressed to his chest, but in his other hand is one of the metal sheets of shelving from inside the stop. Frank’s ears are ringing.

Party doesn’t so much dive as fall forward, his fist clipping Frank’s chest as Frank catches his arms and uses Party’s momentum to twist them both around. They topple back into the sand, Frank on top, and it’s just a matter of instinct to lift his hand and aim his blaster between Party’s eyes.

And then he freezes.

Because this isn’t a drac. This is Party.

This is Party. But this is a Party who stares blankly up at him, like he couldn’t care less that Frank’s a finger-twitch away from ghosting him. Party’s hands are level with his head in the sand, palm up, and the BLI tattoo gleams on his wrist. It’s something possessive: he’s not yours anymore.

“Motherfucker,” Frank breathes, but he can’t force himself to move. “What the hell did they do to you?”

Party doesn’t blink. “Maybe they hate you,” he says softly, a perfect echo of his words from only minutes before.

Frank shakes his head. “Who? Jet and Kobra don’t hate me. I know they don’t.”

“But-“ the dull voice lowers, and Frank swears that he’s almost gone as pale as Party is now- “what if they knew? Would they hate you then?”

“If they knew? What don’t they know?”

“If they kneeeeew,” Party wheedles. “What you didn’t doooooo.”

A sky so red it looked like it was bleeding to death.

Party’s red, red hair.

Korse’s white, white hands around Party’s throat.

Frank hadn’t done anything. Frank hadn’t been able to do anything.

He blinks down at Party and he swears those beautiful eyes are gleaming with victory. “Better Living see everything,” he hisses, and the words are no louder than the ones before, but they make his ears burn. They wrap around Frank’s throat and rip the air from his lungs, make his head spin.

He looks up just as Kobra ploughs straight into him.

For a second, there’s just a mess of elbows and knees, and there’s hair in Frank’s eyes and sand in his hair, but then he manages to find his feet and dances out of the way just as Kobra swings for him again. And keeps coming. Frank keeps backing up.

Frank dropped his blaster when Kobra hit him the first time, but from the look in Kobra’s eyes, he’s starting to wish he still had it.

He can hear Jet shouting, but it’s distant, practically miles away, and from the corner of his eye he can make out the mess of black on the ground.

Kobra charges towards him and Frank tries to move, but Kobra’s the fucking karate master or some shit and lashes out and Frank almost loses an eye there and then. He’s not trying to shoot Frank- more like he’s going to rip him to pieces using his bare hands- and Frank would almost prefer to be shot.

Jet’s voice gets closer and closer, and then he’s got his arms wrapped around Frank’s waist and is pushing him behind him, separating the two. “Kobra,” he says levelly, and this time his voice is almost deafening in Frank’s ears. Kobra practically grinds to a stop, dust cloud and all, about a foot from Jet and Frank. His shoulders are bunched up around his shoulders and his chest is heaving, breath coming out in rapid-fire bursts.

“What the fuck, Jet?” he snarls, but Jet doesn’t even flinch.

“Kobra Kid,” Jet says again, “you need to stop, man. Right now. Stop and think.”

“I am thinking. You saw him too. He was about to ghost my fucking brother.”

Okay, so Frank wasn’t going to, but he can see how it could’ve been interpreted that way.

“Hey, dude, it wasn’t-“

Jet doesn’t look his way when he cuts him off. “Frank. Shut up.”

Frank shuts up.

“Mikey-“ Jet continues, and wow, he’s really going to town with the birth-names today- “calm down. You know Ghoul. He wasn’t not going to ghost Party. We couldn’t find Party and we don’t know what happened. Ghoul might’ve been defending himself.”

“Might have,” Kobra mutters, but he looks less murderous. Less like he wants to throw Frank off a cliff, at any rate. “But Party-“

“Is fucked up right now, yes I know. There’s no point trying to deny it. But if we end up killing each other over this then we’re never going to help him. Or anyone for that matter. BLI will want us to turn on each other, that’s probably why they didn’t execute him straight away, right? And made him hate us all instead? We can’t fall for it.”

Kobra stares at Jet for a long, long minute and Frank can hear his heart hammering. “Right,” he finally says. “Right. But he-“ he lifts his hand and points one shaking finger at Frank. He’s never realised how thin Kobra’s become- “is not keeping watch alone tonight. No way.”

Frank chokes down the incredulous ‘what the fuck, man?’ and forces himself to nod. Jet breathes out a sigh of relief.

Kobra nods stiffly and turns back to Jet. “Can you help me get Party back inside?” he asks, voice heavy, flat.

Jet has his arm around Kobra’s shoulder when they walk back to Party, who’s lying exactly where Frank left him, watching them with a lazy kind of interest that doesn’t change when the pair step over to him.

Party’s stare is fixed on Frank when Jet and Kobra move him back inside and Frank’s stomach twists.

A sky so red it looked like it was bleeding to death.

Party’s red, red hair.

Korse’s white, white hands around Party’s throat.

Frank hadn’t done anything.

Jet and Kobra don’t hate him. He knows that.

Not yet anyway.

Chapter Text

Frank’s falling.

He’s surrounded by white, stretching on and on forever, into the horizon and even farther after that, the white floor cold underneath his hands and the white strips of light burning his eyes. There’s white everywhere, and it chokes him, worms its way down his throat and fills his lungs with water.

He flails and hits the floor again.

There’s one flash of colour amidst the nothing- a mess of red hair and a blue jacket that he fixes on as he forces himself to his feet again.

It’s Party. It’s Party. It’s Party and he’s calling him, screaming his name like it’s the kind of prayer that burns. He’s on his feet, barely metres away, gesturing, begging him to hurry, but he’s not taking any steps, almost as if he’s fixed to the floor.

Frank has to reach him.

He manages a single step before his knees buckle and he’s falling again, Party’s voice ringing shrilly in his ears.  He has to reach Party, he has to, but he’s falling to the floor and he can’t take another step.

There’s white everywhere and Frank’s falling into it, falling through it and throwing himself awake.

The fuel stop’s pitch black, shadows scuttling out of the corners of the room and over the floor like they’ve got claws. Frank props himself up onto his elbows and heaves in a breath. It’s okay. He’s okay. He sure doesn’t feel okay, but he is.

His hands are shaking when he lifts them up, examining the way that the tattoos on his knuckles and fingers twist and catch on the little light left from the dying fire.

It must be the middle of the night. No later than two, anyway, because there’s absolutely no light outside and it’s so cold he can feel his heart stutter. The fire’s still glowing slightly- dying embers flickering, spitting out soft hisses as the ash tumbles in on itself- and he scoots closer to it, still as far away from Party as he can manage, pulling his jacket  a little tighter as he does so.

Jet’s the one on watch, thank god, and he lifts his head when Frank scuttles close enough to the fire to actually begin to feel his toes again. He doesn’t say anything- just gives Frank a tired smile that’s barely visible in the dark and goes back to staring at the fire.

It’s a heavy, melancholy mood, the kind of numbness that weighs you down when you’re too tired to care anymore. Not happy, not sad, just… present. Existing. Suspended by wires above Hell and just below Heaven, like he's caught in ice, frozen in Purgatory.  

Party’s asleep for once; he’s doubled over, a rope back around his middle, securing him to one of the advertising stands, knees pulled up to his chest and his head resting on top of them. He’s formed a makeshift pillow using his one good arm.

And then, as Frank watches, Party whimpers and tosses his head, fingers flexing and feet shifting. He stretches out one leg before tucking it back to his chest.

“He keeps dreaming.” Frank twists back to face Jet, who still hasn’t taken his eyes from the fire. “Keeps telling someone to stop. That he’s not going to tell them anything.”

Jet’s got his legs straight out, his hands crossed loosely on his lap. He hangs his head a bit. The bruises still haven't completely faded from his neck, the shadows beneath his eyes matching the same ones that Frank and Kobra have. He looks exhausted.

After all this time, Frank’s been worried about the effect on Party, the effect on Kobra, the effect on himself, and he’s barely given Jet a second thought.

Party makes another sound and twists again. It sounds like he’s crying.

Party’s the victim. Kobra’s the brother. Frank’s- well, Frank doesn’t exactly know what he is in all this, if he’s honest. But he’s automatically designated Jet the position of the person who isn’t as fazed by their world going to hell as the rest of them, and it’s taken this long for Frank to remember that this isn’t necessarily true.

Jet’s the glue that keeps them together. Jet’s the one who’ll put their problems first and won’t mention his own until long, long after. He’s the one who was almost choked to death but didn’t hold it against the one who tried to kill him.

Party whimpers.

Jet sighs, but it sounds heavy. He sounds so tired.

“Dude?” Frank says softly, and Jet lifts his head. “I’ll keep watch. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Me and Kobra agreed that’s not gonna be a thing.”

“C’mon, man, you know I’m not gonna ghost him. I’ll wake you up before it gets light.”

“I do know.” Jet nods and Frank smiles. “But a deal’s a deal. You should get some sleep.”

“Dude-“

“Sleep, Ghoul,” Jet repeats wearily. “I’ll talk to Kobra tomorrow, yeah?”

Frank knows there’s no point arguing- the fact is, when Jet sets his mind to something, that’s where it stays. He’s not going to budge.

Frank rubs his hands together a final time, just to try and pull in a hint more warmth before he scoots back again, but just as he does, he hears Party shift and Jet’s reaching out to him because Party’s shaking, shaking and falling forwards, his eyes flying open as his hands flash out and wrap around Jet’s wrist.

“Dude,“ Frank hisses, because Kobra’s curled up only metres away and he doesn’t really want to wake him up, not if he can help it. “What is it?”

Party’s eyes are wide and terrified, fear rolling off his skin in black waves, stinging Frank’s tongue and tasting like blood. Jet’s tries to tug his arms free, but Party’s grip is too strong, even with the rope around his middle as it is, only allowing him limited movement.

But he’s not attacking Jet; that much is clear. Party’s hazel eyes are fixed on Jet’s dark ones, and he’s whispering, spitting out words like they’re choking him, like he’s begging Jet to help him. He doesn’t even acknowledge Frank crawling back over to him.

“There was electricity,” he hisses. “Broken- broken bones. It hurts. Shocks. They kept doing it. Bones take m-months to heal… do you know how many bones can be broken in that t-time?”

Frank’s blood turns to ice inside his veins. There’s no possible way to keep track of time out in the zones, but Party had been with BLI for a long, long time. Months, give or take.

Party cackles, something wild and hysterical, and Jet tries to pull away, but he can’t. “There was… there was electricity. They kept g-going. Even when I didn’t have any-anything left to tell…”

He drops his hands, tries to pull against the ropes instead. Frank scrambles back next to Jet. “You okay?” he hisses and Jet nods faintly, his face pale. There’s red marks on his wrists. Party pulls back into himself, knees tight against his chest and his arm wrapped around them, hiding his face. His shoulders are still shaking, but Frank doesn’t dare try and reach out for him.

Hours later, Kobra wakes up and neither Frank, Jet nor Party have moved.

Frank’s the first one to see it.

He’s out to piss. That’s it. He’s still shaken after Party’s nightmare hours before and the rapidly-warming air is a relief compared to the choking weight inside the building. Neither he nor Jet have spoken to Kobra yet, and neither of them plan to either. They’ve got enough going on as it is.

Electric shocks and broken bones. Frank doesn’t want to imagine what else BLI might have subjected Party to. He doesn’t want to let his imagination carry him away, or try and ask, because the answer could be even worse.

Frank’s the first one to see it. There’s a cloud of dust in the distance, a flash of white metal glinting in the sunlight, and it takes him a long moment to recognise it. BLI.

Fuck. All he wanted was a piss.

“Dracs!” Frank scrambles back towards the fuel stop, zipping up his pants as he does so, hopping awkwardly between the fuel pumps as he tries to move as fast as he can. Three heads turn towards him in unison. “Dracs!” he spits out again, and the speed at which Kobra and Jet jump into action is almost impressive.

“What about the car?”

“They’re coming from the opposite side of the building. But they’re too close now to move it.”

He can hear the engines in the distance- the slow, animal roar that’s steadily growing with every second- and Kobra slings his jacket onto his back. “We should keep low. They might pass by.”

The growl of the cars is getting louder with each second and he knows that they have very little time left. Frank nods and looks round to Party. He’s sitting bolt upright, staring out of the doors and out at the empty desert intently, almost expectantly. Like he was waiting for this to happen.

Party catches Frank’s eye and a slow, cruel smile slips across his face, and it’s so similar to the expression Korse would so often wear that Frank forces down a shiver. “You’re going to die,” he says softly, and Frank glares before turning to Jet.

“Let’s go.”

It’s almost as if yesterday- with Kobra fighting Frank and Jet having to hold them back- didn’t ever happen. They’re almost back to normal. They’re fluid and practiced; Kobra unties Party from the beam and drags him back behind the shelving before Frank and Jet have even ducked down beneath the window frames, and they’re ready- just as they used to be- as the Better Living Industries squad growl by seconds later.

Frank doesn’t see them, but he can feel it- the ground rumbling, the weak building almost shaking beneath the sound of multiple engines roaring past. He catches a glimpse of Kobra behind the shelves, lips moving silently as he counts the number of vehicles as well as trying his best to hold Party still.

Party’s wriggling, his grey cheeks flushed slightly as he pulls at the arm wrapped around his chest, boots digging into the wooden floor as he tries to gain leverage and push Kobra away. There’s a second where Frank almost dares to hope that the dracs won’t even notice the trans-am parked at the entrance- that they’ll continue on their merry way, searching for more zonerunners to ghost and catch and torture- but luck’s never been on their side. He hears a squeal of brakes and that hope crumbles like paper, spontaneously combusting before the squad has even pulled to a stop.

Kobra meets his eyes and mouths the word ‘five’. Party tries to claw for his eyes and Kobra pushes his hand down without even flinching.

“Get down!” Jet hisses to Kobra, and he does, dragging Party further behind the shelving, completely out of sight. Frank turns back to the window, keeping his head low, listening out for footsteps and commands, for the monotone grate of voices. Anything that could indicate to them what the dracs were planning, anything that could give them the slightest edge.

They didn’t know that they were in there, of course, so Frank knows that they have the advantage. They also have the cover of the building itself, but the draculoids will outnumber them massively. If there’s five cars, that means there’s be a minimum of two dracs in each. At least ten dracs to three killjoys, and Kobra’s preoccupied with keeping Party still.

As it is, Frank doesn’t really fancy himself and Jet going up against a minimum of ten dracs, but that appears to be how it’s going to be. There’s still the grenade the two ‘runners traded him a few days before, but ‘nahhh, he wouldn’t need that today! So that’s still in the front pocket of the car!’

“Check the vehicle.” The voice is nothing more than a crunch of gravel, heavy and cold and flat.

There’s a crunch of footsteps just metres from him and a shadow passes above his head. He forces himself to stay still. The dracs will have to round the other side of the building to make it to the entrance.

He flinches as the sounds continue further on, past him, and then there’s a tall shape at the doorway. Jet gives a nod, just a subtle shake of his head, and that could only mean: ‘now’.

Frank throws himself to his feet, blaster in hand, levels the nearest draculoid in his sights. He fires without another thought. There’s a flash of light and a choked-back shriek before it falls to its knees gracelessly and then slumps down to the floor. He doesn’t watch it fall because he’s already got aiming at another draculoid, who’s turning towards him with their ray gun barely out of its holster before it, too, crumples.

It’s only then that he can make them all out and god, there are so many.

Crowds of figures in white turning to face him in a single wave, peering at him with the same, bloody mouth and chalk white face. It’s moments like these when he realises that he can never forget how terrifying those masks can be.

It’s then that the first of the dracs return fire, and the air’s filled with the impatient hum of electricity and energy, the buzz of radios and footsteps. A couple of well-aimed shots fly just over Frank’s head as he dives back down beneath the window, fresh scorch marks clawing over on the opposite walls and shelves.

He waits for the first clicks of their blasters, their batteries empty, before he jumps up again, ghosting another three dracs before they have a chance to look up. There’s still more though, and he hears Jet yell out a warning before there’s footsteps behind him and he spins down onto one knee, bringing his blaster up and fires. The draculoid is less than a feet away from him, and it crumples into a heap of white clothes and a hiss of smoke. Frank spits out a breath before fumbling into his pocket for a spare battery and coming up empty. The battery warning on his blaster buzzes.

“Ghoul!” Kobra’s waving to him, one arm wrapped tightly around Party’s chest. He tosses him his blaster and Frank catches it with his free hand, turns and shoots the nearest draculoid square in the face. Kobra manages to wrap both arms around Party now, because Party’s fighting furiously to escape. He’s ferocious, twisting and snarling in his arms, and Kobra can barely hold onto him.

They’re both standing up now, and even though Kobra’s taller, Party is almost animalistic, a complete U-turn on his almost dead, uncaring behaviour earlier. It’s as if all the emotion that’s been muzzled over the past few days has broken the dam, flooding free in a rushing torrent that Frank doesn’t want to be anywhere near.

It’s a sign that the drugs really are out of his system.

He turns back to the dracs and they’re flooding through the door now, almost shooting each other down in their hurry to get to them. He and Jet shoot down as many as they can, Frank not bothering to change the battery on his blaster and continuing to fire with Kobra’s without missing a beat.

But it takes one, just one, to slip past, and Kobra doesn’t have a chance to dodge. Frank hears him yell, and then there’s a crash, and Party’s on his feet, turning towards the drac that fired and practically falling into it with a strangled yell.

Frank’s on his feet before he realises it: dodging every blast that comes his way, he scrambles towards them just as the draculoid pushes Party away like he’s nothing but an inconvenience and setting back towards Kobra.

Jet smashes into the drac just as Frank reaches Kobra, who’s splayed out on a collapsed pile of magazines, his fringe in his face. “Motherfucker,” he gasps. “Shit, Kobra, can you hear me? You okay?”

Kobra blinks up at him, dazed. “’M fine,” he mutters. “Party pushed me. Th’blast missed.”

Frank nods and holds his hand out to help him up, but Kobra shakes his head, dust flying from his fringe, fixing Frank with a scowl. “I said ‘I’m fine’” he snaps, and Frank leans away. Then he ducks again as another shot whistles over his head. “We should probably-“

He’s cut off by something (or someone, because Party trying to kill him at any given chance isn’t particularly as surprising as it used to be) smacking straight into him, and Frank’s thrown sideways, almost smashing into another draculoid as he’s knocked down.

And now it’s Party on top of him, and he’s holding his wrists down and staring at his face and the short, sharp breaths are making his chest rattle. Frank’s heart is racing, a rapid bam-bam-bam that hammers against his ribcage like it’s trying to burst through it.

For the first time, Party’s eyes are clear, clearer than they have been in a long time, and the sound of fighting dissipates.

Party blinks down at him, and suddenly the furious look is gone, fading into one of confusion. He licks his lips.

“Ghoul?”

Frank’s heart stutters. “It’s me,” he whispers, but before he can dare to hope, Party’s expression twists again.

“I’m still going to kill you.”

Chapter Text

Frank’s breath is harsh and heavy, and he forces himself to stay calm. He can hear Kobra and Jet yelling, more hisses of blasters. Party’s fingers are claws, digging hard into Frank’s shoulders, his breath a shrill rasp, buffeting Frank’s face.

For an instant his thoughts dissolve into nothing but noise- a muted hiss that fills his ears, drowning out the roar of his pulse, the racing tattoo of Party’s heartbeat that Frank can feel thudding against his own chest. The noise is something lukewarm: sweeping him away from the noise of the fighting and the weight of Party on top of him like a riptide. His head is spinning, thoughts rattling around his skull at a hundred miles per hour making impossible to focus on anything properly.

Party’s breathing is still erratic, his face entirely too close.

His eyes are furious, tracking over Frank’s face, looking very well like he might try and claw his face off. Frank’s never been close enough to make out the flecks of green in his irises before.

Party’s hands are still wrapped around Frank’s wrists, but Frank can’t bring himself to rip himself free.

Not, at least, until there’s a flash of white over Party’s shoulder, something fast and dangerous. Frank bucks his hips, manages to knock Party off balance and push him over as the floor where they’d been explodes into splinters and fragments of hot floorboard. He’s faster than the draculoid, and before it has chance to react, he’s brought his borrowed blaster up and fired.

The shot hits the draculoid in its throat, just at the flash of pale skin between the mask and the white shirt, and lets out a shriek, something wretched and primal. The electricity fries its brain inside its skull and the eyeholes of its mask glows, but then its knees buckle and it falls straight on top of Frank, knocking him back down again.

The air’s knocked out of Frank’s lungs in a massive whoosh at the impact, but he manages to scramble out beneath it and back to his feet, the blood rush making his head spin. The group of draculoids have diminished to the final few survivors that had more sense than to run straight for them. Kobra takes down a draculoid that Frank hadn’t seen behind him, knocks it down with a sharp series of hits that are almost too quick for him to make out.

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank sees Party kneeled on the floor, not moving from the spot that Frank had pushed him. He hangs his head, hair obstructing his face, his breathing still an unsteady shudder. But he doesn’t try to get back up.

And then the dracs are all down; Jet’s wiping sweat off his forehead and pushing his hair out of his face and shooting them a small smile as Frank steps over to Kobra and passes him his blaster.

“Thanks for that, man. I was almost out of batteries,” he says, and Kobra takes it without a word, doesn’t even look at him. Frank forces it from his mind.

The air’s stained with the smell of burning clothes, smoke curling into the air in tendrils that soak into the wooden ceiling. Jet pushes out a breath and looks around and the mess of draculoids they’ve left. There only had been ten draculoids in the end, but it still felt like more in the heat of the moment.

“Right,” Jet finally wheezes, looking around, “I think we should get out of here, how about you guys?”

Party’s shivering as he gets into the trans-am, black jacket pulled tight around him like he’s ready to freeze to death. His skin has gone from pale to white as chalk, his hands trembling like adrenaline’s firing through his limbs at a hundred kilometres per hour. He keeps throwing nervous glances back over his shoulder as they drive, his hands tied, as if he’s terrified something’s following them.

He’s showing more emotion than he has in days, but Party’s anxiety is starting to bore a hole through Frank’s thoughts, making him twitch at every bump in the road.

There’s a rip in the headrest of the driver’s seat. It’s only a small nick in the fabric- probably just from wear- but now that he’s noticed it, he forces himself to focus on it: zoning out the grey clouds above them and the hum of the engine and the nervous chatter that Jet and Kobra are throwing back and forth between them in the front two seats.

Party shifts in the seat next to him, like there’s too much energy ripping through his body for him to be able to sit still. He hasn’t looked at Frank once yet, and he’s got his wrists tied, which is practically going to be a permanent feature until the real Party is back again.

(If he ever is, a small corner of Frank’s brain insists on reminding him, like it’s something he could ever manage to forget)

It’s another heavy few minutes of dull noise. Clouds are rolling in like the tide, soft and grey and silent as death, practically swooping over the car as if they’re on wings.

The further out into the zones you go, the more likely that the acid rain- that they warn so much about back in Battery City- is to actually fall. That means more cloud and damp, heavy days, when rain’s a fine mist, and then even rarer days when there’s nothing but black skies and water around you, the air still warm as if there were no clouds at all.

And when you get rain and hot ground, you get mist and fog. And some nights, fog manages to get deeper into the zones than it usually would, curls around you as if it’s something alive. A python, winding around your chest, constricting and tightening until the air is forced from your lungs and you’re left floundering.

Frank hates those nights.  

There’s no more rain or fog yet, thank god, but he’s pretty sure that it’s coming. There’s too many clouds for there to be any other outcome.

“You killed them.” Party’s voice is rough and low, but everything falls silent the moment he opens his mouth. Jet twists around in his seat to face him and Frank catches Kobra watching in the rearview mirror. Frank doesn’t look at him. He’s stares fixedly at the tear in the headrest, at the loose fibres hanging from the edges.

“What are you talking about?” Jet asks, and Party’s expression sours.

“You killed all of them. Every one of them. Fuck. What’s wrong with you people?”

Frank’s fingers curl into fists at his side, but sinks his teeth into his lip until he can taste blood. “What? Like BLI didn’t publically execute every ‘runner they found?” Jet snaps, and there’s an edge to his voice that Frank hasn’t heard since the night he tried to get back to Bat City and Jet punched him. 

Party fixes him with a cold glare and shakes his head. His eyes are blazing, furious, and it’s jolting, the way that he’s flipped from apathetic to bubbling with every emotion in one go. “No. Some of them can be recruited, for one. They become upstanding citizens once they’re shown the error of their ways. The ones that are executed are examples of the worst of the worst.” His angry gaze is knife-like, raking across each of them. “They’re ones like you. When Better Living Industries catch you, you’ll all be killed. You’ll be dragged out in front of everyone and-.”

The trans-am throws itself to a stop, the brakes shrieking as if they’re being tortured, and Frank’s almost thrown over the driver’s seat and through the windshield. Kobra’s sitting rigidly upright and gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles are white. He’s not even breathing. Even Party’s silent.

There’s an ugly silence for a second that stretches itself out into a minute. Kobra doesn’t move. Finally Jet edges forward hesitantly. “Kobra? What... are you okay?”

It takes him another long moment, but finally Kobra drags in a long breath. It rattles, like his chest is an empty tin can collecting lost parts- come and find all misplaced pieces! Used batteries, pieces of wire, memories and old desires!- and it clings to the air, heavy as lead.

“I need- I’m gonna get a breath,” he spits, like the words taste like venom in his mouth. He jumps out of the car without giving any of them a single look and stumbles away on shaking legs. For an instant, Frank almost wonders if this is it, if Kobra’s leaving for good and never coming back, but then he sees Kobra stop, knees almost buckling as he folds into himself, a mournful silhouette illuminated by headlights.

His shoulders are shaking. Frank doesn’t dare to breathe. He wonders if Kobra’s crying.

“I’ll go speak to him,” Frank says after a moment, pretty sure he’s going to regret his decision in about half a minute. Although Kobra wouldn’t want Jet going over while Frank stayed in the car with his brother either. It’s a lose-lose situation whichever way, so he may as well get this over with.

He’s not sure if he’s relieved that Jet doesn’t try and deter him, but Party flinches, turns around and fixes him with a hard look. It’s half perplexed, half scrutinising, like Frank’s something he can’t comprehend, a jigsaw puzzle with the final few pieces still missing.

Frank’s only just noticed how red the seatbelt wrapped around his wrists has made them.

But he doesn’t say a thing as he pushes open the door and shuffles over the Kobra; his arms are crossed tight and he’s glaring out at the horizon, a staring battle with something that Frank can’t see. He doesn’t even glance Frank’s way.

They both stand there for a long minute, neither saying a thing, the only sound the purr of the trans-am’s engine.

He chews on his lip. Kobra doesn’t move. Frank pushes his fists into his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels. The air tastes like dirt and petroleum on his tongue, heavy and dry as dust, making his eyes blur and swallowing almost a chore. His hair’s hanging limping in front of his face: a dusty, ragged, matted mess that barely moves when he tries to push it out of his eyes.

“Right.” He almost surprises himself when he talks. Kobra starts, then almost has to catch himself, his arms still crossed over his chest, turning and blinking down at Frank like he’s only just realised that he’s there.

“Right.” Frank tries again. “I don’t do heart-to-heart shit, man. I don’t know where to start here. You wanna gimme any pointers?”

“Yeah,” Kobra says dryly. “I’ve got a whole list of conversation starters saved just for this exact sort of scenario. You can borrow it and try again.”

“Sure, man.” At least Kobra’s not crying. That’s one of those things that he has no idea how to deal with. He’d probably just shove him into Jet’s arms with a ‘he’s your problem now’ and then hightail it out of there. Jet would be fine. Jet’s good with that stuff. Frank, not so much.

There’s a small smile- barely a tilt at the corner of Kobra’s mouth, but it’s there- and it’s gone as soon as it appeared. Frank could almost convince himself that it was just a trick of the light. “Whatever,” Kobra says with a shrug. “At least I offered.”

He’s not as cut-off and cold anymore, but Frank’s not a complete idiot. Right now, Kobra’s cracked ice: spider-webbing extending in every direction, and Frank has to be very, very careful about where he steps, has to watch his feet and his words, measure them out so he’s not stranded in the middle of a lake, hypothermia dragging him under.

Frank pulls in a breath and stares down at his feet, dragging out spirals in the dirt with the toe of his boot. “You gonna be okay?” he finally asks. “Just, with Party? He’ll be okay, man, you know he will.”

Kobra huffs out a breath, almost like he’s ready to laugh. “Sure he will be, Ghoul, sure. The whole ‘trying to kill us’ thing is totally just a phase, right?”

“C’mon, Kobra, you said so yourself. It’ll be fine, seriously. He'll be okay.”

Frank’s trying to convince himself as much as Kobra. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen. He doesn’t know if Party (if any of them, really) will ever be okay.

“He said my name,” Frank says finally, and Kobra turns to him, the flat tight expression flickering into something that’s almost surprise.

“What do you mean? When?”

Frank can’t meet his eyes anymore- the dust stirs with the whisper of a breeze, laps at his boots like water, and he focuses on that instead, tries to block out the hint of something that’s almost like hope leeching into Kobra’s voice.

“Back at the fuel stop. He said my name. I don’t know why, I don’t know what happened for him to do it, but he did. Like he recognised me for a minute.”

Kobra blinks, his lips drawing back into a thin line. “Maybe.” The tone’s soft, far too careful for Frank’s liking. He wants to be able to believe that it could be okay in the end. “Maybe. We can’t know. He might have just freaked and said your name. He might have recognised you as the enemy of Bat City instead of actually recognising you.”

Frank gets that. He does. To some people, he’s a terrorist. To other people, he’s practically a beacon of hope. He sees what he’s doing as right, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a monster to some people. He can be an enemy or an ally, and it’s rarely as clear-cut as someone would first think.

It all depends on the perspective.

Kobra’s lips seem to become even thinner as the wind picks up, going from a whisper to a dissatisfied murmur. His expression’s unreadable, and it’s almost as if all the energy’s been leeched out of him, left him as a shell with sleepless bruises hanging beneath his eyes and trembling, tired fingers. His arms are drawn so tight around his chest, like he’s a glass window on the brink of collapsing into a thousand glass shards and he only needs a final nudge before breaking completely. He hangs his head. He looks ready to surrender.

“There’s just stuff I don’t get,” Kobra continues. “Why did Korse take Gee and the girl but left the rest of us? Why didn’t they kill him or just make him a drac? We still haven’t heard anything else about the girl either. It doesn’t make sense.”

Frank thinks back to the furious sky, the way that Party’s hands shook when he aimed the draculoid’s blaster at Korse’s back.

Korse can’t have been trying to kill them. Capture them? Sure. But not kill. That’s the only thing that’s clear, the only reason that the ray guns hadn’t been set to ‘lethal’. Even when they’d been beaten, when the drac had the girl, Korse had left them there. He’d spoken to Party. Maybe he’d given a warning, maybe he’d just been gloating.

Frank thinks back to the night that the dracs found him, the fact that they hadn’t killed him on sight. When he’d started to run, Korse’s shout for his draculoid posse to let him get away. He remembers Korse’s smile, cruel and cold, the smile of a python closing in on its kill- “I told him to keep running. You should have done the same.”

Korse hadn’t been trying to kill them. But dracs have never hesitated to attack when Korse hadn’t been there- so he must have been the one to keep them under control. Dracs want them dead, ‘crows do too. But Korse? There's too many rumours out there- secrets and theories passed around in the dark, surreptitiously, like kisses- for Frank to ever work out what’s true and what’s made-up. 

"Hey, Kobra, listen man..." 

Kobra turns back to him and Frank chokes on his words. He can't say it. He can't tell him what happened, no matter how much he wants to, he can't force the words out. Party's words are too loud, ringing in his ears like church bells: "if they kneeeeew".

Kobra would hate him. They'd all hate him. They'd all leave, and Frank would be back to the start- when he was stumbling through the desert with no idea where to go or what to do, with only a faint idea that there was more than BLI, more than pills and 'KEEP SMILING' to live for. When he’d only had the clothes on his back and one battery pack for the stolen ray gun.

He can't go back to that. He physically can't. Not just that- he couldn't stand not ever seeing Party again, not knowing if he was ever back to normal or even alive. Couldn’t stand knowing that Party’s state was due to him, but Frank not even being able to help him anymore.

It's selfish, he knows it is. Kobra deserves to know- Jet too. But he can't say it. He can't tell them that he was awake and conscious and saw everything, but didn’t… couldn't do a thing about it. 

Party had been able to stand up. Frank remembers seeing Party fall the first time- when the air had been a mess of electricity and adrenaline- moments before he'd been hit too, but Party had gotten back up. Frank hadn't. He should have been able to.

Thinking like that, it really is all his fault. 

"What? Ghoul?" 

Kobra reaches out, almost as if he's about to shake Frank's shoulder, but he snatches his hand back before he does. Frank decides to ignore it. 

"Nothing, man," he says. "It's nothing."

He's a coward, he thinks, as he shuffles back to the trans-am. He's a coward and he disgusts himself. But he can’t do anything about it.

Chapter Text

Frank hates the rain.

Wait, correct that: he hates this particular type of rain. Throw him headfirst into a thunderstorm and he’ll be perfectly happy, but this- this thin drizzle that’s almost suffocating, a damp that hangs in the air like poison- sucks. The damp gets everywhere: under his clothes, through the tightly closed windows and inside the car.

He hates the rain.

They’re practically prisoners inside their own car- the rain unflinchingly relentless, the damp sneaking down Frank’s collar and leaving him in a permanent state of Purgatory, stuck between bored and miserable as they drive. And drive. And drive.

It’s day three, Frank curled up in the passenger seat with his knees pulled up to his chin and cheek pressed against the passenger door window. The cold glass leeches all the warmth from his face, icy cold, as his breath fogs the glass for a second, the rain on the other side covered for a second, before the condensation fades and he can make out the dreary scenery again.

The zones are wild, almost beautiful, in the same way that a dead tree would be considered photogenic- skeletal limbs bleached white from the rain and sun, clawing at the skies like they’re stretching all the way for the stars. The zones are crazy and dangerous, with poisonous water and acidic rain, feral animals and fires that have insisted on burning since 2012. But they’re also colourful and exciting, unpredictable, and Frank thinks that they’re beautiful.

Or they would be, if it wasn’t for the godawful motherfucking rain.

“Stop complaining about the rain, dude,” Jet mutters from the rear, nudging the back of Frank’s seat with his foot until Frank jerks his head up.

“Shut up, man. It sucks, c’mon, it’s not even like-“

“’We’ve got anywhere to head, so we’re just driving around the zones because we literally have no idea what to do next’, yes, we know, Ghoul. You’ve told us plenty of times already.”

Frank huffs and crosses his arms. “Not my fault the weather’s shit.”

“You’ve said that too.”

“And yet it’s so shit that the statement seemed worth repeating.”

He’s cold and he’s miserable. The trans-am dates back before even the fires of 2012 or the Helium Wars, so it’s to be expected that the AC’s out of order, but he still wishes it would. He makes a mental note to make sure they stop at the next garage they find so he can force Kobra to help him fiddle around and see if there’s anything he can do to change it.

The radio hisses, music tripping over the static as if it’s being hunted, until a voice breaks through with “keep blazing, sunshines-“

“Whoa,” Jet leans forward. “Ghoul, catch that wave again.”

At the same time, Kobra says “see if he’s got anything.” and it’s the first thing that he’s said all day

Frank fumbles with the stereo and there’s another snatch of noise before it’s gone again, lost in a hissing of static and a mess of noise. It takes another moment before Dr Death-Defying’s voice breaks through the smorgasbord of music channels.

“Alright, desert dogs and barren bugs, have those heads to the ground and those eyes up high, this is Dr Death-Defying with the final two minutes in the sky-“ More static, and Frank growls and slaps the console, as if that was going to do anything. Party shifts in his seat, wrists still fastened to the seatbelt, eyes shining through the heavy black hair hanging in front of his face.

“- for all those twisters out there, remember that the poison’ll be out the wind any sunrise soon. Keep those boots tight and sword-hands shiny, turn up the noise until the city lights start to flicker!” The station cuts out as the stereo trips over the static and is lost for another day.

“Well,” Frank finally says, “I don’t get what he’s saying half the time, but that was cool, I guess.”

“I think we managed to miss the majority of the broadcast again,” Jet says. “All the important shit, with the dracs and whatever.”

Frank sits back and returns his gaze to the window, tracing the tracks of rain down the side of the glass with his forefinger. The car’s silent again, the soft hiss of drizzle running delicate fingers over the cold metal, caressing the cold air and making him shiver.

It gets dark soon, the soft grey blur melting into charcoal and then giving way to jet black. There’s no sunset, no bright colours before night falls; it’s day surrendering to night without a sound, and he’s almost disappointed by it.

He pulls his knees back up to his chest and wraps his arms back around his shins, and it’s not long before he’s falling asleep.

Party’s sharp and wild and beautiful, with hair so red that it’s almost alight. He’s so beautiful that Frank feels his breath catch in his throat and whatever words he was about to say die in his throat, especially when their eyes meet. His eyes are warm and familiar, flickering with too many emotions at once, too fast for him to make out.

Frank feels himself shaking, like his body’s burning from the inside out.

Party’s back, with his blue jacket and dusty boots scuffing the dry ground, the grin that Frank missed so much slipping across his face. He’s less than a foot away, looking at Frank like he’s the one thing left in the world that matters. His hair flutters, soft tendrils of bright flame, around his chin, and Frank finds that he can’t even breathe.

“Hey, Ghoulie,” he says, and it’s mind-bendingly familiar, as if he’s never been gone. “You miss me?”

Frank shakes his head, twists his hands together. His body’s humming with nervous energy, practically buzzing, like the mobile phones he used to see his mom use when he was a kid, back before the end of the world. He feels like he’s a kid with her again- that he’s safe, that nothing bad can ever happen because he’s with them, and they’re so brave and perfect in every way, so of course everything will be okay.

Frank doesn’t know what to do. He wants to hug Party and never let him go. He wants to punch him in his smug, gorgeous face for leaving in the first place, for making everyone think he was dead, for coming back to life as an unrecognizable mess. Frank wants to kiss him until he promises to never disappear again.

“You’re an asshole,” he finally says, with a small shake of his head, and Party’s smile flickers. “But I missed you,” he finishes. “I missed you so much it hurt.”

Party’s grin does fall now, tumbling into a mess of dark colour and a blur of emotions, and Frank doesn’t even hesitate to fall into him, wrapping his arms around Party’s neck and burying his face in his shoulder. He feels Party’s arms drape over his shoulders, pulling him closer, and Frank feels safer and warmer than he has in months. He feels like he’s something akin to home, and it makes his head spin.

“I missed you so much,” he finds himself saying, repeating it over and over as if it’s a prayer. Party’s entire body is trembling, his bones prominent even through his clothes, and Frank can feel his ribs, his collarbones, his elbows digging into Frank’s back.

Then Party pushes him away and Frank looks up to him and sees that his eyes are wide with fear, focused on a spot above his shoulder. His hands are still resting on Frank's shoulders, but now his fingers are digging deep into his clothes, almost to the point that dull flickers of pain are beginning to flare up. “Ghoul,” he chokes out, “Frankie, you gotta run.”

Frank turns and the scenery flickers, changes, goes from the desert to a square room, the walls choking beneath the amount of posters plastered to them. Each one displays a picture of his face- grubby and smirking, a red cross in front of his eyes.

“Ghoul, you gotta run!” Party says again, louder this time, voice tinged with panic.

He whirls around but Party’s gone, vanished completely, and it’s Korse who’s taken his place.

Korse is pale as a corpse, his expression blank, cold eyes ringed red.

He wraps his hands around Frank’s neck and squeezes, and for a second, Frank remembers the way that he’d looked when he’d done the same thing to Party. Like a phantom, like a ghoul. That thought rips a gurgling kind of laugh out of his throat.

Then Korse’s dead hands press tighter and Frank feels himself falling.

“Hey, Ghoul? Dude? We’ve stopped.”

Frank wakes up blearily, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “Where are we?” he asks groggily, rubbing his eyes and looking around. It looks like it’s morning; the rain finally beginning to subside, clouds dissipating and slinking back towards the horizon.

Jet removes his hand from Frank’s shoulder and sits back. “The rain’s cut out for a bit. We’re catching a breather.”

He nods and tries to sit up, and then immediately regrets that decision. Sleeping in such an awkward position was a bad idea- his entire body is stiff and his muscles cramp up at every movement. “Fuuuuuck,” he groans. “Why didn’t you guys wake me up or something?”

“There was no need to,” Jet replies. “And you don’t get in the way when you’re asleep.” He’s got a fond smile on his face, something unfamiliar, mainly because they haven’t had many reasons to feel the need to smile like that lately.

That thought makes Frank feel hollow, but he snorts and flips Jet off. “Screw you, man,” he grins, and he really does feel something close to warm for the first time in too many days.

Frank finally swing his legs out of the car after another few moments, looks around and almost falls headfirst into the puddle at his feet when he sees Party sitting in the backseat with the door open, one hand untied. His legs dangle listlessly to the side, toes almost brushing the sodden dirt, his elbows on his knees as he watches Kobra and Jet clamber about.

He doesn’t even look at Frank, and for once, he doesn’t look angry or cold or malicious. He looks calm, on the brink of peaceful, his palms pressed together like he’s in prayer. The watery sunlight catches his eyes and makes them glimmer like shards of stained glass. Greens and browns, splinters of reds caught in the mix.

The sky looks clean after the rain, like it’s been thrown into one of the launderettes back in the city and emerged freshly-washed. Or as if all the water has dragged all the dirt and rust from the clouds and tossed it back to the desert floor.

Party still doesn’t move, watching Jet and Kobra as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world, although Frank has absolutely no idea what they’re looking for. Finally Jet straightens up and waves over at them, holding up an old tin can in his free hands.

“Want some shooting practice, Ghoul?” he yells, just as Kobra shuffles up behind him, dragging a rotten plank of wood behind it. He throws Frank a tight-lipped smirk- something close to a smile, but not quite. Frank shakes his head and tucks his knees back up to his chest, watching the pair of them set up a makeshift blast range: stacking the plank gingerly on two upturned bricks and then lining up a row of cans on top.

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank sees Party cock his head, almost the way that his grandma’s dog would when he’d pretend to throw the ball but keep it in his hand all along. His grandma’s dog had never missed a thing, that little bastard; it’d stared him down, slightly perplexed, but never fell for it, never ran down the garden in search of a tennis ball that wasn’t there. Fucking asshole, not falling for Frank's trick.

“I miss dogs,” Frank sighs, and it’s only once Party flinches and twists around to face him that Frank remembers Party’s actually in the car behind him.

They can’t exactly see each other that well- the passenger seat- as well as door frame and seatbelt- separate them, obstructing each other’s view, but if Frank leans forward an inch or so, he can make out half of his face. Party seems to have worked out the exact same thing, because his cold eyes meet Frank’s.

“What?”

“Dogs.” Frank shrugs and Party’s eyes narrow a fraction. “Dogs were epic. I used to want a whole family of dogs when I was a kid. I kinda wonder what happened to them all after the Helium Wars. I hope at least some survived this mess.”

Party only sniffs, turning back to watch Kobra knock down two out of the three cans. His third shot flies inches above the lid. “Dogs aren’t beneficial to society,” he says flatly. “The chances of them being admitted to Battery City in order to survive is incredibly unlikely.”

“Seriously?” Frank’s eyebrows are raised so high that they almost disappear into his hairline. “Dude, they’re dogs. Dogs are fricken’ awesome. They’re the best thing ever, holy shit.”

Party looks unimpressed. “But still, they offer nothing beneficial to the citizens of Battery City.”

Jet only hits one can. It spirals through the air and lands with a clatter. Kobra steps up and replaces it before taking his place and raises his blaster.

“Bullshiiiiit,” Frank drawls. “You’ve gotta remember dogs. Y’know, back from the good ol’ days of tyranny and democracy. They were the best. And they were so much cooler than people, man, everyone loved dogs.”

“They provoked allergies. And could often attack innocent people.”

Party under-estimates Frank’s determination. He will defend dogs to the death. “That was just bad owners, not bad dogs. And some dogs were hypo-allergic, so you haven’t even got a decent argument there.”

“It’s hyper-allergic,” Party sniffs, and Frank grins.

“I’ll tell you what.” He leans forward so he can make out Party’s entire face, the expression of disdain and almost boredom. “After all of this, once we get this whole thing sorted, I’m gonna get us a dog. Find some stray pup out here and give it a collar and everything, and you’ll agree that it’s the best thing in existence.”

“That would be impractical,” Party states. “It would be a distraction, a liability. Not to mention that it would be considered another consumer of the little food you have.”

Frank smirks. “It’ll be fine. I’m pretty sure that Jet’s got enough crumbs lodged up in that hair. We’d be able to keep it fed for weeks on end.”

Party smirks and for a split second Frank swears he sees his eyes light up. It takes Party longer than usual to compose himself and to threaten him with arrest and execution, and when he does Frank just sniggers at how half-hearted it sounds.

Chapter Text

They’re still there hours later, into the late afternoon, and the atmosphere’s something close to relaxed for the first time in too long.  The tin cans that Kobra Kid and Jet used for their shooting range have been reduced to a mismatched pile of shrapnel between the two bricks, one of the power-pup labels coming unstuck from the tin and flapping feebly in the air, a miniature flag of surrender waving in an empty desert.

The four of them are still crowded around the trans-am: Frank cross-legged on the bonnet, cigarette caught between two fingers, Kobra leaning against the closed passenger door, long legs outstretched and the sleeves of his jacket slung over his shoulders. Jet’s a little way away, facing the rest of them, drawing absentmindedly in the damp dirt.

Frank tilts his head back to the pale sky and lets out a plume of smoke, watching it spiral away, dissolving into the dry blue-grey above them. It’s a cloudless day, finally, only marred by the glow from the filter and the steam that’s slowly starting to rise from the wet ground. It’s hard to make out- only really visible if he’s looking for it- but the rainwater’s evaporating. Finally.

Although this means that there’s going to be fog tonight; he picks up snippets of information out in the zones every once in a while, and this prediction of weather is one of them. There’s cold air rushing in and water in the ground. Low-lying fog that seeps into every nook and cranny, spreading like water and clinging to him like tar. He can practically see it lurking on the horizon, predatory, waiting for the night.

Endless desert and dirt in every direction, as far as he can see and then farther still, like a carpet or a map unfolding. Tarmac roads and dirt highways, dry shrubbery and dead trees. Frank unfolds his legs, taps the ash off the end of his cigarette, and crosses his legs again. The ash glows as it lands on the cool metal, then dissolves into grey. The spider painted beneath is starting to fade; one leg’s half gone already, and the stickers underneath are starting to peel.

Party was always the one to decorate the car- he’d find the stickers, magazines and stencils that he liked, picking them up from whatever stops they raided, or trading them for news or half-empty batteries. Months ago, Dr D had offered him a stack of scrap magazine pages, and he’d barely looked at anything else for the rest of the week. There had been children’s comics, graphic novels, pretty much every genre that Frank could have imagined. Party had woken Frank up with a yell in the middle of the night, ages ago, waving a handful of torn pages in front of his face.

“Fuckin’ Batman, Ghoulie!” he hissed, his voice loud enough to wake the dead, let alone the rest of the group. “It’s a fucking Batman comic, holy shit, man, look at this!”

Frank had rubbed his eyes blearily. “The fuck you goin’ on about, Party? Who’s fucking Batman?”

Party shook his head frantically, red hair whipping himself in the face. “Christ, Frank, it’s a Batman comic. I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

“That’s great,” Frank muttered. “You’re gonna wake up the kid in a minute.”

Frank can make out a miniature Batman figure doing battle with a miniature Harley Quin and Catwoman above the car’s bumper whilst the Joker looked on and cackled next to the right headlight. Party had lectured him for a good hour about the objectification of female comic characters and the sexualisation of villains while he’d been pasting them to the bonnet; he’d snatched a can of something glue-like last time they’d checked in at the radio shack (Frank doesn’t know why Dr D would have anything like that, but he had hoped that it wasn’t for anything important) and had proceeded to spend every free minute ripping out new magazine pages, sticking them to the car.

It’s practically become a travelling collage now- a scrapbook dedicated to Before.

The spider in the centre of the bonnet was hand-drawn on. Party had used whatever he could find- markers, paper, spray-paint- to finish it. Frank wonders if he remembers spending weeks deliberating over its design, or if Frank should be the one to fix the one leg that’s beginning to rub away.

 “…you think, Ghoul?”

Kobra’s not-so-subtle jab in the ribs with an elbow sharp enough to puncture his lung jerks Frank back to the present. Jet’s peering at him with narrowed eyes, and Frank feels like he’s being scrutinised. He looks around, to Kobra and Party (who’s more interested in the hem of his biker’s jacket than anything else) before back to Jet. “What did I miss?”

Jet shakes his head tiredly. “What were you thinking ‘bout BLI? What should the plan be?”

Frank scratches the back of his neck. “When have we ever had a plan? We’ve literally just make it up as we go along so far.”

“I was just thinking we could go back to Dr Death-Defying. See if he can give us any pointers.”

“What? Like he was so hospitable last time?” Kobra snipes, and Jet throws him a look that screams ‘shut the hell up’. He shrugs. “I’m just saying.”

Jet’s mouth hangs open for half a minute, like he’s trying to drag together an answer, but before he has chance to speak, there’s a low voice behind him: “he was talking about me.”

Party’s one wrist is still fastened to the seatbelt. Kobra’s knots have never failed them yet and it’s the best bet they have, even though there’s raw skin around his hand and mottled bruises on his He hasn’t moved all day- feet folded underneath him, free hand resting on his lap. It’s got to be boring being a captive, Frank figures. There can’t be much to do, being tied up and all.

Party sits up slightly straighter, unfurling until he’s perched in the open car door, bitten fingernails scratching at the seam of his jeans. “The man on the radio. Dr Death-Defying. He was talking about me.”

“I don’t think so,” Kobra says, and he doesn’t even bother to look at him.

“No,” Party insists, his voice a dry rasp, like gravel and sawdust. “It was. He said ‘poison’. I’m the poison around. Obviously.”

Frank leans back again, taps another flurry of ash from the end of his smoke and blinking back down at the pictures littering the bonnet. It’s not like he hadn’t considered the possibility of Dr Death-Defying referring to Party the day before, but he doesn’t know what he can make of it. Dr D throws out riddles like they’re something he can afford to lose, and Frank trips over almost every single one.

“Why do you say that anyway?” He swings around, dangling his legs over the side of the car and swinging his feet. “He might have been referring to you, sure, but it doesn’t mean he’s saying you’re a poison.”

“Yeah,” Jet adds. “Your name is Party Poison, I think that explanation works a bit better, doesn’t it?”

Frank bobs his head in agreement even though Party isn’t looking in his direction. He’s glaring at Jet, hands twisted together. “I’m not Party Poison,” he hisses, voice heavy with contempt. He twists towards Kobra, who catches his eye before returning to staring at his knees.

“No.” Kobra doesn’t lift his head. “He’s not.”

Frank stops kicking his feet. Jet stares. Even Party doesn’t reply, his expression caught on a fine line somewhere between satisfaction and shock at actually being agreed with for once. He looks like he’s almost ready to pass out from surprise. Kobra doesn’t look up at any of them, not even when Frank leans forward and stares at him for a long, hard minute.

“Really?” Frank growls. “After all of this, now you decide to-“

“Hey,” Jet stands up, still looking towards the glowering Party, “will you try and kill me if I check your arm? Kobra, you wanna help?”

Party barely nods, but it’s Kobra who shakes his head, Jet brushes it off, stepping over and shooting Frank a warning look as he slides back off the bonnet and shuffles over. Party flinches the moment Jet reaches out to him, but eventually he lets them pull the jacket down off his shoulders, exposing the reddened skin beneath.

The burn stretches down from his collarbone to his sternum and curling beneath his armpit. It’s a mess of peeling skin, but it’s healing, nothing but a faded pink blemish over his chest, but that’s not the worst of it. Party’s skin turns ashen the moment they pull his sleeve down and Frank’s stomach lurches there and then. This is his mess. This is what he’s done.

Party’s shoulder is raw, an ugly red wound that makes Frank’s throat tighten when he tries to look at it; the skin is tight and shiny, and the days covered by a makeshift bandages and the constant jolt of travelling through the zones can’t have done it any good. These are the times that Frank misses the security of Battery City: sure, it was purgatory on earth, but at least there was some suggestion of medical security around. The doctors (not that you ever needed them that much) knew exactly what they were doing. They provided the best service that Frank could imagine.

Of course, the majority of Frank’s time spent in Battery City was pumped up on DRAC medication, convinced that everything was perfect, so it could have been that there was barely any medical knowledge in the city at all and he just didn’t know it.

“Well,” Jet says cheerfully, “it’s not that bad.”

Party spits out a brittle growl through gritted teeth, his eyes scrunched shut. Frank can’t imagine being in that much pain. “And you’re... the fucking… medical ex-expert… huh?”

Frank manages a brittle giggle. “C’mon, Jet Star, you can be the doctor here. What do we do now?”

It can’t be that bad. He’s sure of it. It’s really not that bad.

Unfortunately, it turns out that it’s actually worse.

“Ghoul…” Jet turns to him with nervous eyes. “Ghoul… Can you look at this?”

Frank’s tight smile fades the moment he sees Jet’s expression. It’s a mix of horror, shock, and disgust, but there’s something else there too, something Frank can work out when he turns around to look at Party, to really look. It’s the opposite of shock, a weary sort of acceptance, as if he knew this was on its way, but it didn’t mean that he ever wanted it to arrive.

When they first found Party, they only focused on the immediate wound.

Now Frank looks at down at him properly, at the broken man whose jacket lies on the seat next to him, with his thin arms wrapped around his middle, with a burn raking down his torso, with his head bowed and shoulders shuddering.

There’s scars covering Party’s entire body. Like spider-webbing, criss-crossing over his torso, over his arms, over his back. They’re all neat, perfect purple lines that are so thin they’re almost dainty, running down his spine, over his ribs and stomach, over his arms and stopping short of his neck. It’s like he’s a patchwork quilt, something made out of thousands of ragged pieces and pulled together to make whatever Party is now.

Pulled apart and put back together, but with the insides mixed all wrong.

Torture. All of this torture that Frank managed to miss- he's an idiot, he's a fucking IDIOT.

The scars are all so deep, so dark, but they’ve been stitched up so neatly that Frank’s sure that the majority of them will have faded to near-invisibility after a year. Almost as if they never existed in the first place. The thought makes Frank’s gut twist, and he has to force himself to breathe again. In. Out. In. Out. Repeat.

Frank wants to run.

He wants to run and to run and to never stop running, until his lungs turn themselves inside and his airways tear to pieces.

Instead, he makes it a step forcing himself to a stop, pressing his hands to his knees and air into his lungs, the world spinning. He's going to throw up. He's going to throw up.

Behind him, he can faintly hear the sound of Party crying out, or maybe he’s yelling, or maybe it’s actually Kobra who’s yelling because Frank can only hear white noise. And there’s nothing he can do but force his eyes open and stare at the dirt and gasp desperately, his breath a dry rasp burning in his ears. Except he can’t see ground: his vision’s blurry, his head a smorgasbord of sound and thoughts that he can’t process.

Battery City was purgatory on earth, but there was some suggestion of medical security, and it seems that BLI have given Party first-class treatment after each torture session.

Chapter Text

Dr Death-Defying’s radio shack is the only place out in the zones (that Frank’s heard of, anyway) that actually has hot water. As in, real, proper hot water, coming from faucets out in the middle of the desert.

Frank’s found that being stuck with this messed-up, hateful, cracked version of Party is something like dumping your bare hands in a basin filled to the brim with scalding water.

The human body’s a complex mechanism- a meat machine that’s so easy to corrupt and break and overload, and certain features of it are exactly the same alone. You can overload your nerves to point that they can’t even register the tidal waves of messages crashing over them, almost to the extent that you end up feeling nothing at all. Dumping your hands in boiling water will become agonising after a few seconds, your skin with scald and blister and maybe even melt, if you’re unlucky, but for the first moments of your hands in the basin, the water will feel icy cold if anything.

Too many messages hurling themselves from sensory neuron to motor neurons, rushing towards central nervous system at once. You can be convinced that you should be in agony, and don’t worry, you will be very, very soon, but in those few, precious seconds, you’ve essentially managed to cause your body to short-circuit.

It feels like that now.

There’s too many different ideas, too many different fears and questions. Too much pain and too much loathing. Too many reasons why he should be afraid, too many reasons why he should be furious, raging, wanting to tear Battery City down brick by blank brick, with his bare hands if he has to.

Too many different messages all at once. He’s managed to short-circuit.

And if he’s honest, he’s kept a hold of himself so far. He’s managed to keep a (mainly) clean head, managed to keep his head above water, just about. He can deal with Party wanting them dead. He can deal with Party barely remembering anything about the days before he was caught. He can deal with the voice in his head that reminds him on an hourly basis that This Is All Your Fault, Fun Ghoul, And Don’t You Forget That.

But when he sees Party’s torso, sees the dark scars from knives and nails and so much more, so many more malevolent things that Frank can’t possibly even imagine, that’s when he shuts down.

There should be waves and waves of agony, and don’t worry, that’ll be coming soon, but right now, he can’t feel a thing. He can’t manage to think, can’t manage to feel. He’s been overloaded with information, swamped beneath sticky black thoughts that refuse to leave, and he can’t feel a thing anymore.

The trans-am’s never been as silent as it is now.

Frank still doesn’t understand how Dr Death managed to hook up to the water- it's probably super simple, something Frank overlooked; after all, this is the guy who hijacked BLI’s electricity and rides the radio waves like they’re something he’s managed to tame, and Frank really wouldn’t be surprised if there’s really something nefarious about everything. That’d explain how he seems to know everything about everyone at every minute of every day.

And he knows that Dr Death-Defying knows everything because Show Pony doesn't stop them from this time: they barely lift their head as the trans-am crawls to a stop in front of the building, arms crossed across their chest as they lean back into the deckchair and watch them approach. They're not wearing their roller skates for the first time since Frank's seen them, and it's kind of a shock to the system, but the helmet’s still firmly in place. He wonders if they take the helmet off when they go to sleep, or whether it's just a permanent fixture. Maybe they haven't got a head. Maybe they're some undead roller-skating vigilante, scooting around the zones, wreaking terror upon their enemies and helping Dr D out on the quiet days. That’d be another good comic idea to tell Party about, if only he could get the guy to stop staring at him.

That’s another thing that’s changed: Party’s gone from shooting death glares at Frank and the rest of them every few seconds to looking at Frank- and only Frank- with an expression that he can only describe as haunted. Maybe even regretful, but even Frank has to admit that’s probably pushing it. But still, this new. This is weird. Frank can feel the weight of the stare making the hair on his arms prickle, even when he's turned away. He really doesn’t know what to make of it.

Kobra hasn’t spoken for the entire drive over to Dr Death-Defying’s place. He’s sat in the backseat, staring blankly out of the window, arms wrapped around himself like he’s about to crumble. Jet Star is almost shaking with nervous energy, nothing but jerking, aborted movements nervous glances around at each of them at a time, like one of them are about to explode and he doesn’t which one needs diffusing first. Frank’s got a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, working on a complete autopilot, his head empty.

Party’s folded in on himself in the backseat, limbs caught at awkward angles and chin resting on his black jacket, watching the fog roll in over the zones. He’s the only one that almost seems comfortable, and considering he’s the one with scars spider-webbing over his entire body, Frank find it almost disconcerting.

Torture. It’s an ugly word. Torture, Noun. The action or practice of inflicting severe pain on someone as a punishment or in order to have them do or say something.

Torture. Frank’s not naïve. He knows that Korse’s gloat of ‘your friend really is the source of all knowledge’ didn’t stem from nothing. He knows that Party rambling about broken bones and shrieking about electricity wasn’t a coincidence. He knows that Party had been tortured, but he’d tried his best to bury it. They all had.

Dr Death-Defying’s radio shack comes into view, maybe just another minute away, and Frank can’t even find it in him to be convinced that Dr D will know what to do. Party lifts his head as they approach, catching Frank’s eye in the rearview mirror. He looks tired. He almost looks scared. Frank still wishes that he could hate him, but the hollow apathy that’s settled in his stomach is far worse.  He wants to be angry. He wants to be able to hate Party, hate everything about this desperately hopeless situation.

“It’s you again,” Show Pony says, unsurprised, when the Killjoys clamber out of the car and into the damp air. Frank gives him a tight, thin-lipped smile while Jet helps Party out of the backseat. “You’re back.” Despite it being evening, with the last fragments of light fading from the empty sky, they're stretched out on the deckchair like it's the hottest day of the year.

“We allowed back yet?” Jet asks wearily.

Show Pony cocks their head to the side, like they’re sure that they’ve missed the punchline to a joke but they’re not sure whether to laugh anyway. “Sure,” they shrug, leaning back and tucking their hands behind their head. “I don’t see why not.”

Frank frowns- that’s it, the first flicker of emotion he’s felt in hours, a spark of indignation- and he crosses his arms. “Can you actually see anything with that helmet on?” he snaps, “or do you just have the visor that dark because you’re one of the people out here too scared to actually show BLI their faces?”

“Ghoul.” Jet grabs his elbow and tugs him inside. Frank hears Party snicker behind him, but he ignores it.

“Oh, fuck off,” Frank shoots, ripping his arm out of Jet’s grip as he follows him into the shack. “’I don’t see why not’? After all that bullshit before like Party Poison’s contagious? You're really gonna ignore that shit?”

Jet sighs as Dr Death-Defying’s voice floats through the building towards them. He sounds like he’s DJ-ing, but it won’t be much longer now until he’s off for the day. “I know, Ghoul, but c’mon. Not right now, okay?”

Frank can feel his expression sour but he shuts up. Not for Show Pony or himself, but for the deep shadows under Jet’s eyes and weary way that he looks around the room, like there’s nothing left that could surprise him. Frank follows him anyway, through the diner and a makeshift kitchen, where cutlery, dirty bowls and tin cans are scattered over the floor and counter. Party stumbles at one point- maybe just over a loose tile or his own feet- and Frank reaches out to him on instinct.

He should have known that was a mistake- almost every time that any of them have tried to touch him, Party’s ripped himself out of their grip, usually with a hiss or snarl of “get the FUCK off of me”. But before Frank can stop himself, he’s caught Party by his bicep, fingers digging into the cold material of his jacket and feeling the taunt muscle beneath. He’s expecting Party to throw Frank off like he’s been attacked, but instead he doesn’t say a thing. He freezes- Frank feels the clench beneath his jacket, like he’s frozen stiff. Then he stands back up again, smoothly, and continues forward like nothing happened at all, his hands pushed deep into his pockets.

Frank follows after another moment, dumbfounded, but when he looks back over his shoulder at Kobra, he finds him only looking back blankly, not saying a thing.

Dr D is in the next room, the walls laden with old momentous, half of which Frank doesn’t even recognise. There’s a samurai sword hanging over the doorway, though, and he wants to grin like he does every other time he sees it. He has no idea where Dr Death-Defying found it, but boy is it awesome.

The pirate DJ himself is bent over his microphone and doesn’t even glance their way when they enter. He holds his hand up for them to wait without missing a beat. “... and keep your masks on and your ears open for that thunder in a cloudless sky, watch for the lightning storms and the ghosts ‘a walking. This is Dr Death-Defying, signing off.” He leans back, fiddles with a few buttons, and then turns his chair around to face them.

“Well, then,” he says, “how’s a bunch o’ ghosts an’ ghoulies wandering through the zones on a day like this?”

Frank shrugs one shoulder. “There’s only one ghoul in here, but ghosts aren’t-“

“Ghoul!” This time, it's Kobra who jabs a sharp elbow into Frank’s diaphragm, and he doubles over with a cough. He doesn't even need to glance over to know that there's a smirk playing in the corner of Party's mouth. He straightens to find that Dr D is staring straight at him, unblinking, eyes black and scrutinising. It's like when he was back in primary school, and the kids were trying to decide whether he'd be any use as dodgeball fodder.

“But there are ghosties here, aren’t there?” he says levelly, and Frank makes a confused kind of wheeze. Then Dr D lifts his head to look up at Party, who’s lurking behind them all, and continues. “We’re all ghosts. Just some are nearer dead than others.”

Party stares him down, his dark hair a greasy curtain in front of his eyes. Frank’s only just noticed that Party’s got his roots coming through- a muddy brown pushing its way through the black.

“You’re the one on the radio,” Party finally says, his voice cold and restrained. “You’re the one who talked about me days ago. I remember you.”

Dr Death-Defying raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout, kid.” He’s turning to Jet when Party interrupts, taking a step forward and clenching his fists.

“No,” he growls. “It was. You said ‘poison’. That’s me.” The only answer he gets is a long hard look, steady and calculating, D drumming his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair. Party pushes on: “it was,” he insists. “The poison. That’s me. They keep calling me ‘Party Poison’, and in Battery City, I was ‘Poison’ there too. It’s not a coincidence. I just need to know why.”

Dr D looks at him long and hard and Party stares right back. Finally it's Dr D who looks away and clears his throat.“I’m gonna need to talk to this dustmonkey alone,” he says. “You can go and fix yourselves up.”

The three start up in unison, even Kobra, who hasn’t talked all day. They’re all insisting that ‘it’s a fuckin’ stupid idea what the frickety flying fuck do you think you’re doing?’ and ‘dude, this isn’t a good idea, c’mon,’ but they’re all waved out anyway, like they’re all little kids, Party throwing a distressed glance in their direction as it’s ‘time for the grownups to have a chat now’.

You know, if the ‘grownups’ consisted of a paralysed veteran of the Helium Wars and a mind-fucked, ex-Killjoy.

Frank stomps out onto the wooden porch, Jet and Kobra close behind, and throws himself down onto the decking next to Show Pony’s deckchair. He crosses his legs and crosses his arms, but now he really feels like a little kid, so he shifts. Kobra and Jet lean up against the side of the building, both staring out of the horizon like it’s got something that they want, but Frank crosses his arms and wishes there was a draculoid he could fight. Something that D wouldn't tell him off for breaking.

“Just so you know,” Frank says to Show Pony, who's still relaxed out on the deckchair without a care in the world. "Your boss sucks.”

Show Pony doesn’t even look over at him. “He’s not my boss.”

Frank pulls a face. “Sugar daddy then, whatever. That’s not the point. What the fuck happened to teamwork with you guys?"

“D knows what he’s doing.”

“Does he actually let you into the secret information too? Or do you need to know the password?”

“I'm assuming you didn't drag your friend all way out here just to complain, did you? Or are you more petty than I thought?" 

Frank stands there for probably too long, fists clenched, counting to ten and twenty and maybe fifty because beating the fuck out of Dr D's butler (or whatever the fuck they are) isn't going to sort shit. At thirty-five, Show Pony makes a sound that Frank can only imagine is some sort of self-congratulation, and Frank has to start counting all over again. 

They look down at him for another long minute, and Frank really does start to wonder who’s behind the helmet. “D knows what he’s doing,” they repeat, before settling back in the chair, arms behind their head. Frank sighs, pulling his jacket a little tighter around him as a cool breeze springs up. It’s getting late and the fog’s rolling in. He shivers.

It comes in waves, a slow tumble of low-lying cloud that flows over the desert floor like it’s on wings. It comes in silently, surreptitiously, like a whisper, like the secrets that Frank would hear passes around back alleys in Battery City, or the stories that the trash at the Battery City dump could tell, if ever objects like that could talk. It comes in thick, suffocating, cold, with long, white fingers feeling its way forward.

It’s something slow and mysterious, and Frank hates it but watches it roll in anyway. Blink, and it’s only collecting on the horizon. Blink, and now it’s around his feet, only faint, just a whisper of water vapour, barely visible really. Blink, and now it’s everywhere, dense and damp and icy cold, dragging down his neck and over his forearms. Blink, and he can’t see more than a foot in front of him, and the only reason that he can tell that he’s still sitting on the porch is the feel of the rough wooden planks beneath him.

There’s the sound of wooden boards creaking behind him and Kobra says: “I’m gonna check on D and Party.” His voice sounds distorted and distant in the fog, like he’s a hundred metres away but talking to him through a pipe.

“Yeah, me too.” Frank hears Jet say, “you okay, Ghoul? Don’t stay out here too long.” There’s a sound of a door opening and then silence. Nothing at all. Just him and Show Pony, who’s a faint haze of blue next to him through the fog.

It’s silent for a long time, and Frank hates it. The air’s heavy with moisture- he can practically feel the water droplets against his hands- and he can’t hear a thing. He feels invisible and isolated, a tiny speck of colour suspended in white. He can’t feel a thing. The world could have completely stopped, everyone might have disappeared from the face of the earth, and he might not even notice.

He does notice, however, Show Pony grab his shoulder, suddenly ripping him from his thoughts. “There’s something wrong,” they say.

One thing about humans, one funny thing little thing that they have a habit of doing, is that when they hear a sound of distress, they run towards it, unlike other sensible creatures who run away. This isn’t exactly the most reliable method of independent survival, but humans often ignore that and scurry towards danger like it’s something that they’re addicted to.

And Show Pony has barely spoken before Frank hears Jet screaming. The sound’s something brutal and agonised, soaking the air like blood through bandages, something ragged and torn and terrified, and it doesn’t stop.

Jet screams and screams and screams without even pausing for breath, and Frank is already running, and he knows that it’s Jet screaming because Kobra’s shouting hysterically, yelling for “Party! Fuck- put it down! Put it down! Stop it! Gerard! Put it the fuck down! Stop-“

And Frank’s ears are ringing as he barrels through the door and screeches to a halt at the sight of Kobra tumbling into the corner of the room, clutching his forearm whilst pressing a scrap of material to Jet’s face, who’s writhing and screaming and flailing, what little part of his face that’s still visible covered in blood, his hair soaked with it, clawing at Kobra’s hands and kicking his legs and screaming.

God, he won’t stop screaming.

Kobra’s crouched in front of him, almost as if he’s trying to protect him, trying to holding him still and stop the blood while Dr Death-Defying is nowhere to be seen.

But Party’s in the middle of the room, chest heaving, looking down at Frank through his hair.

There’s a knife in his hand and blood on his face.

A knife that he must have picked up from the kitchen area, when he tripped and clutched at the counter for balance.

“Ghoul…” Party’s voice is cracked glass. His eyes are wide, like a cornered animal's, pupils so small they're almost invisible.

“Give me the knife, Party.” Frank’s voice is trembling, but his hands are steady.

“Frank….” His voice trickles into a whisper. He sounds like a child- terrified, horrified, alone. “Ghoul, they put me back together all wrong. Everything’s all wrong now. They’re. All. In. My. Head.”

“It’s okay-“

“But it’s not,” Party hisses, nostrils flaring, body shaking so hard he's practically vibrating. “Nothing’s okay.”

Frank takes another step forward. “Gerard-“

The name barely passes Frank’s lips before Party’s lunging towards him.

Chapter Text

It’s a mess of noise in his head and blood on his face, screams ringing in his ears like the alarms he’d heard back in the white room when the little girl escaped. And blood blood blood. Wet blood on his face, blood on the knife in his hand, flashes of memories where his hair wasn’t black… it was bright red, redder than the sunset on a summer night.

He tackles the Killjoy, trying to bring the knife down, but Fun Ghoul backs up, hands flashing up to grab his wrists as he staggers back, almost tripping over the doorf-rame as he does. The knife nicks the yellow stripe on his sleeve and Party Poison bares his teeth.

“Party,” Fun Ghoul repeats, his voice strained. “We’re gonna- we’re gonna help you. D is gonna help you-“

Party Poison pulls one arm free and swipes for him, but Fun Ghoul skips out of the way. They’re on the porch now, fog twisting around them both possessively, and the Killjoy glances back towards the building.

“Show!” he yells. “Get to Kobra! Go and help Jet!”

Party Poison can make out a noise behind him, but the Killjoy shakes his head at it. Of course. The radio pirate’s lackey. “Go help Kobra, I've got this." The Killjoy is going to try and stop him. They hadn't managed before, and they had the advantage of numbers back then. Back then, he made mistakes. He bares his teeth and snarls.

Fun Ghoul. AKA F.I. Killjoy. Terrorist. Very dangerous.

He remembers what they told him, back in the white rooms, when they forced needles into his skin and pills down his throat.

He needs to kill them all.

They told him so.

 "I’ve got this, okay, Party? You know it’s gonna be okay. Trust me.”

Fun Ghoul looks back towards Party Poison with an expression that’s caught somewhere between fear and determination, but his voice is steady. He looks calmer than Party Poison’s seen him in all of these weeks. "Gerard, trust me. It’s okay.”

Party Poison knows that’s his name now, however much he hates it. He can remember the Killjoys calling out to him, the way that Fun Ghoul would say it like it was precious, like it was something that he couldn’t afford to lose. But Party Poison shakes his head, because whatever that was, it’s not the same anymore. All he knows now is that he hates them- he hates them all, hates them with a deep, deep loathing that lurks in his bones like a disease, hates them in a way that he can’t reason or describe. All he knows is he wants them dead.

He feels like they’re both frozen- caught at a checkmate, feet away from each other, staring each other down.

The Killjoy takes a tentative step. “Gee?” he murmurs, and even though they’re only a few feet apart, the fog distorts his voice, makes it sound distant. “Party, you can give me the knife, yeah?”

 “Help me,” he wants to whisper, but instead, he hears himself saying: “I want you all dead. I want Battery City to have the justice they deserve. I’m going to kill you.”

Fun Ghoul lowers his head and edges forward. “You’re my friend, Gerard, you’re not going to kill me.”

“I’m broken,” he wants to cry, but he hears: “I want you dead. They want you all dead. You don’t know me.”

His breath is a dry rasp in his throat, making his lungs burn and his head spin. For a second, the fog thickens, and all he can see is white. Back in the white room, back in the steel chair with the restraints holding him down, back to the feel of blood on his skin.

But then he blinks and he’s back in the desert again, but there’s still blood on his face. It’s not his blood on his face. It’s the other Killjoy’s: Jet Star. The one that kept him alive all this time. The one that didn’t want him hurt.

Party Poison’s killed that Killjoy. He could tell the moment he heard him scream.

 “I know you,” Fun Ghoul says slowly, and he’s closer now. He’s got his hands in front of him, raised in surrender, his gaze flicking from Party Poison’s face to the knife in his hands. “You’re not the one who wants us dead. They told you to hate us, I get it, but I know you better than they do. You’re Gerard Way. You’re Party Poison. You’re the leader of the Killjoys and Kobra Kid’s brother. You’re my best friend, the only one in our group who hasn’t got a tattoo, and you draw comics and portraits and amazing things and then act like they’re nothing. You’re the most caring person I know, Party, and this isn’t you. This is BLI in your head.”

“I remember being that person, but I’m not anymore,” he wants to say, but he’s silent.

Fun Ghoul takes another step forward and Party Poison feels himself snap, like an elastic band stretched too tight. He feels himself dive forward and those pretty eyes widen in shock, or maybe just horror, but then the Killjoy shifts to the side at the last moment, driving a knee into Party Poison’s stomach and sending him reeling. He gasps, the air forced from his lungs in one ‘whoosh’ and sending his blood rushing to his head. He staggers, almost falls, and spits the blood out of his mouth. He’s bitten his tongue.

“Stop it!” Now Fun Ghoul is yelling, his voice tinged with anger but breaking, like he’s one crack away from crying. “Fucking STOP!”

Party Poison snarls, spins around towards the voice, but Fun Ghoul catches his arm, stepping in close. His breath smells like candy and cigarette smoke. His eyes are wide and desperate, like a junkie trying to go cold-turkey, trying to ignore the effects of withdrawal when they really set in. His grip on Party Poison’s wrist is tight, like iron.

“They got in your head, okay, I know. And it’s my fault, I know that too-“

Party Poison remembers that. He remembers the woman looking up at him, telling him how the Killjoy let him die. How the Killjoy betrayed him, wanted him dead. How all of them are just as malevolent- monsters, terrorists, sadists. The black pieces of the world collecting like diseases outside the city.

“-But you’re Gerard, okay? You’re an artist. You looked after the girl. You told me about the pets that you and your brother wanted to have when you were little kids, and even though you’re allergic to cats you figured you could have a dog one day. You’re a good person and-“

He smashes his heel onto Fun Ghoul’s foot and the grip on his forearm loosens, and Party Poison takes his chance slam his free arm into the Killjoy’s elbow. Fun Ghoul yells and falls back, but before Party Poison can strike, Fun Ghoul meets his eyes again, flipping dark hair from his face.

Now, instead of desperation, he only looks determined.

“I’m going to have to kill you,” Party Poison says, and Fun Ghoul exhales. He shakes his head.

“Come on then,” he finally says, his eyes steely and his lips pinched, as he turns on his heel and runs. Party Poison doesn’t think twice before following him, leaving the shack and the screams and the other Killjoys behind him, the energy and the blood singing in his veins.

He runs as fast as he can, his muscles burning from the first intense exercise he’s had in weeks of being tied up, but the Killjoy’s disappeared within seconds, the fog swallowing him whole. It was a smart tactic- drawing him away from the shack, where the other Killjoys were laying there, injured, and into the fog, where he can’t see a thing.

Party Poison runs until he crashes straight into something- smashes straight into the hood of the Killjoys’ car and falls back onto the ground, the breath knocked out of him.

It’s only a dark shape in the fog, but when he stands back up, the bright paint, the stickers and cartoons, become clearer.

Of course. They must have something- weapons? There’s got to be ray guns- inside.

The car handle is icy beneath his palm, leeching all of the heat out of his skin and making him shudder. The fog feels like a shroud. He opens the driver’s side door and leans inside, groping blindly, pulling down the sun-visors as something small drops down onto the driver’s seat. Car keys. He can get out.

He drags himself into the seat, placing the knife down next to the keys before he pulls open the glove compartment and continues to search through the car. There’s only one flare inside, but he lights it, the sudden brightness blinding, white light flashing behind his eyelids. The inside of the car’s doused in a bloody red luminescence almost instantly, the hiss from the flare filling his ears like water. It’s loud- too loud- and reminds him of the electricity, back in the white rooms, when they fixed the wires to his wrists and turned the dials.

Not right now. Not right now. He’s got to focus. He can stay calm. He can.

He heaves in a breath, feels it whistle against his lips, and continues to search inside the glove box, just in case there’s something else that he can use-

His fingers find something small and cold, about the size of an apple, metal and ridged. He pulls it out and raises the flare to inspect it in the light, and his heart almost stops. It’s a grenade: banned in Battery City, destructive and careless and indiscriminate. He doesn’t know how the Killjoys would have got it and he doesn’t want to know. The fact that the enemy could really have weapons like this- it’s terrifying. Battery City could fall. No more medication. No more calming fog smothering the Bad Ideas. The thought makes his head spin.

Not right now. He needs to focus. Deal with the Killjoys. Get back to Battery City.

For some reason, that plan seems like less of a good idea than it did before. 

He’s just leaning back out of the car when something hits him from behind- strong arms circling around his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist, hauling him backwards. The flare drops out of his hand and continues to hiss, washing the world in red as he staggers, almost loses his balance and rights himself. 

“How about you actually listen to me, motherfucker.” It’s Fun Ghoul again, snarling in his ear, latched onto his back like some demonic sort of spider-monkey. The thought rips a snap of a laugh out of him- of course it’s Fun Ghoul, it's so ridiculous that none of the other Killjoys. Not that they’re in any state to at the moment, either. He lifts his hands to where he can only picture Fun Ghoul’s face being- he rakes his fingers over an eye and there’s a yelp, but then Fun Ghoul’s shifting and he’s almost completely out of reach. And try as he might, Party Poison can’t manage to shift his legs or his arms.

This is actually humiliating.

“You’re gonna stop, okay, Party?” Fun Ghoul continues. Party Poison tries to prise his arms free, but nothing happens. “I’m not going to let go, so you’re gonna listen to me, okay? You’re Gerard Way and you just stabbed your little brother. You tried to kill Jet before-“ his voice cuts off, like it’s been choked, before he drags in another breath and continues- “and he still wanted you to be okay. We all know that this isn’t you. Please- please just snap outta it, Party, I need you. Please-.”

Jet Star. That’s the one that Party Poison’s killed. He cut him right across his face. There’d been blood everywhere. He’d only managed to hit the one in red in the arm. Failure.

“Get off me!” He finds himself shrieking, the sound ripping itself from his throat with claws and fangs, and he writhes as Fun Ghoul clings onto him furiously. “Getoffgetoffgetoff!”

He snatches for the ray gun holstered at Fun Ghoul’s thigh but he fumbles as the Killjoy jerks, the cold plastic falling from his fingers and down into the dirt, out of sight.

“Is that it, Gee?” Fun Ghoul pants in his ear, his breath hot and sending shivers dragging down Party Poison’s neck. “You gonna shoot me? I know you won’t. C’mon, you gotta fight this. You can do it. You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever know. You’re not gonna let them win. I know you. You’ve gotta do this for your brother, for-”

Party Poison lurches sideways, slams back into the car and turns, smashing into it again, but this time backwards, the Killjoy coming between him and it. Fun Ghoul cries out, his grip loosening, and Party Poison takes his chance. He throws him off and there’s a bang as the Killjoy lands on the hood, smacking his head against the spider silhouette and losing himself for a second.

The world is still red, the flare fading, but Party Poison doesn't miss his chance. He throws himself forward, wraps his hands around Fun Ghoul’s throat, and the Killjoy gasps like a fish thrown out of water. It only takes him a moment to collect himself- Party Poison sees it in the way that his eyes clear- and then he begins trying to push Party Poison away, fingers scrabbling at Party Poison's wrists. His boots kick uselessly against the hood of the car.

Fun Ghoul’s smaller, wilder, more flexible, filled to the seams with uncontainable energy. But Party Poison’s stronger than he is.

Without letting up, Party leans over him, forcing Fun Ghoul further back until the back of his head is pressing against the windshield. He gapes, hair in his face, scrabbling at Party Poison’s wrists, but he can’t move him.

“I’m sorry,” Party Poison says, “but you’re the enemy. They kept telling me that you were the enemy.”

Fun Ghoul spits out a cough. Stretching, gulping for air he can’t reach. He’s making a horrible dry, retching sound, one that fills Party Poison’s ears like water, makes him feel like he’s drowning. He can make out a smear of blood in one of the Killjoy’s eyes- a burst blood vessel.

His lips are moving. He’s mouthing Party Poison’s name, over and over again, eyes desperate and pleading.

“You tried your best,” Party Poison whispers, but the words make his heart stutter. Fun Ghoul really did try. He still hasn’t stopped trying. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m not meant to feel sorry, but I do.”

It’s just then that Fun Ghoul’s eyes begin to roll back, and it’s just then that Party Poison hears a: “Ghoul? Have you got him?”

The one in the red jacket. Party Poison curses. He’ll see the light of the flare, even through the fog. He’ll come running. At the voice, Fun Ghoul’s eyes snap open, and he begins to struggle with renewed energy. He smacks his boots against the hood again and bucks his hips, raising noise, drawing attention.

“Ghoul? Where are you?” Kobra Kid’s voice is distorted by the fog. Party Poison can’t tell how close he is- he could be only metres away, but he could be on the other side of the radio pirate’s building. “Ghoul? Ghoul? Can you hear me?” The voice grows nearer, wracked with pain, and Party Poison bares his teeth, presses down harder.

“Ghoul? Fun Ghoul? Can you hear me? Dude?” The voice grows more distant, distorted by the fog but definitely fading. After another second, Party Poison can barely hear it anymore.

Fun Ghoul stares up at him, gaping, fingers twitching desperately, and then reaches for him, fingers pressing to his cheek, and then his eyelids flutter closed, the hand trailing against his face- down his cheek, over his mouth and chin- before dropping uselessly back against the hood.

Party Poison has won.

He’s won, but the victory feels more like a loss.

For some reason, as he lets go of the Killjoy and they still don’t move, he almost feels like crying.

Chapter Text

Fifteen seconds.

Press down on both of the carotid arteries, the two main arteries at the sides of a person’s neck, for more than fifteen seconds, and you’ve rendered them unconscious. You’ve reduced the blood supply to their brain by up to 90%.

Fifteen seconds until unconsciousness.

Much after that and there’s no going back.

Frank crashes back to life with a heaving, desperate breath that makes his entire body shudder. Vision flashing colour to black then back to colour again, lungs burning. It's like he's just been dunked underwater. He’s gasping, fumbling through waves of dizziness that submerge him with each breath. He tries to sit up but he can't work out which way up is, falling back again, smacks his head against something cold metal as he does.

His head's spinning, it's nauseating, and the tightness in his throat only makes the urge to vomit even worse. Numb, uncoordinated fingers that might be his own are scrabbling at his neck, trying to dislodge whatever’s making it so hard to breathe, but there’s nothing there. Only swollen that sends furious spasms shooting through his bones at the touch.

He coughs pathetically again, flinching, and it’s only then that he can manage to clear his streaming eyes and calm himself down enough to look around.

He’s on the hood of the trans-am, the metal so cold that it’s almost searing his bare palms. He can barely see a thing- there’s still nothing but mist, his breath coming out in staccato bursts and plumes of vapour.

Wait.

Party’s here too: leaning far too close, standing as close as he can without climbing onto the hood of the car next to him, hands still half-raised towards Frank’s chest in an abandoned effort to reach out to him-

The blood on Jet’s face and Kobra’s arm. The flecks of blood freckling Party’s face. The hands around his throat…

Frank’s is trying to scuttle backwards before he realises what he’s doing, but there’s nowhere for him to go and he can’t take his eyes from Party’s face. There’s only the thought of the cold hands wrapped around his throat, ringing at the forefront of his mind like an alarm, bright red and screaming DANGER.

Party had tried to kill him.

Party had tried to kill him. Party had almost killed him. His very best friend his friendPartyhelovedPartybutPartyhadtriedtokillhimwithoutasecondthought-

Frank twists around, scrabbling for the side of the hood so he can drag himself off and away, but every movement still makes his muscles shriek at the effort. He manages to give a panicked whine, sounding more cornered and wretched than he’s never heard himself sound before, and only manages to haul himself half off of the car’s hood before his arms give way.

He crashes face-first into the ground and lands in an ungainly puddle of limbs, pain sparking through his neck, but Party grabs him by the collar of his jacket as he falls. It’s instinctive and clumsy, like he’s trying to catch him rather than stop him from escaping, but Frank wrenches himself away.

“Get off me!” His voice is a grating shriek, unrecognisable as his own. “Don’t touch me!”

Party drops his hand like Frank’s a dead droid that been found in the zones- all scalding hot metal and sparking electrical wires- but doesn’t try anything else. Frank hauls himself to his knees, the sky swooping down to meet his hands and he topples back towards the dirt.

Kobra and Jet. They’re dead. Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck- 

Party’s talking in the same monotone voice that Frank’s become used to, but Frank can’t manage to make out the words over the buzzing in his ears. Jet Star had blood all over his face and god, the way he’d screamed…

And Kobra. And there’d been Show Pony and Dr Death-Defying too. What if Party had killed them all? Kobra wouldn’t have stopped him, even if he’d been in a position to. Dr Death was in no state to fight someone like Party off either… How long has he been out for? It might’ve been hours. They could already could be dead. Fuck, they could be all fucking dead.

Frank swallows down the panic threatening to overtake him, forces it deep down into the pit of his stomach, saving it for later. He pushes himself onto all fours and staggers back to his feet, barely able to take a step before he falls back onto his knees again. His head is spinning. He wants to throw up. The dirt still feels sodden beneath his fingers, water seeping through the knees of his jeans.

The feel of Party’s hands on his neck… his expression- an awful, horrified desperation that was almost too wild to even been anything human.

“Ghoul…” Party’s voice is hushed, almost like every word is sacred. “Ghoul… you weren’t waking up. I thought you were dead…”

He reaches out to Frank with a skeletal hand, just frail bones and trembling fingers, but Frank cowers- actually cowers- like a stray dog terrified of being hit.

“Get away from me!” Frank’s voice comes out as terrified to his own ears, but Party freezes anyway, expression indiscernible, hand suspended mid-air. “Just- don’t fucking touch me!”

He finally manages to stagger to his feet, desperately trying to cling to his balance. His throat burns- bruised and swollen, mottled black and blue, red and purple and green, and just pressing his fingers to it makes his knees buckle.

There’s still a pulse there, thrumming like a bird’s beneath his fingertips, and another wave of nausea sweeps over. 

“I nearly killed you.”

Party’s voice isn’t cold anymore, like Frank’s become used to. It’s something bordering on… maybe even sad, but that’s probably a push. But it’s a statement, almost regretful, and said quietly, like there’s other people out in the zones that could actually hear him.

Frank stares up at him for a long minute. Party crosses his arms, uncrosses them again, dragging his bottom lip between his teeth. His eyes are tired.

“Yeah. Yeah, you did.” Frank’s voice is hoarse and dry, like sandpaper. His heart’s still hammering in his chest, his muscles still tense, but Party doesn’t look like he’s about to attack him again. He doesn’t trust him though

Party frowns at him for a long moment, eyebrows furrowed, like Frank’s presented him a puzzle with the instructions in a completely foreign language, chewing on his lip. “I didn’t want to,” he says, and it takes a minute for Frank to actually comprehend what he’s said.

“Bullshit,” Frank spits, and the intensity of it sets off another bout of coughing. He doubles over, clutching at his throat and heaving. He can feel the bruising on his neck beneath his fingers, the scratched skin, and part of him wants to run from Party and never stop, whilst the other half wants to punch him in his confused, unfamiliar face.

When he can actually take another breath, he straightens. “Bullshit,” he snarls again.

Party kicks at the dirt, bunching his shoulders up around his ears, like he’s expecting Frank to try and hit him. But he also looks saner- more like the real Party- than he has for a long time. Almost like he actually cares.

That thought simultaneously makes Frank want to scoff and hope.

“I’m sorry,” Party says. “I think, like, I think I’m sorry. I wanted- I didn’t mean to hurt you. Everything just-“

Frank pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly as another wave of nausea sweeps over him, dragging him under and making him want to curl up and cry. “Fuck you,” he finally snarls, once he can open his eyes again. “Fuck. You. You don’t get to say that anymore. You don’t kill… you don’t get to say that. Fuck you.” He takes a wobbly step and pushes Party as hard as he can- which isn’t too hard, considering- but Party takes a step back anyway.

Every word burns, feels like sandpaper against Frank’s throat, but it almost seems like it hurts Party too. He flinches, shoulders pulled up, like he’s expected Frank to try and hit him. This only makes Frank feel angrier. He was the one who felt his best friend’s hands around his throat. He was the one who thought that was it: that he was going to die on the hood of the trans-am there and then, that Party’s eyes would be the last thing he’d see when Party was the one choking the life out of him.

He’d thought that was it. He’d thought he was going to die. He'd thought he could stop Party, or maybe he'd believed his own bravado, but he'd been wrong. He’d been so, so scared. He still is scared: his heart is thrumming, his legs and arms shaking, the world spinning around him like he’s strapped to a carousel going at full speed.

“You know what?” Frank snaps, even though he can’t manage to raise his voice above a croak, glaring at the person who used to be Party Poison. “You know, sometimes I wish they’d just killed you instead. You hear me? I wish they’d fucking killed you.” Frank clenches his fists, spits out the words through gritted teeth, and he realises that he wants his words to hurt. He wants Party to react, like he still cares. His blood’s humming.

It actually works. Party takes a step back, eyes flashing wide and horrified, and Frank regrets the words as soon as he says them. Party’s mouth hangs open, almost shocked, almost hurt, like he can’t believe that Frank’s actually said what he has. “Ghoul…” he tries, but he cuts himself off as soon as he begins.

Frank drags in a breath, the air raw and dry, tasting like sand. The mist is soft grey, quiet as a dream and cold as death, and tendrils collect between them, growing in waves, and it’s almost as Party’s disappearing with every passing second. “You were gonna kill me,” Frank finally says, his voice coming out as a wheeze. He doesn’t recognise it as his own voice. “You said you were gonna... you said…”

“I was trying to wake you up.” Party’s voice is low, desperate, a murmur of a cacophony, chaotic and cracked like ice in spring. He sounds like he’s on the brink of begging. He’s shaking his head furiously, black hair whipping around his face as he does so, his expression bordering on wild. “Please- Frank, you weren’t waking up for minutes and I thought you- I thought I’d killed you but I didn’t want to, Ghoul, you gotta-“

He’s reaching out again and Frank’s clumsily pushing him away on pure instinct; terror firing through neurons and sending fight-or-flight flashing up in neon lights within his brain. This time, though, there’s more force behind it, and Party really does lose his balance- he lands on the damp ground with a groan, bad arm giving way as he tries to catch himself.

“I don’t believe you,” Frank says. “I just- I give up. You hear me? I. Give. Up.”

Party’s looking up at him now, clambers slowly back to his feet as if he’s got the weight of the world pressing against his shoulders. His eyes are filled with glass- razor sharp fragments of colour dulled by the cold nothingness of the mist, sharp enough to cut, broken enough to shatter in on themselves. “Ghoul…” He trails off. “I need your help.”

Frank spits out a sound that’s too rough to be a laugh, too bitter and humourless to be anything of the sort. He wants to say ‘yes’. He wants to pull Party in and hug him and promise this damaged, murderous, vacillating version of his best friend that it’ll be okay. But he can’t- he’s still terrified, horrified, and it’s almost as if the anger’s taken control of his tongue. “I tried to fucking help and I ended up with you trying to kill me. You're back now? Bit too fucking late."

Party only seems to shrink into himself, like he’s a balloon at a kid’s party with the smallest tear, just enough for the air to leave him slowly, like dying breaths. He deflates, his entire frame halves in size in front of Frank’s eyes. He doesn’t look angry anymore- just tired, a little broken, beaten half to hell and dragged back to life afterwards.

The situation’s gone from burning- blazing with adrenaline and desperation- to the kind of desolate calm that descends after a natural disaster, when there’s nothing left to be said or done, nothing that can collect the broken pieces back together again. There’s nothing left for Frank to say, nothing to do to push away the damage already done. And before he can say anything else, Party’s stepping backwards, stepping away, fragile eyes containing nothing but dead wreckage.  Frank suddenly can’t make himself watch anymore: he stares at the spot Party had stood seconds ago as he moves away and out of sight.

Frank’s breath is still nothing more than a hoarse rasp, the sound clinging to the mist like it’s got claws, hanging heavy and filling his ears like smoke. His lungs burn, his thoughts dizzying, and he’s sure that he’ll fall the second he tries to take a step. He can’t make himself look up, not even once, not even when his sluggish thoughts acknowledge that the mist is fading, or that Kobra’s voice is growing louder, more frantic with every passing second. He can't even find it in himself to register that  Kobra's okay, alive. Can't find it in himself to be thankful.

He only looks up when Kobra finds him, maybe even hours later, and by that point he’s on his knees in the dirt, still staring blankly at the last place Party had been. He only looks up when the bruising is stark black and blue across his neck, stretching like a band.

Frank only looks up when Party’s long, long gone, and even Kobra seems to have given up all hope when he finally finds him. Frank looks up and wonders why Kobra isn’t crying, why he can only stare and blink and ask Frank what happened in a voice worn ragged from hours of calling out. Frank looks up and can’t manage to cry either, even though he wants to, but he lets Kobra help him to his feet before he passes out completely and looks out over the desert, at the tendrils of mist that haven’t yet retreated, and knows that this time, Party really is gone.

Chapter Text

Frank can’t feel his legs. He can’t even tell if he really is walking, or if Kobra’s hauling him back towards the shack, his feet dragging on the floor. He looks down and hey, he's walking after all: leaning drunkenly on Kobra’s shoulder, stumbling every other metre, but he's walking. It's the baby's first steps, everyone, go get a picture.

Kobra doesn’t ask him if he’s okay; they’re all too far gone, dragged too far through Hell and then back again, beaten and bloodied and bruised. He and Kobra have reached the point where they’re bleeding on the inside and out: they’re alive, though, and that’s really the best they could ever have asked for. The moment Frank’s dragged through the doorway, Kobra’s dropping him to the side and Frank barely manages to catch himself, slumping against the wall and sliding down to the floor. Kobra doesn’t pay him any attention; he rushes over to the other side of the room, where Jet is slumped over in the corner. He doesn’t move.

“Shit,” Kobra spits out, “shit, shit. Jet? Can you hear me?” He’s shaking Jet’s shoulders frantically, and Frank’s ready to muster the words to tell him that it’s hopeless when Jet coughs and lifts his head, one eye fluttering open.

“Oh thank god.” Kobra sits back on his heels, breathing out a sigh of relief, but Frank’s stomach churns when he sees Jet’s face.

His other eyelid is a torn, bloodied mess, unidentifiable as anything close to an eye anymore. The entire right side of his face has been reduced to ragged skin, bright red and inflamed, and swelling that makes his features near indiscernible. His hair’s plastered from his forehead, caked with dried blood that leaves it rigid, flat and tangled, when he looks dazedly up at Kobra. There’s streaks of blood, deep russet red, stretching down both sides of his face, down his neck and over his clothes,

“It’s stopped bleeding,” Kobra murmurs, leaning closer again and inspecting Jet’s face, not daring to touch. “I think you’ll live.”

Jet’s lost his sight. Frank can tell already from just one look; the clear gunk that dilutes the dried blood on his cheek isn’t something that Frank wants to dwell on, but he knows it’s from a wound that bordering on irreparable- and that’d be when it’s treated in a clear hospital ward, somewhere with disinfectant and reconstructive surgery, clean bandages and antibiotics. Out here, there’s only water from a canteen, poured tentatively over swollen skin, and torn-off pieces of t-shirt mopping away whatever clots of blood that come loose.

"Lucky me," Jet mumbles.

“Where’s D?” Frank tries to ask, his voice something broken and unrecognisable, like rocks thrown into the ocean, attrition grinding them down into something new. Kobra doesn’t look at him when he jerks his head in the direction of Dr Death-Defying’s studio. “What about Show Pony?” This time Kobra only replies with a shrug. It’s so subtle that Frank almost misses it.

He lets out a breath and pushes at the hair hanging in front of his face. He can still only see Kobra’s back, the stiff, impenetrable set of his shoulders. He can only watch him for so long, watching the lazy fingers of blood that wind down Kobra’s sleeve from a gash up on his bicep. Frank thinks, dully, that maybe Dr Death-Defying should keep his kitchenette a bit tidier from now on- it’d prevent a repeat of the same thing, at least. 

When Kobra stands up again, Jet's unconscious again, his face cleaned of the blood, his chest rising and falling shallowly. Kobra offers Frank the near-empty canteen of water wordlessly, eyes on the floor. He tries to drink, but swallowing sends pain shooting up into his skull, like his vertebrae are grinding together. Kobra takes it back, tucks it into his jacket pocket, stays looking at the floor. Blood winds lazily down his forearm. 

“Party’s gone,” he quietly, "isn't he?" Frank doesn't answer, and Kobra nods once, jerkily to himself, and retreats back to the other side of the room. 

Frank lets his head drop against the wall, and even that little movement makes his vision flash momentarily. Nausea sweeps through him, and he can't open his eyes again until he's sure that it's passed. "He tried to kill me.” His voice is a rattle. “He nearly did. I think I told him to go.” 

He’s not sure if he’s looking for a reaction, a fight or something to fight for. He doesn’t know if he wants Kobra to reply or to ignore him, to cry, or yell, or hit Frank until all of the guilt is gone. 

This is all his fault. Party being taken, Party being tortured, Party leaving again.

It doesn’t hurt, realising this; there’s just the heavy, numb acknowledgement of the fact, like he’s realised that the sky is blue or that BLI have complete control over every inch of Battery City. He ponders this for another minute and then finally reaches a half-decent decision, and, honestly, it’s really not reckless if he knows what he’s doing.

Kobra doesn’t look up when Frank stands up, leaning heavily on the doorframe for support. The nausea sweeps over him once more, but he forces it back down, clinging to the wood until it passes, his knuckles turning white.

He leaves, stumbling slowly outside on cramping, unsteady legs, and Kobra doesn’t say a thing. Frank’s not sure if he should be grateful- he’s never been one for goodbyes after all.

The trans-am hums, low and steady, a contented cat’s purr from the engine, and Frank drives on autopilot, shifting gears as the tires growl beneath him. The AV doesn’t work in the car so the windscreen’s fogging up, his breath leaving clouds of condensation clambering up the glass. Because of this, and his inability to actually try and wipe the condensation away, he’s driving half-blinded, but it doesn’t matter.

He knows where he’s going- he’s just got to keep driving until he finds what he’s after, and with the sunrise emblazoned across the sky behind him, all the fiery colours of a war cry,  he knows that he’s still heading steadily west. Still in the right direction then.

He’s been driving for over a day. Left yesterday- either late night or early morning, doesn’t matter either way- and hasn’t stopped for longer than an hour at a time. Even then, it’s just to top up the fuel with the can that’s kept in the trunk. He vaguely remembers something about storing petroleum securely, in cold containers, because it can become volatile otherwise, but he doesn’t know whether that’s true. It hasn’t exploded yet, at any case, so he figures he can keep taking the risk. Nothing much to lose anyhow.

The sun continues to rise, the heat growing and thrumming against the back of his neck like it’s desperate for his attention. The air’s stale, like old water, pressing at him from all sides, and he gets irritated enough at it to fish out his bandana from the mess in the backseat, tying it around his mouth and nose. It helps his throat at least- keeps him from inhaling some of the air-born dust and making it easy enough to breathe somewhat comfortably.

The material covers the massive bruising on his neck, as well as the scar on his cheek, and when he catches sight of himself in the car’s wing-mirror, he could almost trick himself into believing that the Killjoys are still together, that everything was just a nightmare. Party’s riding shotgun, folded up in his seat and sketching with a scrap of paper resting on his knee. The others are in the back and the kid’s laughing at Jet’s joke while Kobra only rolls his eyes.

But nah, he’s not that lucky, and the dark red of his iris confirms it.

He’s burst a blood vessel in his eye before- it’s pretty easy to do, and it doesn’t hurt, but it’s still startling to catch sight of your reflection with an eye filled with blood.

But whatever. It’ll be healed in a week, provided he’s alive for that long.

He manages to drive for a while longer- maybe another ten hours or so, to the point that night’s crawled in over the horizon, dragged itself through the sky on black leather wings- when there’s a clatter from the engine, a stubborn hiss of protest as the trans-am stumbles to a stop. Frank counts to sixty before twisting the key in the ignition, and the exhaust hacks out a cough but nothing happens.

Frank blinks at smoke whispering out of the hood before looking down at his hands on the wheel. “Really? You’re quitting now?”

The car doesn’t respond. Obviously. He tries the ignition one more time, hopelessness scratching at his chest, but there’s nothing.

“Just so you know,” he says to the car. “This really isn’t appreciated.” The trans-am doesn’t reply, or restart, so he sighs and clambers out of the driver’s seat and drags himself over to the hood. When he finally manages to lift it, a cloud of bitter-smelling smoke hits him smack in the face. It triggers another coughing fit, his throat burning, and he has to pull the bandana off as he does. His head’s spinning, lungs feeling like they’re filling with blood, but he manages to calm himself down after a while, rubbing his streaming eyes and wafting the plumes of grey smoke away as best as he can with the bandana. When he re-ties it, the smell of chemicals hasn't left.

God, he wishes he’d paid attention when the trans-am had broken down before. Kobra had always been good at fixing it. Frank, not so much. In fact he has absolutely no idea where to even start.

He can only hope that BLI don’t decide to check through Zone 4 at whatever time it is at night, but at this point he doesn’t really trust his luck.

The trunk’s got nothing of use inside- there’s the gas, but he’s already checked the meter and there’s still a half tank of fuel left as it is. He’s fumbling through the trunk despairingly (because come on, why is there practically everything under the sun packed into the damn trunk except a car manual?) when he finds Party’s jacket again.

It’s packed into the back corner, rolled up tight, bloodstains still lingering one the sleeve. He remembers running from Korse, his face on fire, his mouth filled with blood. He’d been carrying the jacket back then- he and Jet had planned to burn it, but he hadn’t.

Another time, he might be nostalgic. Tonight, though, he only pulls the jacket over his own, only because the temperature drops at night and he hates being cold.

The jacket still smells like Party. Frank forces himself to ignore that. 

He’s about to give up, maybe camp out in the backseat for a couple of hours, when he notices a light approaching him, the stutter of an engine peeling away the dark and silence like old paint. Too loud to be a BLI  bike. Frank leans against the passenger door with his arms folded and waits to see if it’ll stop for him.

“You alright, bro?”

The guy riding the bike has sandy hair and a jawline even sharper than Kobra Kid’s. There’s shadows streaking down his neck and ducking beneath his collar like they’re trying to reach his heart. He’s got a green jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a long scratch running down the side of his face, maybe a couple of days’ old. He doesn’t seem like a serial killer, so Frank figures why not. It’s not like he’s got much to lose by this point.

"You any good with cars?”

His voice is muffled by the bandana and smothered by the grumble of the bike’s engine, but he can still hear how hoarse he sounds, like he’s been gargling on sand for hours on end. Breathing and talking isn’t as painful as it had been initially- at first, it’d felt like the flesh was being torn away with every inhale, but it’s faded to a dull burn, something he can ignore.

These days, he’s got pretty good at ignoring pain.

The guy runs a hand through his hair and slides off his bike, leaving the engine running and the headlights illuminating Frank and the trans-am in the narrow beam. “I’m used to my bike, but I got some tools I could use to check it.”

Frank gives a shrug. “Knock yourself out, man.”

The guy lifts up the bike’s seat and reaches underneath, into a small storage space Frank hadn’t noticed. The bike’s a sleek thing- grubby planes of aluminium- or is it steel?- flowing into itself, all smooth lines and waves. It’s not one of the BLI bikes- it’s smoother, an older model, and there’s smears of mud streaking up the body. In the wan gleam of the headlights, the dirt looks a lot like blood.

“Right.” The guy fishes through the box before stepping over to the trans-am’s raised hood. He’s a lot like his bike, in a way: he moves in the same way that water does, taking steps like he’s dancing, or maybe it’s floating, and Frank’s tempted to double-check that his feet are actually touching the ground. He walks like a cat- balanced, self-assured, graceful- with collected energy running through his limbs, controlled and deliberate.

Frank realises he’s staring, so he turns back to the floor.

“Your high tension leads are out. Or at least one of them. ‘s your lucky day though, ‘cos I’m pretty sure I can sort this. Dr D let me pinch a screwdriver, last time I hopped round, thankfully.”

“You know D?”

Dr Death-Defying keeps to himself. It took Frank’s weeks to even pick up the slightest rumour about where the guy was when he first escaped Battery City. The guy lifts his head to look around the hood at him, and quirks an eyebrow. “’Course I do. We’re good buds. Me an’ his friend have a running checkers match that’s gone on for about half a year so far. You know him?”

Frank nods stiffly. “Yeah. My friends are back at his.”

“Fairs. Although you’re goin’ in the wrong direction if you’re gonna meet them. You’re headed towards Bat City.”

“Yeah, I know.”

There’s just a nod, like Frank’s answer makes complete sense. “Sure thing. The name’s Cherri Cola, by the way. If I see your friends, I’ll say I saw you out here.”

“I’m Fun Ghoul,” Frank says, and then after a moment: “but don’t tell them that. It’d be better if you don’t mention me.”

He shivers and pulls Party’s jacket tighter. It’s still too big for him and the sleeves are hanging over his hands. Cherri Cola blinks at him for a second before nodding and turning back to the trans-am’s engine. He fiddles with it for another minute. “Huh, that’s weird.” He beckons Frank over with a flick of his wrist. “Heard you were dead 'bout half an hour ago. Wanna gimme a hand with this?”

Chapter Text

“Right, try it now.” Cherri Cola slams the trans-am’s hood down with a crash that makes Frank wince and looks over to him with raised eyes, the dry light from his bike’s headlights sending the shadows reeling away like they’ve been hit.

Frank peers at him through the windscreen before giving him a thumbs up and returns his restless hands to the steering wheel. At a twist of the ignition, there’s a rattle and a cough, and then the car chokes back to life, the headlights flickering back on and the engine humming. He pats the dashboard gratefully before switching it off. “Glad you’re back in the game,” he says to the trans-am before looking back at Cherri, who slides into the passenger seat. He ignores the flash of wariness at that, reminding himself that it’s nothing.

Damn nerves. He’s been tripping between apathy and unease since he left D’s place.

“Thanks man.” Frank pats down his pockets for his packet of smokes, lighting one and then offering the packet to Cherri. “Seriously, you’ve saved my ass.”

“’s no biggie. Just make sure you get another HT lead in the next few days. That one isn’t a great fit, so it’ll really just getcha where you wanna go.” Cherri declines the smoke with a shake of his head, pulling out a flask from his pocket- dented and scratched from wear and age- and takes a mouthful. “You want any?”

“Nah, man, I’m good. I gotta drive.”

Cherri just shrugs and swigs from it another time before packing it away again. “Tell me why you’ve left your friends,” he says after another minute, when the only sound is the susurrate of the wind over the sand, the scrape of gravel through dry grass, something surreptitious, like a secret tossed out into an abandoned desolation.

Frank grimaces. “I never said I’ve done that.” He twists around to face him, but Cherri isn’t looking at him; he’s looking out over the empty desert through the windscreen, the handful of metres that are visible with the headlights turned off. It’s only now that Frank makes out the long scar stretching from the hinge of his jaw to his chin, narrow almost dainty, like something inflicted with a scalpel. It’s old too, faded to an ice-white whisper of a wound.

Frank figures that’s what Party’s scars will look like, after a year or so: the ugly wounds from countless hours of torture that Frank doesn’t want to imagine (but he does when he’s sleeping, and Party’s screams fill his dreams until he’s ripping himself awake) reduced to scars that cover his chest and back like spider-webs over window panes.

That’d be if he ever saw Party again, of course, and Frank doubts that will happen. Especially if everything tomorrow goes as he expects it to.

“I guess you’re right.” Cherri raises an eyebrow and gives a smirk, all knowing and self-assured, and Frank clenches his fists. “I mean, the news all ‘round was that you got ghosted, but I guess that Kobra Kid and Jet Star really did get shot up by Poison like BLI’re reporting anyway. Although I figure you’d be in a bit more of a rush to wreak havoc if that was the case, yeah?”

“Wait.” Frank uncurls his fists from his pant legs. He didn’t realise he’d had them clenched in the first place, fingers twisting the material. “Jet and Kobra got ghosted? Why would BLI even say that?”

There’s a shrug. “You all got ghosted. Poison came back an’ got you all, apparently. There was a big ol’ fuss down at the east side of Bat City earlier- Korse an’ a load of bustle got thrown up. It got announced a few hours later. But you seem kinda alive if you ask me. Sucks that your ol' pal did that, but I'll make sure I don't piss him off.”

Frank drags in a shaking breath. He doesn’t... it doesn’t make any sense. “Listen,” he says slowly, and he doesn’t like how fragile his voice sounds all of a sudden. “It ain’t true. They’re fine. They’re fine.”

Cherri looks at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Figured. Are you?”

"Whaddya mean by that?" Frank laughs shakily, tugging at his bandana. The laugh is nervous, but bordering on angry at the same time. This isn't Cherri's business.

"Listen, I've been listenin' to D's broadcasts an' other people's whispers, an' I know that the whole thing with Party Poison being a BLI traitor must suck. Whatever happened with your friends must suck too. You don't gotta run off an-" 

“Get out of my car.” Frank doesn’t expect his voice to come out as sharply as it does- it’s a mess of knife blades and glass shards, barbed wire and bomb shrapnel. Cherri flinches, but after a moment, he does as he’s told, standing in the open doorway.

“I’m not gonna ask what happened to your neck,” he says finally, and Frank reflexively adjusts the bandana around his mouth. “But if it’s led to anything relatin' to what you're doin' now, then I’m hopin’ you turn back before it’s too late. Your friends wouldn’t want you do anything stupid.”

Frank grinds his teeth, the comfortable silence shattering within a minute, growing thorns and spitting venom. It’s like a dog that’s suddenly gone feral. “You don’t know anything about any of my friends,” he growls. “And it’s not of your damn business anyway.”

Cherri Cola heaves a sigh and steps back, and Frank takes it as his chance to lean over and grab the handle of the passenger side door, swinging it shut. When he restarts the trans-am, it does so first time.

“Ghoul-“ Cherri leans through the open window, and he doesn’t realise how lucky he is that Frank doesn’t pull off right now, with him half-in and half-out of the car. “Listen, buddy.” He gives another sigh, but this time he just seems exhausted, like the sheer weight of the world on his shoulders is forcing the air out of his lungs. “I’ve seen my fair share of death around this place an’ I’m guessing you have as well. But you’ve got the saddest eyes out of anyone I’ve ever seen, an’ I don’t want to have to see your friends at Dr D’s place knowin’ that I didn’t try an’ tell you to turn back.”

Frank laughs. Bitterly. Looking down, he can only make out the dark tattoos crawling over his knuckles clearly. “You don't even know what I'm doing.”

“You’re self-destructive like it’s something to be proud of, Ghoulie,” Cherri Cola says, and in the low light, his expression is almost… pitying. It makes Frank’s throat clench. “I’ve got a damn good idea.”

“Don’t fucking call me ‘Ghoulie’,’” Frank snarls. “Thanks for fixing my fucking car.”

He’s flooring the accelerator and shooting off before he’s even had chance to switch on the headlights, let alone realise what he’s doing, and within seconds, Cherri Cola, along with his bike, have resubmerged into the darkness behind him.

Frank drives and drives and doesn’t look back. 

Once dawn bursts onto the scene, Frank lifts his foot off the accelerator and cools the speed down to something that almost resembles controlled, the desert flashing by like it’s fixed to a moving panorama and he’s an actor nailed to a stage.

The trans-am runs better than it has for months, but Frank doesn’t bother feeling guilty for leaving Cherri Cola in the way that he did. The guy was a stranger that he’ll never see again; he can only hope that if Cherri makes it to Dr Death-Defying’s place, then he’ll keep Jet and Kobra safe until they’re back on their feet. He seems like the kind of decent human who’d do that sort of thing, the asshole.

He streaks through Zone 2 with the stereo turned off, the tires eating up kilometres and kilometres of dry ground and the engine growling like it’s hungry for more. He feels calmer than he has in months- the anger fizzling out of his veins with every passing minute like a dying flare, and sangfroid taking its place, like cool water is replacing the boiling blood in his veins. There’s a rope tied around his heart, getting tighter and tighter with every hour he travels, the other end fastened to the centre of the BLI compound, leading him straight and steady.

It’s as if being out in the zones, struggling with Party and throwing himself headfirst into every skirmish he could find had only been distractions, things that pulled him further away from the real fight. Having a plan was almost a release, a weight lifted from his chest that he hadn’t even realised had been there.

The boundary between Zone 2 and Zone 1 is the only one with an actual boundary: the others, from Zone 3 and out, are separated by rickety, abandoned checkpoints with faded BLI-issue print thrown up on the walls, paint peeling like dead skin and barriers reduced to splinters and rotting planks from the Great Fires.

Zone 2 and 1, however, have barbed wire running through trenches, then two metre high fences running above that, with checkpoints still dotted around, sparsely, like BLI had no clue where they had needed to allocate them so threw them down onto the zone floor like dice.

Frank gets close enough to the border to make out the husk of Battery City squatting on the skyline, past Zone 1, before slowing down and turning until he’d driving alongside the fence instead. It’s only another hour until he finds a checkpoint, only manned by one ‘crow, and he’s ghosted it before he’s got close enough for it to identify him.

He stops for a moment, pulls up on the other side of the checkpoint to steal a map and the ‘crow’s batteries for his blaster. He gives the map a quick check- he hasn’t been this close to Battery City in over a year, but the layout seems the same as it had been when he’d left. There’s still the main tunnel at the north of the zone that heads straight into the centre of the city, but he doesn’t like his chances of getting through that one. Not by himself.

That would leave the other, smaller tunnel on the east, and he starts off towards that one, scrabbling around the glovebox as he drives, pulling out his aviator glasses and sliding them on. The dark lenses are smeared with dirt, a crack slipping across the left one, but he doesn’t care. He pulls Party Poison’s jacket off as he drives, one arm and then the other, throwing it over his shoulder into the backseat without a look.

The wall surrounding Battery City is infinite- an immovable, titanic slab propped up in the middle of the desert with buildings barely reaching above it. Blindingly white, pristine even weighed down by years of dust and fires, the concrete slabs reaching up for the sparse clouds like it’s trying to rip them from the sky. He’s so caught up that he almost misses the tunnel entrance completely- you wouldn’t see it if you weren’t looking for it, with an archway gouged out of the smooth concrete wall, the BLI symbol emblazoned above it.

The same grinning face with over-large eyes. Frank remembers how black it’d been on Party’s wrist and he grits his teeth and accelerates. He’s left the car windows open and the air claws at his eyes, even behind his glasses, and he feels dry tears sting his eyes. He manages to keep straight, steering straight for the archway walled off with plywood, a door-sized rectangle cut out at the bottom. This one’s for foot-traffic, mainly, although as far as Frank knows, it’s rarely used anymore except for shift changes at the checkpoints. And no one else should ever want to enter Battery City, nor leave.

The trans-am crashes straight through the plywood like it’s nothing but paper, material exploding outwards in a cacophony of splinters and shrapnel that pummels the roof of the car like hail. Frank drives the accelerator down as far as it can go, the trans-am lurching forward with a sound that’s almost a snarl, racing fresh daylight down a tunnel that’s been years without.

For a split second, he feels something close to unstoppable. In that split second, he realises that he’s terrified.

Chapter Text

He flies down the two-kilometre stretch, tires screaming, the ceiling lights flashing like warning signs. He’s going so fast that he can’t even make out the speed restrictions on the signposts, wind ripping a yell from his throat and his hair into an inky black halo around his head. He keeps his eyes on the road ahead of him- the white spot of sunlight that marks the exit of the tunnel and the entrance of Battery City- as he fumbles for the open glovebox and retrieves what he was looking for.

The exit grows with every second and Frank finds his breath coming in a rush: harsh gasps that scrape and rattle, his heartbeat rising with every breath he takes. He forces himself not to think. He’s come this far. No turning back now.

No turning back. No turning back. He can do this.

He looks down at the grenade in his hand and then back up to the entrance. He can almost make out the buildings through the blinding white light in the entrance- or maybe that’s just his imagination?

He drops the grenade onto the passenger seat and puts both hands onto the wheel. The moment he’s into Battery City, there’ll be alarms, there’ll be guards, there’ll be Korse, hopefully, rushing out to meet him.

He’s maybe two-hundred, two-hundred and fifty metres away when he realises he can’t breathe anymore.

No turning back. No turning back. He’s going to do this. He can end this.

Another hundred metres, and his heart’s hammering, the sound filling his ears and making his head swim.

He’s got to do this. He’s going to end this, once and for all. For Kobra and for Jet, for Party and every other godforsaken fuckup that BLI has thrown apart and tossed away.

Seventy-five metres until the entrance, and he’s slamming on the breaks, almost smacking his head into the steering wheel, the seatbelt hauling him backwards and throwing him back into his seat.

Fucking shit, he can’t do it.

The smell of burning rubber is filling his nose like smoke, burning his eyes and making his head spin- the smell raw, acrid, furious grey rising from the tires and momentarily swallowing the entire car. Frank’s retching, half from the smell and half from the way that his lungs are shuddering from the impact of the seatbelt.

Frank doesn’t even register that the car has stopped at first; he’s hacking and wheezing, his swollen throat feeling like it’s on fire. He rips the bandana and sunglasses off and throws them aside, not caring where they land, before returning his hands to the steering wheel and choking down a trembling breath.

The car’s still turned on- the engine humming, his foot still forcing down the brake pedal. His knuckles look spectacularly white, clenching the steering wheel so tightly that he’s half-certain that he’ll leave indents in the leather. One hand at a time, he forces himself to let go, then to lift his foot- slowly, so slowly- off of the brake. There. He’s okay. He’s okay.

Numb fingers scrabble for the seatbelt buckle, releasing the belt, and he heaves in another breath. He heaves himself out of the car, staggers heavily over to the side of the tunnel’s road and slumps against it, marvelling the way that his hands shake, fingers quivering- scars, tattoos, bitten nails and all. He sinks slowly to the floor. Takes a breath.

He’s okay.

Inside, he’s spinning. His thoughts are spiralling: a tornado, a hurricane, wind roaring through his ears, throwing his thoughts into disarray.

Frank takes another breath. He’s okay. He’s okay.

Fifty metres away is the entrance, still piercingly bright, like sunlight focused into one spot through a magnifying glass. He can’t believe he came all this way. He can’t believe he was going to…

Frank realises, in this moment, that this really wasn’t the right idea.

Yeah, he’s good for hating himself. That’s what he does. That’s how he’s always been and he just- well, ‘accept’ is probably the wrong word- bears with it, because he’s not sure what else he can really do about it. But suicide missions, willing going to get hurt, killed… that’s not right. That’s not what he’s about.

Kobra and Jet would be so pissed off at him right now. Kobra would stare at him a whole lot, not saying a lot or taking his eyes off of him for a single second, and Jet would go all mother-bird on him, wouldn’t stop asking him if he was okay for days on end.

Party would probably become so protective that he wouldn’t leave Frank’s side for a week.

He’s not sure how long he just… sits there… the cool concrete leeching through his jacket and seeping like ice water into his skin, trickling down his spine, waiting for his heartbeat to calm down from a frantic tattoo, for his breath to even out into something resembling controlled. He’s not sure how long it is until the alarms begin to ring- the strip lights above his head suddenly switching from fluorescent blue to red, an intermittent flashing that makes his eyes burn.

Shit, maybe BLI knew he was here after all. It wouldn’t be surprising if the tunnel was littered with cameras- actually, Frank would be more confused if there wasn’t- and even though he’d entered Bat City without a thought for them, now he realises that he really might be in trouble.

He should actually get out of here. Fast.

He’s just fumbling to his feet when something catches his eye. A black dot of a shape at the end of the tunnel, silhouetted by the white daylight streaming in. He can barely make it out, but after a moment, he realises that’s it’s coming closer, the sound of another engine pervading the trans-am’s, and Frank feels his heart lurch as the shape grows in size, grows nearer, and he realise-, with a sudden horror that makes his heart stop and then restart at double its speed- that it’s a motorbike. A draculoid motorbike.

And then he sees more specks at the tunnel entrance, more motorbikes, and shit, they’re coming for him.

Frank’s half expecting himself to feel angry, maybe panicked, maybe desperate, but he doesn’t. He’s expecting to throw his hands up in exasperation- like c’mon, he just decided that he doesn’t want to die today, for god’s sake, this is just ironic.

But instead, there’s only a quiet acceptance, like: ‘oh, okay, you got me, fair play.’ He’s not sure where it’s come from, because giving in has never been something he does, but this is it. For a moment, he almost considers the grenade- blow himself and the dracs up in one final burst of glory, a defiant ‘fuck you!’ to BLI- but he can’t bring himself to deliberate it for more than a second. This time, he’s not going to fulfil BLI’s expectations.

Frank doesn’t bother trying to move. He’s tired, arms and legs leaden, and he aches all over. He watches the draculoids approach- maybe five, six of them- until they’ve grown from small specks to distinctive shapes, white spiders scuttling towards him with a vengeance, motorbikes growling.

Well. All except the lead rider.

The leader is all in black: black jacket and tight, tight black pants, black boots, black helmets. There’s a sinking feeling that swells like a tumour, pervades every semblance of thought, and the answer’s on the tip of his tongue, but he’s not sure if he wants to ask the question.  

The lights continue to flash above him: bright red, then nothing but black. Red, then complete darkness. Red then black then red. In the brief instants that there’s light, the tunnel seems distorted, as if the walls are shuddering before his eyes. The alarm is nothing more than a shrill scream- raw and piercing, the arch of the tunnel only magnifying the sound. He watches the rider approach, flashing a glance over his shoulder, as if attempting to gauge the distance between themselves and those behind them. They’re a hundred metres away, approaching rapidly, the black helmet reducing him almost to a shadow- hurtling towards Frank in a snarl of fuel and bloody lighting,

Seventy five metres away. Frank has his fists clenched, white-knuckled, watching them draw closer.

Fifty. He remembers Party’s eyes lighting up every time they found new scraps of clean paper, the skritch-scratch of charcoal stubs as he emptied the contents of his head over old newspaper articles like spilt ink over music sheets. Sketches thrown over more sketches until they’re indiscernible.

Twenty five. He remembers Party’s mouth quirking up in the corner whenever he said Frank’s name, the flash of small teeth every time he smiled.

Ten metres. Five. The motorbike hurtles past without slowing, so close that Frank can smell the oil, the air brushing his face like a hand against his cheek. He’s just twisting around to see where Party is going- did he even see Frank? Why isn’t he stopping- when there’s a burst of noise, the sound of a lightning strike muted down to a bang and a crackle, ripping through the air like it’s old paper, and Frank flinches.

The dracs swerve to a halt metres from the front of the trans-am, but Frank barely notices. He only sees the blast from the lead draculoid’s ray streak through the, past the trans-am, and hit the rear wheel of the lead rider’s motorbike. It veers, skidding and slipping before careering over, tossing its rider off and clattering to a stop.

Frank finally manages to bring himself to stagger to his feet. The prone figure is only metres away, lying on their front with their arms tucked beneath his chest. Frank throws a cautious glance towards the draculoids, who almost seem frozen- stood like reapers on the other side of the trans-am, like it’s a barrier, like they’re waiting for something- anything- to happen.

Frank dares himself to take a step forward when there’s suddenly a burst of movement, the figure hurling themselves upright with a blaster in one hand and ripping off their helmet with the other and tossing it aside.

Their hair is brighter than blood and the colour of a war cry, louder than the shot ringing from their blaster as they take two draculoids down before Frank has chance to blink. Their face is pale and drawn, but also more alive than Frank ever remembers them being, their eyes sparking with exhilaration, so bright that they could contest the stars.

“Ghoul!” Party hollers, his voice hoarse and cracking, but so unmistakably his. “You shouldn’t be here!” He fires off another quick shot and the draculoids finally seem to remember that they want him dead. They lurch forward as they draw their own ray guns, just as Frank finds himself running.

He’s running over the last few metres between himself and Party and practically hurling himself at him, wrapping his arms around Party’s shoulders and just knowing that it really is him- that it’s really Party. It’s Party with his hair re-dyed bright red, with black clothes but the colour back in his eyes, and it’s him.

Frank practically rugby tackles him- a draculoid’s shot flying harmlessly through the air, just where Party’s head had been half a second before- and sends both of them to the ground. Frank’s still wrapped around him, and fuck it if he’s letting go any minute soon. Screw the dracs. He’s not letting go; he’s not looking away for a single second, just in case he turns back to realise that Party’s dissolved into smoke.

Party lets out a grunt when he hits the ground and there’s a crunch like autumn leaves underfoot, then he throws out a wheeze when Frank crashes on top of him- but then it’s choked beneath a laugh- a proper one, the ones that Frank’s been missing for so, so long, and his eyes are sparkling when he stares back up at Frank and god, it really is him.

It’s all Frank can do to not kiss him, goddam it.

“Ghoul,” he chokes out, and he’s smiling- actually smiling, small teeth flashing and his eyes warm, like honey and summer evenings and all of Frank’s favourite things- his heartbeat palpable beneath Frank’s hands on his chest. Racing. Thundering. Making his chest jump.

“Yeah?” Frank finds himself whispering. It’s almost as if he’s caught in a cliché romance novel; the entire world fades around him, the scream of the alarm dissolving, the dracs disappearing, the flashing red lights only serving to illuminate the light in Party’s eyes, the curve of his mouth as he smiles, the way that he looks up at Frank like he’s the only thing left to look at.

Party’s eyelashes flutter. “There’s dracs, Ghoul, there’s still dracs.” His voice is something soft and fast, there and then gone, and Frank almost misses it when Party pushes him aside, bringing up his blaster and firing, a draculoid crumpling like paper only a few feet away. Frank chokes down a hard breath as Party throws him another smile. This is all so sudden, something that he’d refused to think about, given up on. Party’s back… Party’s in Battery City… Party’s not trying to kill him… Party’s fighting BLI rather than fighting with them… Frank doesn’t know where to start.

This time Party’s smile far more cautious, bordering on worried, apprehensive, and one hand goes to his chest, like he wants to check that his heart’s still beating. After a moment, Frank finds himself smiling back. It feels unfamiliar.

“Ghoul… I can- I’ll explain after, but right now…“ He trails off, glancing back at the remaining draculoids helplessly. Frank nods, clambering back to his feet.

“The trans-am’s running,” Frank says, and it’s almost like the last months haven’t happened at all, because he understands Frank’s message immediately- ‘we’re good to go, deal with these and we’ll get the fuck outta dodge’- and that’s all it takes for him to turn away, firing back towards the pack of remaining draculoids. There’s only three- no, four- of them, and they scatter as if on instinct, separating into smaller, individual targets.

His blaster’s a cold reassurance in the holster against his thigh as the nearest draculoid leers at him and goes to fire, the red mouth leering in a grin, like blood masquerading as monstrous makeup. Frank skips out of the way, backing up until he’s got breathing room before drawing his own ray gun. The electricity snaps out like a whip and the drac is thrown backwards from the impact, the scent of burning fabric staining the air.

It’s only then that Frank realises that the other draculoids have all but ignored him; sure, there weren’t an unmanageable amount, but he would have expected more than one to try and get him.

But instead, they close after Party. Like hunting dogs baying for blood, they force him backwards, until he’s almost pressed up against the tunnel wall and fumbling for a battery pack. There’s a flicker of panic on Party’s face.

Frank lifts his blaster again, knocking down two dracs with his first two shots, steam rising from the eyeholes in their masks as they fall, electricity crackling. But the next is turning towards him, raising its ray gun, and Frank makes out Party’s yell before the blast hits him square in the chest. His vision flashes pure white, red-hot agony shooting through his veins like fire. His eyes are closing before he registers himself falling-

And his eyes are snapping open again before he actually hits the ground. The impact knocks the breath out of him and he splutters, flailing and clawing at empty air. It takes a moment for him to register the faint hiss, like radio static, hanging heavy in the air like an unspoken apparency, like a cloud of smoke without a bonfire. It takes him another moment to register the presence of the figure next to him, floating a foot above the ground, and looking down at him with empty eyes.

“Fun Ghoul,” the Phoenix Witch says, the claws on the tips of her gnarled hands glinting dully in the low red light.  “It appears you've been killed.”

Chapter Text

If the Phoenix Witch stood up straight, she’d be far taller than Frank, but instead she’s furled, like the final cluster dead leaves clinging to the branches of trees, gnarled and dried out. Like she’s been left out too long in the desert sun. Her arms and legs are swathed in old bandages, yellowed and frayed from age, but the rest of her body is feathered: inky black, so dark that they almost absorb the sunlight rather than reflecting it.

The world is exactly the same as it was seconds before; he’s in the same stretch of tunnel, leading to the entrance of Battery City- which is still faintly marked by the thin stream of sunlight- with the trans-am where he’d left it.

Wait.

He’s on his feet in an instant, whirling around frantically. Shit- no. Not again.

“Where’s Party Poison?” He turns to the Phoenix Witch, but she meets his eyes just as he reaches for her. A sudden feeling washes over him like a wave, ripping the breath from his lungs and dousing him in ice water. The feeling is gone as suddenly as it arrived, but he gets the message loud and clear- DO. NOT. TOUCH.

The Phoenix Witch, for her part, is still silently watching him, her mask rendering her expressionless, but Frank catches something that’s close the bemusement in her voice when she speaks:

“He is alive, so not here, obviously.” Her voice is a mismatched jumble of harsh grit and melting sunsets, a dissonance that fits her appearance and her reputation; Frank’s heard a lot about the Phoenix Witch, knows that Jet Star’s at least cautious around the rumours of the humanoid creature that leads the dead to the afterlife. That, or the Phoenix Witch is Death. It all depends on who you ask. 

Frank heaves a breath. His fingers are burning, pins and needles pressing through his skin. He wrings his hands- which are suddenly, disconcertingly transparent. “I can’t be dead, okay? I need to get to Party. I gotta help him.”

There’s no sound: the alarm’s been cut, the trans-am silent. He’s surrounded by a silence that presses down on him like lead, like he’s on a seabed with fathoms of water above him, the pressure crushing. It’s like he’s suspended in a moment, or maybe trapped in one, soundwaves shuddering to a halt and waiting impatiently for time to throw itself back into movement again.

 The Phoenix Witch peers at him through the empty eyeholes of her mask as she cocks her head. “You’d find that ’dead’ is a particularly relative term, but in this case, not one that is applicable to you.”

Frank pauses. “But you said the drac killed me.”

“Oh yes.” The Witch unfolds slowly, feathers rustling- a thousand separate whispers conspiring mayhem and murder- and drifts slowly in the direction of the tunnel entrance. “But you’re not dead just yet. There’s far too much devastation left for you whilst alive.”

“That’s reassuring,” Frank mutters, but he sets after her, around the trans-am and towards the thin beam of light dragging itself over the tarmac.

It’s only when he gets nearer than he realises that it’s not so much blinding daylight making it impossible to see the world outside, but a wall of static just before the exit- impenetrable and hissing like hell. It’s like he’s been transported back years- back when he was living in Battery City and working for Battery City, taking the medications BLI prescribed him without a second thought. Uppers, downers, serotonin boosters and norepinephrine regulators, suppressors and enhancers. He doesn’t remember much about that time; there’d been a box TV in his apartment- he’d watched the news until the static had devoured it, and then continued to stare until the news returned.

He’s half-expecting to wake up when he touches the static- or be hurled back to life, if he’s understood the Witch correctly- but there’s a scream of white light, blinding and sudden, and then he’s standing within the BLI headquarters. Korse is only metres away.

Frank’s scrabbling for his blaster before he realises that the Phoenix Witch is still right next to him, motionless, and none of the scarecrows within the room- it’s the main entrance to Better Living Industries, he realises, and boy are there a lot of ‘crows- have even glanced at him.

They’re fixed on the van slowly pulling into the courtyard outside, the smiling face embellished on both sides, windows tinted black. Frank looks to Korse, to the narrow shape of the Director standing behind him, and then back to the van, his heart dropping down into his stomach.

“Don’t make me see this.” The Phoenix Witch stares at him impassively and doesn’t respond. “Listen, I don’t know what you want but just don’t-“

The van pulls up in front of the glass doors. Frank’s words die in his throat.

“Finally,” the Director purrs, her voice scalpel-sharp, dark hair swept around her throat like a knife.

The van doors swing open and Frank hears the screaming before he sees the girl. She’s writhing, shrieking wildly, wrestling the two scarecrows’ grips on her arms as they carrying her out of the van. Her hair’s a mess, thrown up in every direction imaginable, as her bomber jacket torn and slipping down one thin shoulder. Frank’s throat clenches. He’d been the one to find her that jacket. 

The scarecrows struggle up the stairs and finally make it into building. The girl’s kicking has subsided but she’s glowering up at the Director with a face like a thundercloud, frail chest heaving. “My friends are gonna getcha,” she growls fiercely. “My friends are stronger than your people and they’re gonna come in here and prove it.”

‘Oh, kiddo,’ Frank wants to tell her, ‘we tried to do that, we really did.’

The Director looks down at the girl for a long moment. There’s something inherently off about her eyes: they’re not cold, like Korse’s, more empty, as if all hint of emotion had been drained from them long ago. She leans down until she and the girl are eyelevel. “I sincerely doubt that,” she finally says, her voice soft and as sharp as a razor blade. She straightens, turning to Korse. “I want to see the Killjoy.”

“No.” He spins around. “Please don’t show this. Just stop it. Just bring me back to life or send me to the afterlife- I don’t care, just don’t- why are you even showing me this?”

The Witch stares down at him, the dark lines on her mask stretching and slipping like shadows, like dead souls trying to haul themselves from Hell. “Why are you watching?”

Frank turns back just as Party is dragged from the back of the van, his hair thrown in front of his face, handcuffed, wrestling against the draculoids holding onto him. Party’s hair is lurid red- faint streaks of hair dye staining his chin and neck, looking like old blood- and the draculoids’ fingers dig into the blue biker jacket, clenched around his biceps and forcing him forward.

The Director’s smile is like ice as she turns back to the girl, sharp enough to draw blood. “Your friends are weak. Your friends are nothing.” Party’s hauled into the building and thrown to the floor, landing on his side with a groan. Frank catches sight of a thin line of dried blood stretching from his hairline to his temple.

Unlike the girl, Party doesn’t stop fighting the dracs. He kicks at them when they try to pull him back to his feet, but they only bat his feet out of the way and drag him back up, concrete hands pressed on his shoulders.  

Party tosses his hair from his face and glares. His eyes are narrow- Frank recognises the look from the hours Party spent drawing, planning, staring at the skies like they’re refusing to answer his questions. It’s sheer determination, steely focus casting grey light over his face.

He shakes his head and throws the Director a grin, one that’s bordering on a snarl. “Let her go,” he says, and Frank has to press his hands together to stop them from shaking. He can’t make himself take a step forward.

The Director doesn’t flinch. “And why would I do that?”

“You’ve caught me, okay? This isn’t- she’s a kid. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“On the contrary-“ At the Director’s nod, a scarecrow steps forward, glancing hastily at the tablet in their hand and then towards Party, voice muffled by the mask. “- according to Battery City bylaws, and the following regulations within BL Industries, the girl stands guilty of illegal unaccompanied emigration from Battery City-“

“No-“ Party hisses.

“- guilty of unlawful defection to the terrorist cell known as the ‘Fabulous Killjoys’ as well as the unlawful aiding and abetting the pirate radio DJ, Dr Death-Defying-“

Frank’s heart is racing, his head spinning. No no no. The girl’s face only grows paler as the ‘crow continues- hanging limply in the guards’ grips like a ragdoll. She’s so tiny.

“- guilty of the assisted murders of an estimated dozen Better Living Ind employees, furthermore guilty of the attempted murder of Korse, Chief Exterminator-“

Party bares his teeth in a grimace and twists, red hair catching in his teeth and almost looking like blood. “Leave her alone! She hasn’t done anything wrong!”

The Director takes a smooth step forward, small lips curving into a cruel smile. Her heels make a harsh rapping sound as she walks, almost sharp enough to make him wince. The sound resounds against the white walls, crawling towards the ceiling like it’s trying to escape. “I think you’ll find that she has, Party Poison, and she will suffer the consequences, just as you will.”

The girl lets out a small squeak, chocolate eyes filling with tears as she struggles helplessly, a fish caught on a hook, still too young, too naïve. Party throws her a look, wide-eyed and frantic, tugging desperately at the cuffs around his wrists.

Frank swears that he can see the lights flickering faintly, but it might just be the static lurking at the corners of his vision.

“No.” Party’s voice is cracking, shaking, crumbling at the edges, like old paper held too close to a naked flame. “She’s just a kid- you’ve got me, there’s nothing-“

Korse lashes out before Frank can blink, snakelike, a blur of white that ends with an audible thwack. He strikes Party in the gut- hard- and Party buckles, doubling over and gasping.

For a second, the only sound Frank can hear is the echo of the punch, clinging to the air like a poison and robbing his lungs of oxygen. Then the girl lets out another shrill scream and this time, the lights really do blink.

Party straightens slowly, cautiously, but before he even has chance to stand Korse hits him again, harder, and Party crumples to the cold marble floor.

The girl screams again. She’s terrified. Frank can’t move.

Korse strikes him once more and this time something cracks, sharp and sudden, bone breaking. Something close to a whimper tears itself from Party’s chest before he seems to catch himself, packing it back into his lungs and spitting out blood onto the polished floor.

The girl shrieks and then the lights explode.

Sparks fall and Frank’s being ripped backwards, his vision flashing black, white and then black again, and suddenly he’s surrounded by white- drowning in it. It’s a bare white room- endless and claustrophobic, suffocating and overwhelming. White walls, white floor, white ceiling.

The only colour is the dark shape of the Phoenix Witch in front of him, her feathers thrown up in a chaotic confusion around her shoulders, half-resembling a crow that’s been thrown about in a hurricane.

“I didn’t need to see that,” he hisses. There’s anger now- only smouldering, low in his gut, but it’s there. “Why would you show that?”  

The Witch doesn’t hesitate: “Because it needed to be seen.”

“Really?” Frank barks out a laugh and it reverberates against the walls, throwing itself back at him like a misfired bullet. “I needed to see my best friend having the shit beat out of him? I needed to see him and the kid get dragged out? Do I not feel guilty enough about it already?”

The Witch looks down at him, expressionless, and there’s suddenly the chilling revelation that she isn’t on his side. She’s not supporting BLI, either; she’s something immortal, something unchallenged and yet still undefeated. She’s seen cities burn, empires rise and fall, the people who promised that they would Be Something wither and die, left and forgotten as Nothing, six-feet underground.

Compared to her, Frank’s nothing. He’s weak and fragile, a fly amongst a kettle of hawks.

He thinks that maybe if he looks deep enough into the empty eye sockets of the Witch’s mask, he could probably see the birth of the universe. And the end of it.

“There were many things to see. I cannot change the matter of your perspective.” The Witch pauses, looks up to the ceiling as if she can see through it. Frank wouldn’t be surprised if she can. “Dr Death-Defying never told you why the girl needed protecting because he never knew himself. Nobody does. She doesn’t know that she’s a bomb. She can power batteries at a touch, fry servers with a single thought. The girl you found is simultaneously the messiah and the antichrist. She will be the one to save Battery City. Or the one to raze it.”

“Sounds like a whole load of fantasy prophecy bullshit,” says Frank, and the Witch shrugs her feathered shoulders.

“Tell me, Fun Ghoul, why do you wear a mask?”

Frank frowns. “I- to keep my identity secret, I guess.”

“And the pseudonym is for the same reason?”

“Yeah- it is, what has that to do with anything?”

The Witch pauses, making a sound bordering on a hum, like she’s processing his answer. “It’s peculiar that those who hide themselves are those who reveal most about themselves.”

“And what does that even mean?” Frank figures he’s probably being insulted, although he’s not particularly sure how. He scowls anyway.

The static that’s become something close to a muzak suddenly seems to intensify, filling his ears like he’s been thrown to the bottom of a swimming pool, pressure making his eyes burn. The Witch consults the ceiling again. “Remove the mask. See if the fears are realised or just shadows that need closer inspection.”

The static grows louder, bubbling into a roar, and Frank claps his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut. And when the noise subsides, he opens them to find the Witch gone.

In her place is a cold metal chair, a small figure- bloody, bruised, broken- slumped in it. There’s metal bands around Party’s chest, wrists, legs and neck, holding him rigidly still. Frank looks at the freshly-dyed black hair and the still-raw tattoo on Party’s wrist. The sticky scent of blood stains the air. Party blinks up at him blearily.

“Hey,” Frank forces himself to say. He looks at the mess Party’s become- hours and hours of torture and forced-medication evident on his skin. “You’re real fucked up, aren’t you?”

“Am I dreaming?” Party asks. His voice is tired. “You shouldn’t be able to get in here. But I don’t dream, so I don’t know what this is.”

‘I wish you were,’ Frank wants to say, but the thought makes him laugh to himself. That it: everything- this entire tragedy- is just a bad dream. He’ll wake up in a bit.

“Nah, you’re kinda… well, you’re pretty dead at the moment. Heart stopped and everything.” He’s not sure how he knows this, but it’s true. Party’s dead… at least temporarily. Party died in the BLI labs. Then he woke up and wanted to kill them all.

He wonders if the Phoenix Witch has just done him a solid, giving him this glimmer of a chance to talk to him. Properly. A kind of favour, per se. It sure seems like it.

“You remember before you tried Out the first time? When you took all the pills you could find and shovelled em all down as fast as you could.” Frank remembers Party telling him about it, how he’d shut down as he did. Frank remembers his own withdrawal; Party sitting with him until it wore off two weeks’ later.

 “Listen,” he says softly, taking another step forward. This is Party- this is the real, Killjoy Party Poison. This isn’t whoever takes over afterwards. “This is shit, okay, I know it is. But you gotta live. And you gotta fight. I know you’re trying to fight already, but you gotta fight harder. You gotta fight for us, yeah?” Frank pulls in a breath. “For me.”

Party coughs wretchedly. “”I can’t. I’m too tired to anymore.”

Frank feels his heart splinter. But he also thinks back to the tunnel, to the Party Poison he remembers pulling off the bike helmet and yelling his name.

“You’ve got to, though. You can.” He forces a smile. “You’ve never been a whiny motherfucker before- don’t start now, okay?”

Party looks up at him and there’s almost- Frank swears he can see it- a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. He opens his mouth.

And then Frank’s falling.

He’s falling: faster and faster, the wind ripping at his clothes and hair, tearing at his skin with claws. He’s falling; falling through fire and ash and clouds and water, falling until the ground looms up to greet him with a horrifying speed, and just as he crashes he’s thrown back to life with a gasp.

Chapter Text

“Ghoul!”

A scream. Horrified, terrified. The sound of nightmares come to life.

“Ghoul! No! Ghoul, Ghoul, oh god, Ghoulie-“

The monotone rasp of a draculoid voice.

“Get the fuck back, I’m warning you. Get away from him. You’re not hurting-“

Blaster shots.

A yell. The sound of a blast hitting its mark.

Hands gripping his shoulders, shaking him so violently that it feels like his neck’s about to be shaken off.

“Fuck- it’s okay, Ghoul. Listen to me, Ghoulie, Frankie, just listen to my voice, it’s gonna be fine. You’re okay. I got you, I got you. C’mon, look at me, please, look at me-“

Frank flounders, his lungs burning, feels like he’s drowning, and then his eyes snap open and he’s alive, thank fuck- he’s alive. Everything’s spinning, moving far too fast, like he’s caught on a train station platform with the world’s flashing past him on the back of a high-speed bullet train. He flails, his hand hitting something hitting something- someone- who’s now gasping, throwing out his name in a prayer: “Ghoul? Ghoul! I’ve got you, just breathe-“

He blinks again, the world suddenly flickering back into full-focus, Party’s face is inches away from his own, eyes wide and panicked, lurid red hair catching Frank’s cheek. When his gaze meets Frank’s, he reels back before seeming to catch himself.

“Shit,” he spits, “Ghoul? You’re- the drac shot you? You fell? I- you’re okay?” He’s throwing out each sentence like it’s a question, like he can’t really trust himself to discern reality anymore, but Frank shakes his head and tries to sit up.

Huh. No pain. He was half expecting to have a massive blast-hole in his chest, to be in agony, but he’s not. In fact, there’s no pain whatsoever, and- he glances down- his jacket is completely unmarked, albeit smelling slightly of smoke. It’s as if he hasn’t been shot at all.

“Fra- Ghoul?” Party’s got a concrete grip on his shoulders, his knuckles almost white, and he gives Frank a shake. Frank lifts his chin to meet his eyes again, and when he does, something seems to snap. Party snatches his hands away. “You- are you okay?” His eyes are half wild, his hands shaking, breath puncturing the air like bullets. The alarm’s still blaring, lights still flashing, but it all sounds so distant.

“I’m good, I’m good.” Frank wheezes and holds out his hand, but Party just blinks at him, like he’s not sure what he’s expected to do. “Dude, help me up.” Frank’s voice isn’t raw anymore and speaking doesn’t hurt either- like he’s been healed completely.

Party hesitates for a moment, glancing back towards the exit like he’s tempted to make a run for it before he seems to make up his mind, grabbing Frank’s wrist and tugging him to his feet. Frank feels steadier than he has in a long, long time.

Party glances back towards the exit again, down to the dead draculoids sprawled over the road, then back to Frank.

It’s him. The realisation hasn’t sunk in yet: it’s Party, that he’s back and not trying to kill him anymore. Frank’s got a pretty good idea that in a few minutes, once the adrenaline’s depleted, he’ll be falling straight into a full-blown panic attack, but right now, he’s calm.

“Not right now,” Party hisses the moment Frank opens his mouth. His hand goes to his chest again and he glances to the trans-am. “We gotta- can you walk? We’ve got to get out of here. There’s going to be more of them coming.  We need to go, right now.”

“I’m fine.” Frank bats Party on the arm out of indignation, only lightly, but Party recoils. For a split-second, he looks like he’s expecting Frank to hit him. Then it’s gone and there’s only determination; he looks so familiar, so much like the person that Frank remembers, that it’s almost dizzying.

Party’s got a too-tight grip on his upper arm, half-hauling Frank to the trans-am even though he’s perfectly capable of walking by himself. He pushes him into the passenger seat and then scrambles around to the driver’s side.

“I can drive,” Frank says, but Party ignores him. “Seriously, dude, what the hell is going on?”

Party throws another look towards the Battery City entrance and swears, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and shifting into gear. Frank leans forward to see what he’s looking at and- shit. There’s more dracs coming, an entire squad of them, moving almost-impossibly quickly, as fast as death and only visible in the precious seconds of red lights flashing.

“Party, fucking go.” Fuck; they’re not going to get caught now. No chance in hell.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Party snaps, but he lifts off the clutch and spins the steering wheel, the wing-mirror almost clipping the tunnel wall as the car swings round. There’s a scream of tyres on the road, the smell of burning rubber filling Frank’s nose, and then the car jumps forward, speedometer climbing.

Frank cranes his head back to watch the BLI squadron approach- fast, too fast. By the time the trans-am bursts through the tunnel and out into the dry heat and dust, the leading bike is only three hundred yards away.

“Don’t stop,” Frank warns, when he sees Party glancing up into the wing mirror with a scowl, apprehension radiating off of him in waves.

Party bites down a breath. “I’m not gonna.” His voice is sharp, too sharp, and for a second, Frank’s skin is burning, heart hammering at the thought of the BLI edition of Party Poison, with cold eyes and icy fingers around Frank’s neck. And then he blinks and Party’s peering at him, perplexed, almost as if he can read Frank’s thoughts. “It’s just me, Frankie,” he murmurs. “It really is just me.”

Frank swallows. “I know it is,” he says, and the best thing it that it’s the truth. This really is Party- he can tell just the way that he said his name.

Another glance at the approaching draculoids and Frank hisses. They’re getting closer.

“Why are they all after you?” Frank twists back into his seat, urging the car to go even faster. He can see the Zone 1 border in the distance- over the flat, barren landscape, it seems close, but it’s at least another mile away. “Why do they suddenly want you dead? Why- how are you-“

“Later,” Party grits out. “Fuck, Ghoul, they’re still coming.”

The last time he and Party had dracs- and Korse- after them, there’d been Kobra and Jet, too. As a group, they’d be able to take a group of dracs this size out easily. But with only two of them, and with Party driving, Frank’s not sure they can afford to try and fight. But the trans-am is an old car, nothing compared to the sleek new models that Bat City produced, so there’s no chance that they can outrun them either.

Frank grimaces as a plan forms before swinging around to face Party. “Right,” he says, “you need to keep driving, okay?”

Party doesn’t take his eyes away from the front, but his mouth twists. “Why wouldn’t I- shit, Ghoul, what are you doing? Get back!”

Frank’s fumbling for the glove box, finding what he’s looking for and twists, scrambling on top of his seat and almost slipping as he tugs the sunroof open. He pulls himself up until he’s almost hanging out of it, his feet dangling, Party clawing at his legs with one hand and trying to drag him back inside the car.

The squad of BLI vehicles are still closing in like wild dogs and Frank spits out a grin at them, the wind tearing at his hair and stinging his eyes. They’re moving too fast, the g-force almost dragging him out of the car completely, the ground flashing past in a haze, dust striking his skin like shrapnel. The vehicles seems to be gaining ground rapidly, the motorcyclists’ black visors glinting, knifelike, in the sunlight. Frank steadies himself, takes in a breath, and pulls the pin out of the grenade and throws it as far as he can. It’s lost amidst the dust almost immediately, tumbling beneath waves of dry heat and growling rubber.

He drops back into the car and lands with a thud back in the seat. “Drive!” he hears himself yelling, frantic, choking from the dust and dry air. Party only stares.

“What was-“

There’s a colossal explosion. It’s deafening: the ground rattles, the air trembles, and Frank claps his hands over his ears and finds himself grinning maniacally. Behind them, there’s dirt and smoke erupting into the air like a comet, mounds of earth arching through the air and crashing around them. Falling dirt and smouldering grass, all red-hot, a shrill cannonade on the roof of the trans-am that showers through the still-open sunroof. Frank heaves it closed again, dust showering his head and hands.

Party’s still staring, his eyes wide, mouth hanging open. “Ghoul… where did you get a grenade from?”

Frank waves his hand tiredly. “Later,” he echoes, and Party lets out a soft sigh but doesn’t argue.

“Put on your damn seatbelt,” he says, and Frank grins. They drive and they drive and he doesn’t stop smiling once.

Party stops the trans-am after the night has swallowed the desert, a deep indigo seeping into every crevice and collecting in cracks and dips in deep puddles. The headlights are blinking, off, on, off and on, spitting out morse code- not far now, not far left to go.

Even then, with the car battery fading and all daylight gone, it still takes Frank a good hour to finally convince Party to pull over. When they do, Party’s bordering on restless- fingers flexing, thighs jumping, throwing nervous looks into the mirrors as if the dracs are still following behind, waiting for him to drop his guard by just a fraction before they attack.

“Seriously, we’re fine. No one’s gonna catch us,” Frank feels like a broken record by this point, but Party doesn’t listen; his jaw’s set tight and his eyes are narrow. The dark doesn’t do anything to hide the bags beneath his eyes. “C’mon, Party. At least let me drive? You look exhausted.”

“And you look like someone who nearly got ghosted,” Party says emphatically and Frank heaves a sigh.

“I do not.”

“Your hair is singed and you smell like smoke,” he points out. “I wouldn’t count that as your standard aesthetic.”

Frank rolls his eyes, folds his arms and goes to pout, but he’s grinning too much to even try. “It’s good to have you back, Gee,” he hears himself say before he can force down a filter, slipping out of the car as he does. Party only gives him a small smile, his knuckles whitening as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

Eventually, though, Frank hears him give a small sigh before pulling himself out of the car. The world is suddenly far, far quieter when the car’s engine is off; the silence is almost something constricting, a python made out of a vast sea of nothingness, wrapping tighter and tighter around Frank with every exhale, threatening to become something dangerous with an exaggerated slowness. Filling with more fears and secrets and dangers as each second clatters past until it’s packed to the brim. Short silences are bliss. Long silences are terrifying.

“Wow,” he hears Party say, voice hushed. “Look, Ghoul. Look at the stars.”

Frank does, for the first in a very long time.

One thing that he’s never appreciated is how much light pollution the world vomited out before The Fires and Helium Wars back in 2013. Night skies would be dull brown, navy at most, stained from city streets and electricity banks, light rays collecting and barring night from reaching the earth. Now, though, the cities are all but gone and it shows.

It’s dark but the skies are on fire.

Party shivers, head tilted back as he looks up, his eyes wide with something that’s close to wonder, arms folded across his chest against the cold. Frank steps up to him, his teeth beginning to chatter, but Party almost doesn’t seem to notice.

“You couldn’t see the stars back in Battery City,” Party whispers, like it’s something of a secret, something to be passed from hand to hand with nervous glances. “I mean, I was inside most of the time but… there were too many lights to ever make anything out. The city was too bright.”

He looks over and starts, as if he’s almost forgotten that it was Frank that he was talking to.

The stars are exquisite. Frank thinks that Party’s more beautiful than the sun, the moon or any collection of galaxies.

He remembers teachers back in the Battery City schools talking about ‘nebulas’ and the ‘Big Bang’ and the ‘finiteness of the universe’. All that stuff would make him feel very, very small, but right now, with an entire cosmos unveiled above his head, he’s sure that this tiny corner of the universe is the most important place to be.

Party chews on his lip. Frank blinks up at him and notices the dark patches in his fringe where the dye and bleach obviously hadn’t settled as well. “How did you get the colour back?” he finally asks, reaching up without thinking and brushing a flyaway strand from Party’s face without thinking. Party flinches, jerking back a little, like Frank’s fingers are burning, and he snatches his hand away.

“No, it’s okay.” Party’s voice is still hushed, but he speaks hastily, like he doesn’t want to scare Frank away. “I- BLI impound a lot of illegal stuff and destroy it as soon as they can, but I managed to snatch some away before they could.” He pulls a face. “The dye’s only this vegetable-based one, so it’s not gonna last very long, but I just wanted to… I wanted to look a- a bit more... normal before I got out, y’know?" He speaks quickly, fidgeting and refusing to meet Frank’s eyes.

“Wait.” Frank twists his hands together. “So… you were planning on getting back out? How did you even get back in the city in the first place?”

Party huffs out a soft breath. In his black clothes he looks impossibly pale, impossibly fragile, made of china and ready to shatter at the slightest touch. He looks back up at the canopy of stars and planets splayed out above them. “I didn’t want them to- find me, I guess. It was… I was just walking for a long time after I left.” He throws Frank a look, maybe slightly worried, and Frank thinks back to the hands around his throat and Party’s desperate eyes as he pleaded for Frank’s help, even when Frank refused.

“And it was like, I just thought, and I was remembering little bits and pieces. There was this time that they gave me all this medication and I just...” He breathes out a soft laugh, the disbelieving kind when you don’t know how to vocalise the cacophony of noise in your head. “So when the dracs caught up with me, I just went back to the city and found the same thing and took as much as I could at the first chance I could get. And I woke up and I was thinking properly again.”

Frank's heart jolts, like when you're in a car that suddenly stops without any warning, the momentum carrying your heart forward and throwing it into your ribcage. “You tried to kill yourself?” Party’s silent for a long time at that, and Frank’s throat tightens with each second that passes.

“I don’t know,” he finally says helplessly. “I mean, it was just a thought... I didn’t know what they do, if they’d help me understand what was going on or if they’d kill me or… I didn’t know.”

The night suddenly seems another ten degrees colder. Frank wants to tell Party that it’s okay, but he’s not particularly sure that it is.

Party could have died.

Not from a draculoid, not from Korse. Not from any danger in the desert or even Battery City. He could have ended up killing himself.

Frank doesn’t want to think about that possibility.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he says softly, and he takes a step forward. Party looks down at him with empty eyes, desolate and hopeless, his lips bitten and curving into a tired smile. Frank’s missed that smile.

“I don’t know why.” Party’s voice is worn, taken to with sandpaper and erosion. “I ruined everything, remember? It’s reached the point where it’d probably be a relief for people.”

There are a million things that Frank wants to say. He wants to scream and rage and throw things; he wants to punch Party and hug him and just remind him that they’re both here, they’re both alive and together and that’s the most important thing. There’s a million things that he wants to say but he can’t find the voice for a single word.

Frank looks up at Party and the way that he’s holding himself together out of sheer determination and pure luck, eyes filled with despair and countless hours in white BLI rooms under knives and electricity.

Frank looks up at him and Party looks straight back, but Frank can’t manage a single word. So instead, he does the simplest thing he can: he stands up on his toes and kisses him.

Chapter Text

Lips pressing against lips. Neurons firing. Synapses bursting with colours and sounds and chemical messages. Soft puffs of breath.Frank’s arms on Party’s shoulders, fingers curling through his hair. Party’s hands on Frank’s waist, sliding down to his hips and pressing him closer.

Time shifting like candle wax. Glowing, rolling and falling, solidifying each second and instantly being replaced by another molten bead. Perfect imprints of each moment, gathering around their feet.

Shifting closer; thoughtlessly, carefully. Thigh to thigh. Chest to chest. Heartbeats separated by bone and skin and tendon and muscle but so, so close.  Brains buzzing, wild rhapsodies of thoughts collapsing into one. Just one, just here, just now, this other person stranded in this perfect solitude. Frank’s one perfect person. 

There’s an entire universe out there—millions upon billions upon trillions of galaxies and lightyears and trembling whispers of future life, shrinking down to this one tiny corner of one planet in one galaxy, but still the only corner of the world that Frank could ever want to be in.

It takes Frank a moment—a few, actually—to acknowledge that Party’s actually kissing him back—Party’s kissing him! Party’s actually kissing him! Out of all the people in the zones, he’s kissing Frank!— his hands dancing over Frank’s sides, tantalisingly delicate, barely touching, like he’s scared Frank might shatter. But at the same time, he’s kissing Frank viciously, desperately, like he’s drowning and Frank’s the one thing keeping him afloat.   It’s such a juxtaposition, oxymoronic, that it makes something behind his sternum buzz and sing.

Party makes a small sound at the back of his throat, something Frank almost misses but catches at the last moment. Party’s mouth is insistent and strong and bruising and his tongue is down Frank’s throat, and everything about the kiss is so undeniably clumsy—all awkward movements and rushed exhales feathering over Frank’s face.

Party tastes of sweat and dust.  He tastes of fear and hopelessness and murderous, murderous hatred. He tastes of desperation and sleeplessness and the first time that Frank had ghosted a draculoid and hadn’t managed to sleep for three days after. Frank’s skin is singing.

Frank hears himself whine, wrapping his arms tighter around Party’s neck and dragging him down as he feels Party’s grin through his lips. Frank’s head is spinning, the only discernible sound being the PartyPartyPartyParty ringing in his ears.   

They break away and Frank gasps a little, tottering back a step, only Party’s grip on his waist keep him from landing on his ass. 

“Whoa,” he finally manages to say; his skin’s burning in every place Party is touching him, his fingertips simmering with static electricity and collecting on the focal points on Frank’s hips, just where his hands are resting.

And then, almost as if he can read Frank’s mind, Party jerks his hands away, an expression flitting across his face that’s too fast for Frank to comprehend. Tumultuous—on the brink of exploding into deafening silence or dissolving into chaotic surrender, but not quite sure which option would be most self-destructive.  Frank feels something in the pit of his stomach drop.

“Oh fuck no,” Frank hears himself snap as Party takes another step back, his expression resembling one of a cornered animal. This is just typical. Because out here in the zones, nothing can go fucking right for him, can it?  “Party-“ he flinches at Frank’s voice, casting glances at the star speckled sky, the cracked earth, deliberately looking anywhere but at him. “What the hell?”

Party doesn’t look at him; he’s staring resolutely in every direction that’s not Frank’s.  His features are limned by the moonlight, so brilliant that Frank can make out every detail—every scratch and bruise—on his face.  Frank marches up to him and Party lifts his head, looking almost guilty.

“I’m sorry,” Party finally whispers, his voice rough and almost cracked. Frank’s about to speak when Party opens his mouth again and it all comes out in a rush.  “I mean, really, we shouldn’t-“ he drags a hand over his face, looking pained—“Listen, Ghoul, you should just go. I shouldn’t have kissed you then, I’m sorry-”

“Technically, that was me-”

Party continues as if Frank hadn’t even tried to cut him off. “I shouldn’t even been here with you.   I could—I could hurt you, why don’t you think about that?  I can’t even think straight sometimes but I don’t want to-“

“Oh my god.” Frank cuts him off disbelievingly. “Are you fucking joking?  Are you doing this right now?”

Party furrows his eyebrows.  “What do you mean?” he asks, confused, and Frank shoves his hands deep into his pockets and full on cackles, sounding maniacal to his own ears, the sound laced with something rapidly approaching bitterness.

“Seriously?  After all of the shit you’ve put us through in the last few months, you’re really giving me this bullshit?”

Party’s frown only deepens. “It’s not bull-“

“Of course it is!”  Frank steps closer and Party seems frozen, as if even he doesn’t understand why he doesn’t back away. “Jet’s alive, Party.  So’s your brother.  Me too.  And if you went back to D’s right now, I’d bet my ass they’d forgive all this crap without a second thought! Do you know how much I regret not going through with it back that night with the music player? I’m not gonna to wait for your shitty cliché of ‘I might snap and I don’t wanna hurt anyone’, because you already have and frankly, I’m willing to take the risk.”

He finishes with a deep breath, fingers twitching with frustration, and Party blinks down at him. “But-“

 “Oh for god’s sake-“ Frank doesn’t think; he just grabs Party’s face and kisses him. Hard.

Party’s entire body is wracked with tension, but Frank doesn’t back down. He slings his arms around Party’s neck and winds his fingers through his bloody hair, and after another second, Party sighs into his mouth and kisses him back, open-mouthed and clumsy.

It’s uncoordinated and world-wearing and something bordering on perfect, and they’re kissing until Frank’s entire body is trembling and only Party’s hand at the small of his back is keeping him upright.   His hands are shaking when he reaches for the bottom of Party’s jacket and slips his fingers beneath the thin t-shirt and-

“Wait, wait.” Frank pulls back, his hands still caught beneath the jacket, frowning as Party blinks at him, his lips bitten raw and red and his hair thrown up into a disarray of red, a splash of color stark against the ink stained sky.  “What’s ‘neath your jacket?”

“Oh.” Party breathes out a short giggle, kissing forgotten, and steps back, something close to a smile curling the corner of his mouth.  “I wasn’t sure whether to show you yet, but…”

Party unzips his jacket—and Frank’s throat doesn’t unexpectedly tighten, it absolutely does not—and tugs at something beneath his t-shirt and secured by the waistband of his jeans: a thin sheath of papers, all crisp white and with black print crowding each page.   He holds them up in the air with a flourish.

“Look at these!”  He’s grinning this time, victorious, but Frank just eyes the papers warily and shrugs.

“What am I looking at?”

Party sighs, a hint too dramatically to be anything but ostentatious—something Frank didn’t realise he missed until now—and waves them beneath Frank’s nose.   “Look, Ghoulie.”  The familiar nickname sends butterflies through his veins. “This is what the dracs were all pissed about when I was getting out of the city.  Look at it.”

“I would look if you actually stopped shaking them for a second, you idiot.” He snatches them out of Party’s hand and flicks through them, holding them up to catch the faded moonlight and starshine. He narrows his eyes at the smiling faces branding the papers. “What? They’re BLI notes? Why are they so important?”

Frank thinks back to the fight in the tunnel, the way that Party had pressed his hand to his own chest and the dracs shooting for Party’s bike rather than directly for him. He hadn’t understood why back then- now it makes sense.

“Nah, they’re not important to us- them.” He corrects himself hastily, taking back and leafing through the pages until he finds the specific one he’s after. “They’re only plans for travel routes and prisoner exchange programs between facilities. They’re pretty much accessible for everyone above draculoid level, to be honest.”

“Wait,” Frank says slowly, “so why were they so desperate to get it back? If it’s not important at all-“

“It’s not important to them,” Party repeats, and he’s still smiling, his eyes gleaming with something that’s almost excited.   “Because it won’t matter if other workers know where their prisoners are located. But we can use it, can’t we?”

It clicks and Frank grins, almost gaping.  “Holy shit.” He laughs incredulously and grabs Party’s forearms, shaking him in excitement.  “Holy shit, that’s brilliant—you’re fucking brilliant, Jesus Christ.”

“Not Jesus,” Party smirks, and Frank’s never noticed the way that his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. “Just me.”  And Frank’s about to let out a noise of repulsion at his joke when Party’s tugging at his arms and pulling him close and stealing the breath out of his lungs.

By the time that Dr. Death Defying’s radio shack is in view- sitting squat on the horizon, obstinate, the only sign of life in miles of the blank, dead desert- Party’s hands are trembling, his fingers rapping a nervous beat against the steering wheel.   Frank throws him a concerned look from the passenger seat.  “You sure you’re good for this?”

Party coughs, his mouth set in a thin, hard line as he nods, sharp and quick, a single hard jerk of his head. “Yeah. It’s good. I’m fine. Are you good?”

Is he good? Frank’s not too sure. There’ll be no turning back once they get to D’s. Kobra and Jet (if they’re even still at the radio shack) might shoot at the both of them the first chance they get—having decided that Party’s still dangerous to have around and Frank had deserted them at the same time Party had.

Or even worse… they might listen to what Party has to say and still turn their backs on him.  They might ignore every argument Frank has to offer and decide that he’s not worth their time anymore.

“Yeah,” he lies through clenched teeth, “I’m fine.”

Party lets out a short laugh through his nose, still not taking his eyes off of the road ahead, but his hand lands on Frank’s knee- heavy and comforting.   “You’re a shitty liar, Ghoulie.”

“Yeah, well, bite me.”

Party just smiles tersely and Frank focuses on the way that the mismatch of clouds clutter the skies overhead, buzzing erratically like drunken bees, heavy with rain and honey.   “We don’t have to do this if you don’t wanna.”  Frank’s tongue feels heavy from the words’ weight, especially after tripping over them so many times during their journey back to the radio shack, but offers them anyway.   A coward’s way out.

Party sighs again, teeth gritted as the wind tugs at his hair half-heartedly, lifting red strands before dropping them back into his face, as if it’s almost bored of the effort.  “I gotta see Mikey,” he finally says, and Frank chooses to ignore the use of Kobra’s name. “I gotta apologise, even if he doesn’t listen.  And there’s D, Show Pony and—fuck—Jet.  I need to tell them I’m sorry.”

“They’ll accept it. You know they will.”

“Sure they will. ‘S not like I ever hurt them or anything.”

“They will,” Frank insists, but Party just gives a dry, wry smile. “C’mon, this is your brother. These are your friends. You weren’t the damn Antichrist, Party. You were just fucked up. They’ll just be glad to have you back.”

“’Fucked up.’” Party gives an unamused huff and wrinkles his nose. “That’s one way to put it.  Doesn’t mean that they care, though.”

Frank sighs and rests his cheek on the door’s window. The glass is cool compared to everything else in the car, and the cold leeches through into his skin, making him shiver.  He closes his eyes. “They’re your friends,” he reiterates.  “They’re not gonna throw us out now.”

He hears Party exhale, sounding weary. “Sure, I mean- wait, ‘us’?”

Frank opens one eye and stares over at him- at least, as well as one can using only one eye. “Well, duh. I’m not letting you down again, idiot.”

For a long time, neither of them dare speak, and the quiet hangs in the air like a palpable thing until Party finally clears his throat.  “You never let me-“

“It doesn’t matter.” Frank cuts him off, shuffles around in the seat until he’s decently comfortable and props his feet up.  “You just may as well accept that you’re stuck with me from now on.”

“Okay, Ghoulie,” Party says wearily, “just—feet off the dashboard!” He bats violently at Frank’s ankles until he lowers them again, “God, did you guys even look after this car?  You can’t just—feet, Frank, not on the dashboard. Fuck!”

Frank snickers.  “Sure thing, Gee, sure thing.” He’s about to continue when he realises that they’ve almost arrived.  The easy banter and light teasing between them snaps with the looming threat of- well, it’s probably better to not consider the possibilities. Frank ignores the way that the warm feeling in his chest suddenly turns taunt, every breath grating. The trans-am slows, then shudders to a stop. They’re only fifty or so metres from the door, but Frank can’t see Show Pony anywhere.

Party’s gone very, very pale, his breath coming out in a slow rasp.  He looks over.  “You good?” he asks, and Frank forces a terse nod.

“Let’s go, c’mon.”

Part of Frank is hoping that Kobra and Jet are long gone- that maybe they took off to the outer zones and are planning on laying low from now on- but he doubts that’s the case. He did take their only mode of transport after all, he reminds himself with a twinge of guilt, so it’s not like they’d be able to get anywhere else easily.

They slip out of the trans-am, the warm air prickling Frank’s skin, but Party freezes the moment that they do, hands shaking, spitting out staccato breaths through gritted teeth.  “Fuck, Ghoul,” he hisses vehemently.  “I can’t fucking do this.” 

There’s a flash of red- is it Kobra’s jacket?- in the doorway, and Party takes a step backwards.  “Seriously,” he says, “I can’t do this.  They’re gonna hate me.” He looks to be on the brink of a panic attack. He probably is. “Fuck, Ghoul, this isn’t gonna work.  I should just get outta here.”

“You’ve got this,” Frank soothes. “Kobra isn’t gonna hate you. You’re his brother.”

Party’s eyes are wide, panicked, but he nods slowly and starts towards the radio shack, but not before he snatches Frank’s hand in his own. Which would be all cute and romantic and shit if it weren't a death grip, tight enough to grind his knuckles together.  “Okay,” Frank says.  “Let’s go.”

He barely manages to take a step forward before Kobra Kid’s opening the radio shack’s door, stepping out into the bright sunlight and marching determinedly towards them.  They’ve barely taken another step before Jet Star’s following him, his hair and clothes mercifully free from the blood that Frank remembers- the fact that he’s up and walking is an immense relief in itself: as if there’d still been a small part of Frank that was convinced Jet wasn’t going to survive, that Frank was never going to see him again. He has an eyepatch covering the mess Frank remembers his eye being, but his expression is unreadable.

“Shit,” Party breathes. Without turning to Frank, he asks: “did I do that?” but Frank doesn’t reply. Party’s grip grows impossibly tighter.

Kobra’s expression is stony, but his face is narrow and pallid, gaunt enough that every edge looks sharp enough to draw blood. He looks to have aged years within the days that Frank has been gone, his jacket hanging off his shoulders as it would a scarecrow.

When they’re only feet away from each other, they stop, and Frank has to fight down the irrational urge to laugh: it’s almost as if they’re having a good ol’ fashioned stand-off, like in the old cowboy films his grandfather used to show him. As if one side is about to drawl that ‘this town ain’t big enough for the both of us’ and shoot the other before they have chance to retaliate.

This isn’t what happens.

Party drags in a deep breath, one that rattles like a morgue at midnight, and lifts his head. “Hey, Mikey. Hey, Jet,” he says slowly. “It’s me. I’m back.”

Chapter Text

Kobra stands silently, staring, his expression glacial, and Frank feels his mouth dry. Party clears his throat, throwing Frank an apprehensive glance, but only gets a helpless shrug in response. Frank’s just thankful that they haven’t been shot at yet.

“Kobra? It’s- it’s me, it’s Gerard. I know that-“

“So this is BLI’s latest trick?” Kobra turns to Frank and his eyes are so furiously stony that they may as well be chips of ice. “What, Ghoul? They got in your head too? Or did you just decide that they were the better team overall? Were you trading friendship bracelets with Korse while Jet was bleeding out?”

Kobra isn’t the chattiest person at the best of times, but now it feels as if it’s spilling out of him in a torrent- inky black and venomous, making his hands shaking and his voice tremble, but his eyes remain just as angry as they were moments ago. He folds his arms and takes a step back, almost into Jet, who’s staring fixedly at the ground with his one good eye, hands shoved deep into his pockets and shoulders hunched up to his ears. While Kobra’s simmering, Jet just looks tired, like he wants this all to be over as soon as possible.

“C’mon, Kobra.” Jet tries to tug at Kobra’s elbow, but he just shakes him off.

“Why are you here? What do you want?” His voice is a drawer of knives; sharp enough to cut through the icy air and serrated, like shark teeth and double-edged whispers slipped onto folded notes. His voice jangles like church keys, rattles with every breath and knock.

Party’s free hand trembles as he lifts it to his face, reaching out to Kobra but just stopping short, as if he doesn’t know if Kobra will snap at him. “I wanted to apologise,” he answers honestly. “For everything that’s happened and everything that- that I’ve done.”

Kobra inhales raggedly. “Go on then.”

He sounds so cold- so unlike the Kobra that Frank’s used to- and it seems that he’s not the only one to think so. Jet’s lifted his head and is watching Kobra with something that’s a warped amalgam between concern and confusion.

Party doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t mention it. He releases his crushing grip on Frank’s fingers- which is a relief, but Frank finds that he instantly misses it too- and steps forward. “Mikes,” he starts, his voice soft, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that all of this happened.”  He takes another step, outstretched hand trembling. “I don’t know what to say.”

Kobra’s expression stays at razor-sharp as his voice. “I don’t buy it,” he snaps, and Frank feels his blood boil, oxygen bubbling at two-hundred and twelve degrees Fahrenheit and making his heart burn, his face flushing. It only worsens when he glimpses the flash of emotion across Party’s face- the resignation, like this is just what he’s been expecting this entire time. “I don’t buy this one bit. I’m not trusting either of you.”

“The hell?” Frank finally cuts in, pushing in front of Party and right up into Kobra’s face. This isn’t how he and Party had wanted it to go, even though they’d partly been expecting it, but he can’t stop himself now. “He’s your brother, Kobra, you can’t just-“

“Oh just save it, Ghoul!” Kobra snarls, and gets his hands on Frank’s chest and pushes; Frank stumbles back a step and then just stares, gaping at him and his sudden burst of violence. Kobra still hasn’t raised his voice but he’s seething- as if he’s a lighter being held to Frank’s arm, searing the hair and scalding his skin, leaving blisters in the wake of every word.

Party snatches him by his arm before he can react, and Frank’s not sure if it’s to stop him from falling or from lunging back at Kobra, but it tethers him either way; sets the brakes on his clattering train of thought and makes him stop, breathe, think.

 “This isn’t about you, Ghoul!” Kobra flings the words like they’re rocks, but they feel like bullets, tearing through his flesh with a careless abandon when they hit. “Stop making all of this about you!”

Frank’s almost sent reeling. “I don’t-“

“But you do. You keep making this all about you and it’s not. Remember sneaking off with Jet to hold your own little ceremony when you found his jacket and completely leaving me out of it? Remember when we were tryin’ to fix the car but you wouldn’t leave my brother alone even then? Remember complaining that you got hurt after Jet had his fucking eye gouged? Remember fucking taking off and taking the car with you?”

The anger’s radiating off of him in tangible waves, almost making the ground shake with its intensity, which is a complete contradiction to Kobra’s lowered voice. Frank can’t feel anything- can’t feel the wind on his skin, Party’s fingers on his arm, the sparks of pain that should be there as he sinks his nails into his own palms. He’s rattled. He’s too shocked to even feel angry. Is this really what Kobra thinks of him?

“Do you not realise what could’ve happened?” Kobra bristles and takes an aborted step forward- like he wants to storm straight up to him and punch his lights out but catches himself before he does. His eyes gleam, furious, but there’s something close to curious behind it, as if he’s waiting- what kind of shitty excuse is Ghoul gonna give this time?- as he continues: “Me and Jet, we were stuck out here- no car, no help. You know what would happen if dracs came past? We’d be fucked. Did you even care when you went after him?”

“Party was gone,” Frank spits in reply, “but I didn’t go after him.” He regrets the words the second they’re out of his mouth- wishes he could grab at them and reel them back in, close them in and push them back down his throat, because Kobra’s expression shifts the moment that he says them.

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Where were you then?”  

Party interrupts before Frank manages to even open his mouth- gently releasing Frank’s arm and moving forward, his hands open in surrender. “You’re right,” he says softly, “it’s not about Ghoul. But, Kobra- Mikey- he’s only done what he thought was best. And I know you did, and so did Jet. That’s why I could always trust you.”

He’s soothing, voice calm and low, red hair fluttering like birds thirsting for empty skies and vast, unexplored horizons. Kobra turns back to him and the anger seems to drain away, taking the years with it and leaving him stripped bare, just a little kid looking back up at his invincible big brother. “You’ve always been there for me, Mikey, even when I didn’t deserve you. You’ve saved me more times than I can count.”

“Gee-“ Kobra starts, helplessly, but Party interrupts.

“Don’t blame Ghoul for any of this. This is no one’s fault but mine, okay? And I know that I let BLI get in my head and I didn’t- I couldn’t stop them. But never- not for a second- did I ever want to hurt you.” His voice splinters and catches, tripping over words unsaid, as he glances at Jet and then back to his brother, sounding on the verge of tears. Frank’s left on the outside watching in, only a passive onlooker, as Kobra blinks rapidly, his shoulders shuddering from the weight of the world and Party’s words.

Party’s quivering, but he takes a deep breath and continues. “I didn’t want to hurt you at all. Not you, or Jet, or Ghoul. I didn’t want to hate you or attack you or tell you that you all deserved to die. Because you don’t. And…” Party takes in one final, shattered breath, the air made of broken ice shards that tear at his lips and tongue and throat and draw blood. “I’m so, so sorry, Kobra. I’m sorry, even if you and Jet and Ghoul don’t accept it-“ at which point, Frank wants to barge in and remind Party that hello, he doesn’t go around sticking his tongue down the throats of people who he still holds massive grudges against, jeez. He also figures that this probably wouldn’t be the best moment to point this out.

Kobra’s silent for a long time- so long that Frank’s starting to feel apprehensive, although from the set of his shoulders, Party still doesn’t- and then he surges forward, grabbing Party by the front of his black jacket and hauling him forward, and for a split second, Frank’s certain that Kobra’s going to deck him, before Kobra hugging him too, clinging to him like he’s never going to be able to let go, like Gerard will disappear the second that he does, replaced by the spiteful, mindless, black-haired drone.

Frank’s still feeling a little bit like the onlooker, standing to the side and out of the way until Jet moves over to him- he’s walking stiffly, every limb awkward, like those plastic dolls that Frank remembers from Before, except relatively more banged-up. And, of course, Ken- was that even the doll’s name? It’s too long ago for Frank to remember, and honestly it was never something he’d paid particular interest to when he was a kid- never wore an eyepatch either.

“You’re looking alive.” He forces a grin but it comes out more as a bitten-back grimace. His skin’s still burning from Kobra’s exclamation- ‘it’s not about you’ but he pushes it away, saves it for brooding upon later.

Jet’s smile is weary and bordering on wry, but he still looks pleased to see him. “You too, Ghoul, I’m glad.”

Frank pushes his hair out of his face. “He’s really back,” he murmurs, quietly enough that only Jet will hear him- Party and Kobra still haven’t let go of each other, and Kobra’s buried his face in his older brother’s shoulder, back shuddering. Frank can’t make out Party’s expression. Kobra might be crying. Frank honestly can’t tell “Honestly. It’s him again. I know it is.”

Jet breathes out a sigh and Frank realises that he hasn’t actually taken his eyes off of Party and Kobra yet- or at least, Party. He’s watching him with the same wariness that you’d use to watch the wild mutts you’ll find out in the zones every once in awhile- keeping calm and collected, but not taking your eyes off it for a second, just in case it snaps.

The eyepatch makes him look different: thinner, older, wearier. Like he’s already seen the worst that the world has to throw as him and nothing could surprise him anymore. Frank wonders if the same could be said about him. “I know it is, Ghoul, but the problem is that no one else does. Have you been listening to people? There’s rumours that all three of us are dead, that Party’s been part of BLI all along. We know the truth but… he’s killed people, Ghoul. He’s killed zonerunners and helped BLI kill even more. I can understand that it wasn’t him, but…” Jet gestures helplessly at his eye- or the lack of- and, yeah, Frank gets it. Other people won’t be as understanding, or forgiving, although from the way that Jet’s still hasn’t turned his back on Party once yet, even while talking to Frank, he guesses that even the people closest to Party still have a grudge clinging to their fingers, like the bits of ash and grit that you can’t manage to scratch off, no matter how hard you try.

“I know, I know.” Frank pushes his hair out of his face and tries to think. Jet doesn’t look resentful or angry- he’s always been the calmest, most collected out of all of them- but Frank still feels something close to desperate- Jet needs to trust them, needs to believe that Party’s back. If what Jet is saying about other ‘runners is true- and remembering what Cherri Cola had said to him before he reached Battery City, about the rumour than Frank was already dead- there’s no reason to not believe him, then they need be careful. The last thing they need is the other killjoys lining up behind Better Living, waiting for their own turn to take a shot at them, but it’s looking to be shaping up that way.

He’s always thought that the old cliché of ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ was bullshit anyway- real life is filled with characters of jagged edges and knife-gash grins, and mutual hatred is a lot different than mutual understanding. Unfortunately, the world’s filled with too many people hating too many other people for any alliances to be formed on this alone, and

There’s always a need for a show of trust- redemption in Party’s case- to prove that there’s still enough of a reason to work together. Frank thinks that could be the case even now, even with just Jet and Kobra, which is why he bites his bottom lip.

“But we can prove that it’s him, anyway.”

“Can we? How?” he asks, and Frank forces a grim smile.

“Because BLI have the girl, and Party and I know exactly how to save her.”

Chapter Text

The air tastes like cigarette smoke: a gentle concoction of grit and the stale, warm leather of the booths’ chairs, melding together into a golden glow. Frank releases a breath the moment he enters. He hadn’t even realised that he’d been holding it in the first place.

Part of him is almost disappointed at the state of Dr Death’s radio shack, maybe because it looks exactly as it had been the last time Frank saw it: sunlight forcing its way between the wooden planks nailed to each window and slumping to the ground as if exhausted at its own effort, sand and dirt murmuring through the open doorway and spreading over the floor in weary ripples, like a deathly still lake disturbed by the touch of a breeze It’s almost anticlimactic; nothing close to the pools of blood or dead draculoids he’d half been expecting. It seems that Kobra and Jet could look after themselves perfectly fine without him, even injured, and Frank almost feels offended.

Jet and Kobra are sitting on one side of the booth, Frank and Party on the other. It feels like a microcosm of the events five minutes prior- as if there’s something that they need to prove, as if there’s still some form of redemption ahead. 

“Right then.” Kobra folds his arms and leans towards them, fingers rapping out an impatient, spitfire beat on the linoleum table-top. It’s sun-stained and water-wearied, warped and crippled from age. “What’s this plan of yours?”

Frank shuffles in his seat and manages to swing his feet onto Party’s lap before settling back against the armrest. Party side-eyes him with annoyed amusement, but Frank maintains the look of ethereal innocence until he sniffs and stares back at the table.

“Party?” Kobra prods Party’s elbow with a narrow finger. “So? What’s the plan? How are we gonna get the girl back?”

Frank catches the casual ‘we’ and figures that sounds promising enough for now. Jet’s still watching the both of them warily- nothing seems to have changed over the last five minutes- but when he notices Frank staring in his direction, he offers a tentative smile.

Party coughs. “Well, it’s not so much of a plan as a… semblance of a plan. Vague guidelines.”

“A template,” Frank supplies, and Party nods in agreement.

“That’s exactly it. Like, a template of a plan.”

Kobra’s expression hasn’t changed. “Okay, let’s hear it anyway. It’s not like me and Jet have anything ourselves.”

Frank slides his feet to the floor as Party stands up awkwardly, his knees caught at the awkward angle between the edge of the seat and the table as he hikes up the hem of his jacket. He tugs the wad of papers from the waistband of his jeans, the same ones that that he’d already presented to Frank before. He holds them up with an apprehensive smile, eyes darting between Kobra’s cool stare and Jet’s frown, and if he’s waiting for their approval.

But Frank wrinkles his nose. “Why did you keep them under your jacket?” he asks, and Party shrugs, like it should be obvious.

“I needed to keep them safe. I couldn’t have left them lying around, could I? Someone might’ve tried to snatch ‘em.”

Frank reaches forward, plucks the papers from Party’s hand and dangles it gingerly between his forefinger and thumb. “Who’s actually going to want to steal this manky wad of- oh man.” He grimaces and leans back, holding them out at arm’s length. “You could’ve put them anywhere in the car. Literally anywhere. And yet you put them next to your dick. You’re gross and they’re damp, ugh-“ he sputters, thrusting the papers in front of Party’s confounded face.

“They’re sweaty and they fucking reek. Take them back and don’t put them anywhere near me. It’s your sweat,” Frank emphasises, but Party only sniffs indignantly. Time to pull out the big guns. “Party, if you don’t take them then they’re going on your face.”

This time, the threat seems to work; Party rolls his eyes with exaggerated effort but takes them back, separating the papers and spreading them out over the table-top. They’re all horrendously crinkled, the ink smeared, but legible nevertheless. Party swipes his fingertips over the slightly-smudged type, almost as if he’s expecting them to disappear, which they don’t.

There’s an impatient cough- that kind of ‘hey, I’m still here’ clearing of the throat that Frank’s never particularly been fond of- and he and Party glance up simultaneously. Kobra and Jet are still sitting, watching, waiting expectantly, and Party nods hurriedly, scratches his nose and takes a breath.

“So, I explained to Ghoulie already, but these are from BLI’s place. They’re the plans for travel between their facilities- there’s times, dates, squad routes. It tells you where prisoners are gonna be moved, where they’ve been moved from, and there’s practically all the information we’d need in here.”

“Need for what?” Jet asks, leaning forward. He still doesn’t appear sure.

Party’s grin is too sudden to be reassuring- a flash of small teeth and exhilaration. He charges forward before any of them have chance to draw a breath. “We’re gonna charge straight into BLI’s headquarters and take our girl back from right under their noses.”

There’s a short moment of silence. One that shivers with apprehension, breathes out its own palpable anxiety.

“That’s a good plan,” Kobra eventually says. “If we had a monumental desire for our own horrific and immediate demise, I mean.”

“No, no, no.” Party drags a hand across his face and slumps back down into the seat, and Frank doesn’t waste a moment before returning his feet to their previous position atop Party’s thighs. “Listen, you already know how the patrols are cut back, and at night, there’s barely any extermination squads. It’s almost quiet.”

Kobra uncrosses his arms and immediately folds them again, almost as if he doesn’t know what he wants to do; whether he should reach out to his own brother or to keep his distance. “That’s great,” he says flatly. “But we’ll still be shot to hell within a foot of Bat City. We wouldn’t get near to the wall, let alone the headquarters.”

“Ghoul managed to get that far,” Party shoots back, his expression shutting down and his mouth snapping shut the moment that the words are out. Then they dangle there, swaying, executed criminals hanging from accusations in the warm air, as Jet and Kobra both turn to Frank as one.  

When Jet says his name, he only sounds worried, rather than shut-off or caged. “Ghoul? You went to Bat City? What were you doing over there?”

Frank stiffens and takes perhaps a moment too long before he shakes his head, but he’s hoping that neither Jet nor Kobra notice. They probably do, especially when Party shoots him a conspicuously guilty look, his wide eyes overly-apologetic.

Frank swallows down a lump in his throat and drops his feet back to the floor. He takes a breath. “So, the thing was-“

“He was nearish,” Party jumps back in. “Around the Zone 2 border. I was getting out of the city when we met up and then he helped me get back here. It was just a coincidence that we were both in the same place, but he helped get some of the dracs off my tail.”

Kobra doesn’t look convinced. “So Frank just happened to meet you in Zone 2-”

“Yeah.” Party cuts in, throwing him a sharp, unreadable look that Kobra manages to translate before ploughing on. “Anyways, so we can get into the city just fine. It’ll be quick and easy- in and out.”

“Wait a moment.” Frank leans forward, scanning the smudged ink. “Why do we need to go to the main headquarters? Why couldn’t we wait for her to get moved somewhere else?”

Party shakes his head. “No, she hasn’t ever been moved out of the main building. The Director likes to keep a close eye on some of the more important tests there, just in case anything happens. The girl will be there. I don’t think that she’d left the place out of the entire time I’d been in Bat City.”

“So you weren’t a test, then?” Jet’s voice is uncharacteristically sharp, enough to cut through glass, but Party only stares back at him, unperturbed, unblinking. Jet is sitting rigidly, his shoulders rigid and expression tight, and Frank wonders if he even believes that this isn’t all just a giant theatric, courtesy of BLI. It must be difficult to trust someone who half-blinded you. 

“Not in the end, no. I wasn’t.”

Frank listens to the way that Party speaks, the way that there’s now the slightest hint of a City twang to his accent that hadn’t been there before; it’s taken him this long to notice it, but now that he has- it’s unmistakable. It’s another thing that BLI have changed about him: Party Poison 2.0. Darker. Tougher. Cracked around the edges.

Jet blinks at him and then shakes his head, breathing out a soft sigh before lifting his head. “Sorry, Party, that was unfair. You keep going,” he says, and Party practically beams back at him.

“The thing with it being the headquarters is that the place has a lot of patrols around it, but I wouldn’t say that it’s as well protected as everywhere else. I mean, the ‘crows you get out in the zones are tough, right? But the ones in the centre have the big weapons locked away. They’re not nearly as ready for an attack as they could be.”

Frank scans through the papers laid in front of him, but still maintains his distance, because he hadn’t been exaggerating about the smell. “Even if they’re shit compared to Korse and the other exterminators, there’ll still be too many of them in the compound. We’d get swarmed within a minute.”

Party looks affronted. “Well, you don’t need to come with. I’m fine doing this myself.”

“You’d be ghosted before you get outta the building,” Frank points out, but Party’s expression doesn’t change.

“That’s really not important,” he mutters, and Frank’s blood freezes in his veins. “As long as I get her out, it doesn’t matter.”

And it takes a moment for it to fully sink in, but it eventually does. Frank’s just opening his mouth again when Kobra’s lurching over the table, a hand snapping out and latching onto Party’s wrist. Eyes wide and surprised, Party swerves his head to meet Kobra’s.

“Gee.” Kobra’s voice is low and deathly serious. “Can I… can I talk to you? Outside?” He doesn’t even give him a chance to reply- he’s out of the booth and dragging Party towards the door before anyone else manages to get a word out, Party’s ragged boots throwing up the dust that’d settled on the floors as he trips after his brother. Before Frank realises it, they’re both out of the building, the door slamming shut behind them, and then Frank’s left alone with Jet.

Which, y’know, he could usually cope with it, if he could manage to take his eyes away from the covered spot where Jet’s should be. It’s disconcerting- looking at something that you know should be there, but being unable to see it. It’s the same when someone’s ghosted: because how could something be there and then not?

For a long time, the only sound they can hear is the sharp conversation taking place outside. It’s muffled by the wooden walls, but the tone of it is clear enough: Kobra sounds caught between anger and fear while Party tries to calm him down, his voice calm and soothing.

“So,” Frank tries, but it comes out as a rasp, so he licks his lips, drags his hands over his eyes, and tries again. “Where’s Dr Death-Defying and Show Pony?”

Now that the excitement of the last few days has faded and he’s (relatively) sure that his friends don’t want him and Party dead, the energy’s starting to dissipate. His legs feel leaden and his arms aren’t much better- he’s all but ready to drop. He’d probably fall flat on his face if he weren’t sitting down already.

Jet shrugs heavily, face expressionless, and he glances to the door leading to the radio booth before looking back to Frank. “D? He’s… he’s back there. He’s in his booth. Hasn’t left for… well, since you guys did, actually. It’s not like he’s hurt or anything, but he’s just on his radio all day now, an’ most of the time he’s not even getting a signal out. I’m thinking that he feels guilty.”

Frank frowns at that. Dr Death-Defying feeling guilty. He wonders if there’s actually anyone out in the desert left with a clean conscience. “What about Show? Couldn’t they help him out?”

Jet shakes his head. “I haven’t seen them either. I don’t know if they got ghosted, if they just wanted to get out of here…” He trails off helplessly, but there’s the unspoken ‘I don’t blame them’ loitering like a bad smell beneath his words.

“Listen…” Jet rubs a hand over the good side of his face. “Listen, Ghoul, I’m not gonna lecture you here. But make sure you know what you’re doing, please. Just… be careful.”

“You don’t trust him.” Frank glowers- spitting out an angry growl- and Jet breathes out a laugh, gesturing to his face.

“C’mon, Ghoul, if you were me, would you?”

Frank shrugs casually, staring down at the toes of his boots and dragging his heel across the leather seat. “I don’t know, I guess. I don’t know.” He pauses, not daring to look up. “So you’re saying that you’re not gonna help us get the girl back?”

And then Jet takes a breath. “We’re gonna need to plan this out properly. We have an advantage with Party knowing the place better than we ever could, but I still don’t think we can charge in and hope for the best. We’d need to plan. But the thing is, Ghoul…”

There’s a long silence- the kind of apprehensive, impatient quiet that sits, heavy, during the seconds before a thunderstorm; when a colossal roar is collected in a reservoir, pressing against the concrete and frantic to burst free.

“If we get the girl back,” he says hesitantly, “if we get her back, I’m going to get her away from here. Get her out into the farthest zones. Maybe farther, if I can.”

Frank freezes. “What do you mean by that? Why would you-“

“He stabbed me in the face, Ghoul,” Jet said softly, like he’s breaking news of someone’s death. It pisses Frank off. “He nearly choked you to death. I want him to be okay- of course I do, he’s my friend- but she’s a kid. She deserves her life. She deserves to not live in fear. She shouldn't have to be around someone who's been pushed so far that-”

Any sympathy Frank might have had dissipates, leaving only raw anger, dry and cracked. “Shut up,” he snaps, grinding his teeth. “Just… just shut up. You’re not her fucking dad. You don’t get to decide how she lives. You don't get to decide how Party is either. He's not some psychopath. When he was trying to hurt us... that wasn't him.”

Jet sighs wearily. Either he's immune to Frank’s rage or he just doesn’t care; as if the only thing that mattered is him being a self-righteous bastard. “I’m just saying that the kid deserves better. What if he flips? What if this is all a big-"

"If you say that he's lying," Frank snarls, "I'm going to fucking punch you in your fucking face."

Jet holds up a complacent hand. "Maybe we could speak to D and see if he can look after her instead," he suggests. "I just don’t think that we can keep her safe, especially once we get her out. They'll know that Party's back and they'll want us dead.”

“You mean more than they already do?”

Jet almost seems to take it as a legitimate question.“He’s my friend too, Ghoulie,” he says, and Frank forces himself not to flinch when Jet reaches over and squeezes his arms reassuringly. “Just think about it.”

"So you're gonna abandon him, then, the moment you get the girl back?" Frank hates the way that his voice catches. "Just a 'thanks for the help, glad you're back, see you later'? Is that it?" He swallows. "You doing the same thing to me an' Kobra?"

Jet pauses, almost as if he hasn't thought of that yet, and Frank’s ready to repeatedly smash his own forehead into the linoleum table just Party and Kobra re-enter the room. When Party smiles at him- a warm smile, tilted in one corner, that makes Frank’s heart beat faster (and his cheeks warm at an alarming rate. God, this was embarrassing)- he pushes all thoughts of Jet out of his mind.

Chapter Text

Dr Death-Defying feels guilty. Dr Death-Defying feels guilty. Dr Death-Defying feels guilty.

The thought runs on a miniature rail, cheerfully billowing smoke and steam as it rattles in a fixed circle, around and around in Frank’s head on a never-ending misadventure.

It doesn’t make enough sense to him. D has nothing to feel guilty about. Frank ponders this; tilts his chin up and exhales into the clear sky, blowing smoke out through his nose in a steady ashen plume.

He should probably go back inside and try speak to D at some point; Jet and Kobra don’t seem to worried, so he figures that he shouldn’t be either, but he can’t help the tightness in his chest, the solid lump of uncertainty that won't go away.

Yeah. Another five minutes and he’ll go speak to D. The others are scheming just fine by themselves anyway, so they really wouldn’t miss him for a while at least.

There’s splinters digging into his spine through his jacket, pricking at his skin and almost making him wince. Fortunately, he’s a lazy motherfucker who couldn’t be bothered to stand up and find another shaded spot to smoke. He can’t imagine that slouching against the shack a few feet to the left is would be any less uncomfortable.

Of course, Jet had pointed out that there’s really no reason he should have to go outside to smoke–there’s no kid with them to cough and splutter, her eyes watering–but he still can’t quite cut the habit. Hah. Can’t cut either of them, really.

He decides to give himself five more minutes–maybe push it to ten if he can–to take a breath, choke down a cigarette stolen from the back room in the diner (he’s been here enough times to know where all the goodies are hidden, and he’s got his eye on a few of the particularly lurid-coloured candy bars packed behind some old battery containers) before he steps back inside. Back to where Party and Kobra are scouring over the same pieces of paper that they’ve all been poring over as if they’re going to pick out something that they’ve all managed to miss.

If he’s being honest with himself, Party and Kobra falling back into normality so easily is disconcerting–as if Kobra hadn’t glared at them like they were complete fucking strangers, or perhaps a ticking bomb he needed to take out. Or maybe less disconcerting and more irritating, because maybe Frank doesn’t want to be pushed back into the old confines of “yeah, Ghoul, you’re great and all, but I need to talk to Kobra right now”. And the thing that worries him most is that he really can see that happening.

So sue him; he’s pathetically jealous when he doesn't want to be.

Frank kicks at the dust as he plucks the cigarette from his mouth and lets another lungful of smoke drift into the sky. It’s peaceful–the kind of soft calm that suspends every second in the air–and Frank closes his eyes and breathes.

There’s the sound of the saloon doors swinging open a few metres away, accompanied by the groan of hinges and the crunches of footsteps. Frank doesn’t bother opening his eyes, even when another warm body slides up againsts his own.

“Hi.” Party’s disembodied voice is disturbingly close to Frank’s ear. He cracks one eye open to find Party’s face just as close, his eyes warm in the dim light. Frank would be able to pick out every last shard of green in Party’s irises if only the world loaned him enough time.

“Ghoul.”

Frank swallows roughly and manages to spit out a gravelly “hey,” from the side of his mouth, the cigarette caught back between his teeth. Party stares blankly at him, and a moment passes before Frank speaks again, “Whatcha after?”

Party still doesn’t move. “I just asked you for a smoke, Ghoul. Twice. Can I have one?”

Fuck. “Yeah, yeah, sure.” Frank catches the hint of a smile twisting over Party’s lips when he tussles with the packet of cigarettes forced into the front pocket of his pants. They’re not too small for him–just desert-worn and fixed into place by a substantial layer of dirt and a ratty old belt–but he’s all but contemplated burning them by this point. Being unable to retrieve his packet of smokes is just another tally-mark scratched into their death warrant.

Party watches him curiously, eyes dancing with mirth. “So. When exactly did jeans become such a struggle for you?” he enquires. Frank grits his cigarette between his teeth and shoots the hardest glare he can muster with one hand wedged in his pocket.

“I’ve changed my mind, Ghoulie. I’m good with yours.” Party plucks the still-glowing cigarette out of Frank’s mouth before he has chance to protest. He brings it to his lips and takes a deep drag. “Oh man, this is the life,” Party sighs happily, the smoke coiling, python-like, out of his mouth as the cigarette dangles precariously between two fingers.

Frank fixes Party with his best recreation of Jet’s disapproving mom stare. “And I’m tempted to end yours if you don’t give that back.” The only sign that Party hears him is the way that his eyes crinkle in the corner..

“You know what?” Party continues conversationally, “There weren’t any of these back in Bat City. No alcohol, no smokes, no music, no free will... it was shit. If it wasn’t for the never-ending torture, I might’ve put a note in the BLI suggestion box.” He laughs a little at his own joke, the sound edged with a sliver of mania. “Kinda difficult to make your figurative voice heard when you've been screaming for the last day and a half.”

Frank tugs his hand back out of his pocket and coughs. “Uh…”

“Kidding, don’t worry.” Party rolls his eyes when he catches his wide-eyed expression, waving the cigarette as he laughs airily. It sounds forced. “Unhealthy coping mechanisms. You know how it is.”

‘Not really’, Frank wants to mutter, but Party’s got the kind of smile that’s stretched at the seams, threads pulled too tight, and he doesn’t want to push it. But, he does take his chance the snatch his cigarette back from Party’s loose hand (not that there’s any point now–the filter’s practically dead–but it’s more of a matter of pride than anything else) and smirks as he sucks down the final dregs of smoke out before blowing them back into Party’s face. Topic change. That, he can do.

Party wafts the smoke from his face and coughs melodramatically, but for once, his eyes are bright when he smiles. He bumps Frank’s shoulder with his own. “The others were wondering where you were, by the way. Or what you’re doing.” He shrugs. “Either. Both. I don’t really know.”

Frank snorts. “What, you’re the messenger boy now? Isn’t Jet terrified that you’re going to bolt off or something?”

He’s half-expecting Party to flinch, maybe pull that kicked-puppy expression that he used whenever he’d want something that Frank wouldn’t want to give him. Instead, he flashes another grin (still just as fake as the previous ones) and sniggers. “Nah,” he says dryly, “Or at least he hasn’t said so. You’ve just been out here for ages.”

“Ages?” Frank flicks the cigarette butt to the ground before it has chance to scald his fingers. “I’ve only been out here for a smoke, which you took.” He finishes with a glare, one which Party still remains impervious to.

“You’ve had at least–what? Three? Four?” He nods to the cigarette stubs littering the ground around Frank’s feet and tuts in dismay. “And you wouldn’t even offer me one.”

“You took mine.”

“More of a ‘borrow’, really, wasn’t it?”

There’s a loud thump on the wall next to the saloon doors and they both jump at the sound. Party’s hand is already on the blaster at his thigh.

Kobra’s voice is slightly muffled, but still discernible. “Is Ghoul finished smoking himself into an early grave yet?” he shouts, and Frank snickers.

Party rolls his eyes. “Still better than letting dracs do it for you,” he mutters, a wry grin snipping at the corner of his mouth. He yells back, “Give it another minute!” and there’s an exaggerated sigh from inside the building. Frank shakes his head in disbelief.

“Whatever,” he hears Kobra say, “whatever. It’s like he’s never fuckin’ left, Jet, I swear to…” His voice trails off and Frank imagines him sulking in indignation as Jet attempts to persuade him back onto the subject at hand.  

That reminds him.

“So has Jet Star spoken to you yet?” he asks, trying for casual, but he can tell from his own voice that it comes out anything but. Party cocks an eyebrow and shakes his head, and only then does Frank notice that what he’d said about the stolen Battery City hair dye was true; it’s fading, the bright red plagued with a darker scarlet streaks that he can only compare to the colour of blood. And that only reminds him of the–what? Vision? Flashback?–that the Phoenix Witch had shown him: Party coughing blood over BLI’s polished floors.

“Should he have?” Party asks, and Frank shrugs noncommittally. “Is that why you’re being so pissy?”

“What? I’m not being pissy-“

Party’s raised eyebrow when he says “oh, sure, I believe you,” indicates that he does not, in fact, believe him. “So you’ve been glaring at Jet for the last three hours because… what? His hair has suddenly become a major source of offense to you?”

“Shut up,” Frank snipes and, after a moment, settles down amidst the dirt and the cigarette stubs, feet stretched out in front of him. Party follows. “Seriously. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Just that Jet is going to take the girl out of here–away from you–the moment we get her back, and that means that I’m never going to see her again. Because fuck. There’s not a chance in hell that I’m leaving you out here.

“Well. I’m convinced,” Party deadpans. “How about you try that one more time, yeah?” He’s close enough for Frank to feel the thin muscle and bone through his jacket, where their shoulders are pressed together, and he sighs and rests his head against the spot where Party’s neck meets his shoulder. It’s not as comfortable as he’d first thought it’d be–his neck twinges from the angle almost immediately–but he doesn’t want to move. Especially not when Party tilts his head to the side so that his cheek is resting on top of Frank’s head.  He’s glad Party can’t see his face, and the dumbass smile that tugs at his lips.

“Just speak to him.” Frank tugs at a loose thread in his jeans, making the hole in the knee even bigger than it was before. “He’s being weird about you, but I can’t really explain it. Just- yeah, just ask him about it.”

Party’s shoulders jump a little as he laughs bitterly. “I’ve managed to put a knife in his face, Ghoulie, I don’t exactly blame him.”

“You don’t?” Frank turns to him, raising his head. His neck cracks ominously. “But it wasn’t you. Like, we both know the kinda fucked up things that happen in Bat City. I don’t want to imagine the shit they put you through.” He ignores the way that Party’s shoulders stiffen. “It’s not your fault. And it’s over now, anyway. Jet shouldn’t be holding something like that against you.”

Party cackles, and it’s a violent, surprising burst of sound that’s lightning-strike sudden. Frank jolts away like he’s been shocked. “Sure, sure.” His voice is the harsh side of just too bitter. “Stab someone, choke someone else, kill countless zone runners, betray even more… I’m a good guy now, though, so none of that matters, right?”

“You never stopped being a good guy,” Frank insists, catching his shoulders and giving him a shake, like that’s going to somehow help. “Listen to me, okay? Just- just listen. None of this was you. Don't be stupid.”

Party’s not being stupid- Frank knows that- but it's making his head spin, panic stir somewhere deep in his gut. He’s feeling guilty. Guilty people end up falling into downward spirals and self-destructing pirouettes, and then, when- if- they land, it's almost impossible to drag them back out of the hole they’ve dug for themselves. He knows that well enough himself (except he is guilty- guilty of fucking up and never being good enough, letting Party down- but that's different).

“It's okay.” Frank isn’t going to let him feel like this- hating himself for something that wasn’t his fault, pushed to the point where he’s convinced that getting killed won’t matter as long as The Job Gets Done- if he can help it. And he’s sure that he can. “It doesn’t matter how long it takes for you to believe it or how many times I’ll have to say it to you. I’ll steal one of D’s recording machines and have me saying it on repeat, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, if I have to, alright? I’ll convince you.”

The only sound is the dry silence that laps at them like waves, flooding the empty space Party’s words leave behind. Party turns to him with broken eyes.

“Party Poison’s a killjoy traitor.” He uses his fingers as air quotes. “You shoulda seen it, Frankie. It was all over the walls. You’ve gotta appreciate the dedication some people have towards hating me. I mean, if they’d been caught, they’d’ve been ghosted for sure. Or thrown in the Tube, I don’t know.”

Frank doesn’t know what the Tube is, but this isn’t the right time to ask.

“You realise all of this was BLI, right?” Frank’s trying to make his voice as calm and soothing as he can, but he’s not sure if it’s working. The ridges of Party’s collarbones are digging into Frank’s hands, making the dips beneath them all the more prominent. Party doesn’t meet his eyes. “If BLI wanted you safe, as someone they could use, you’d have never left Bat City. They didn’t try and get you back after they found you. I’m guessing they made you hate us, specifically, yeah?”

It’s a wild shot, but from the way that Party’s eyes widen, he’s guessing that he’s hit his mark.

“That’s what they do,” Party says softly. “They break people down. Build ‘em back up. That’s what you said, didn’t you- that they ‘put you back together all wrong’.”

Party’s breath jangles, lungs filled with scraps of metal, loose pins, and oil that rattles with every nudge. “I thought I killed you,” he mumbles, his voice a hushed whisper. His hands come up to cradle Frank’s face, his breath gliding over Frank’s face and sending goosebumps rippling over his skin. There’s something edging towards animal panic there, too–just from the awareness of how close Party’s hands are to his throat; how easy it could be for Party to change his grip and for his fingers to be pressing into Frank’s throat, but he swallows it back down. His fingers grow lax against Party’s shoulders.

“You didn’t though,” Frank murmurs. “It’s okay.”

It’s not okay. He doubts it’ll ever be okay. But Frank can’t say that.  

“I could have,” he whispers, voice cracking, but his hands are still feather-light on Frank’s face. “I just… I don’t want to imagine that. I don’t want to imagine you… not being here.”

He’s so careful, touching Frank like he could shatter in a heartbeat. He smells of sweat and old leather and something so heartbreakingly sweet; something that’s just so familiar and perfect that it makes his heartbeat stutter erratically.

Party leans close and kisses him, gently–oh so gently–and Frank lets his eyelids flutter closed as he falls into it. It’s nothing like the other times they’ve kissed. It still blows Frank’s mind, that this is a thing; that they fit together so perfectly that it’s almost as if they could have always been something.

Frank rises onto his knees, leaning down into the kiss and draping his arms over Party’s shoulders; cradling the back of his head and blindly running his fingers through Party’s red, red hair. And Party’s hands are at his waist, pulling him forwards, pulling him close, and Frank can’t get enough. He can’t-

“Ew.” Kobra’s voice slices through the fog in Frank’s head like a hot knife. Party and Frank jerk away from each other, breathing hard, whipping around to face Kobra and Jet. They’re both leaning around the saloon doors, one above the other, so comically Frank might’ve laughed if he didn’t just get caught halfway onto Party’s lap.

Jet gives them a small wave from over Kobra’s head.

“You guys busy?” Kobra asks, and Party looks to Frank and then back to them.

“No?” Party replies, but it comes out shrill and unsure. He’s got one hand resting on Frank’s thigh.

“Cool.” Kobra grins. “You guys comin’ in? I know Ghoul said he’d be a few minutes, but we were looking at some of the schedules and figured you might want to have a look.”

“Yeah, yeah, we should.” Party turns to Frank and offers him a shy smile. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, and he offers Frank a hand up. But once they’re both on their feet, he doesn’t let go; he intertwines their fingers and Frank can’t stop himself beaming straight back. And he’s not blushing. He’s absolutely not.

They’re sliding back through the doors, Party subtly ignoring Jet subtly ignoring him, when Kobra catches Frank’s shoulder and twists him angrily around to face him, Party stumbling a little because Frank’s not letting go, damnit. Kobra’s expression is dagger-sharp and just as dangerous.

“Leave Gerard alone,” he hisses in a voice quiet enough for only Frank to hear. “You’re gonna leave him the fuck alone, okay?”

And Kobra’s angry. Furiously angry, but there’s so much burning, smouldering emotion lurking beneath it, that Frank can’t help but wonder whether Dr Death-Defying (aside from Party and himself) is really the only one wracked with guilt.

Chapter Text

If Frank were anyone else—particularly, someone with even a fraction of self-control—he’d brush Kobra’s comment off, take a slow breath, and remember that ‘ hey, Kobra’s been through a lot. Shit’s gone to Hell and back again, and maybe he’s got a reason for being an ass. And maybe Frank shouldn’t choke himself on the end of his own tether’.

Of course, (and unfortunately) Frank isn’t ‘anyone else’, and he only manages to make it just past the threshold of the building before he’s ripping himself away from Party. Frank spins around, reaching out and hauling Kobra forwards by the collar of his jacket Kobra’s eyes are sharp and bitterly cold, but they widen when Frank gets in close. It’s as if he hadn’t been expecting Frank to react at all.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Frank spits, the rage singing on his tongue like something deceptively sour. There’s barely time to acknowledge the sudden change in Kobra’s expression— as icy fingers wrap around Frank’s wrists and Kobra’s slipping a heel slips behind Frank’s ankle— before his feet are swept out from under him. He topples, lands heavily, and the back of his skull smacks into the wooden floorboards with a sharp crack. A red-hot shot of pain spears through his head, down his spine, and it takes him another moment to taste the blood in his mouth. He’s bitten his tongue.

His hands are still in Kobra’s jacket and Frank drags him down with him; there’s a sharp elbow in his shoulder, a knee in his stomach, and the air’s punched out of his lungs. He’s not sure when he loses his grip on the jacket, but he does, and then Kobra’s scrambling to his feet and Frank’s just got enough sense to think ‘no chance, motherfucker’ . He lashes out with blind fists is rewarded with the crunch of contact and a pained, bitten-off grunt, and then Kobra’s falling back on top of him.

Well, fuck, the guy’s a lot heavier than he looks.

“Get off !” barks a harsh voice next to his ear. Distantly, Frank registers someone shouting his name before a knee catches him in the side. He wheezes. Then there’s another shout behind him, a scrabble of hands on his shoulders, and then he’s being hauled to his feet. Frank blinks, and Kobra’s face comes into focus, drawn tight with anger.

“What the hell, Ghoul?” Jet has an iron grip on both Frank’s upper arms and is still heaving him backwards—away from Kobra, like Frank’s the problem. The thought rips a bitter snap of a laugh from his chest and he tries to tear himself away, but Jet’s not letting go.

“What?” he spits out. “What’s up with me? Why don’t you ask Kobra, considerin’ he’s the one who seems to have the big fuckin’ issue!”

Kobra snorts. “Coming from the guy acting like egocentrism is a virtue.” He’s in a similar position to Frank, except it’s Party’s holding him back—arms trapped behind him but braced forward, Kobra’s glare fervent enough to make Frank feel like he’s been doused in gasoline and Kobra’s the one holding the lighter.

Party’s refusing to look at Frank and it aches, like loose gravel caught in between his ribs.

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” Frank’s voice comes out harsher than he ever thought it could. His heart is thundering like it’s trying to tear itself out of his chest and he’s deafened by the sound of blood roaring through his ears. Jet isn’t relinquishing his hold anytime soon, but Frank leans against it anyway, a bloodhound pulling against its leash.

Kobra’s eyes gleam.

“Seriously,” Frank continues, the words tasting suffocatingly sweet on his tongue. “You’ve had a problem since me an’ Gee got back here. What is it? You’d like it better if I’d just got ghosted out there? That it?”

It’s a low blow. If Party wasn’t directly behind him, Kobra looks like he might’ve taken a step back.  Something melts from his expression, and suddenly he doesn’t seem to be able to meet Frank’s stare.

Frank feels Jet’s fingers dig into his arms, and now he’s being wrenched farther backwards before being spun around and boy , does Jet Star look furious—a burning, barely contained anger—that sears Frank’s skin and evaporates all of the anger in his system. It was worse than the time Jet had hit Frank after catching him trying to sneak back into Battery City, all those months ago.

Frank’s on a roll : he’s managed to piss off two of the three in, what? Three minutes? He’s doing fantastically.

“Don’t fucking say that.” Jet’s voice is strained and carefully controlled, and Frank can’t tell if he’s angry at what he said or him . Or maybe it’s less anger and more disappointment that he could’ve suggested it; that he even considered something like that as a plausible possibility. Jet’s eyes are glittering. Guilt rises like bile and Frank can’t swallow it back down.

“Of course I didn’t want that,” Kobra says stonily from the other side of the room. “It’s nothing like that. But he’s my brother and you’re just- you’re so-”

“Yeah?” Frank snarls, twisting back to face him. He feels Jet readjust his grip on his arms. “What am I? Fucking enlighten me.”

Kobra tosses his head. “Fine,” he snaps, his voice acidic, and he attempts a step forward. Party tugs him back, still staring at the ground. He looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. “You’re fucking selfish and it’s pissing me off. It’s always about you—not me or Jet, not even Party. He got caught. He got hurt. He did. Even when he attacked me and Jet and then disappeared—it was still all about you .”

Frank’s blood is boiling. He feels volcanic: magma bubbling to the surface, simmering underneath his skin, making his head feel light. That’s what this is about. That’s what this is all about.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Frank scorns. “This is because you’re jealous? What, didn’t you get enough attention?”

“Fuck off,” Kobra spits back. “That’s not what I fucking meant. But you’re forgetting that my brother’s the one who got cut up and messed up and made to think that-“

Party’s shoving him roughly away before he can finish and Kobra staggers forward, unbalanced, and it takes far too long for him to catch himself. Party drags in a breath that sounds like metal tearing. His hands are quivering.

Kobra gathers himself, the anger draining away as quickly as the blood from his face. “Gee?” he asks, in a voice caught between soft and shaken, “I didn’t mean…”

Frank meets Party’s eyes for the briefest of seconds and they’re wide and panicked, the kind of fear you’d expect from an animal at the receiving end of a knife. His nostrils flare, fists flexing shakily at his sides. His eyes dart around frantically, almost for an exit, an escape route. He’s a spooked animal.

“Hey,” Frank murmurs, “you alright?”. Party can’t seem to be able to look at any of them. He takes another shuddering step backwards, a tortured sound ripping itself from the chasms of his chest.

Frank feels Jet drop his arms. “Hey, Party? Can you look at me? Look at me.” Jet approaches him slowly, but Party flinches violently when his hand lands on his shoulder, like he’s only just noticed he’s there. “Gerard? You okay?”

There suddenly seems to be far less air in the room than there had been minutes before—as if what little oxygen that’s left is stretched over the entire room, leaving Frank to feel like he’s drowning.

A guttural, panicked sound clambers out of Party’s throat. “I- I gotta get some air,” he coughs, “I’m gonna- yeah” He tears his hands across his face, chokes out another breath, and winds his arms around himself—like he can feel himself cracking on the inside and he’s trying the fissures back together before he shatters. A moment passes, where time seems to be suspended in the air—a puppet choking on its strings. Party spins around and staggers outside.

They’re left with a silence that falls like a coffin lid. Frank’s chest aches.

Kobra clears his throat. “I’m gonna…” he gestures towards the same door Party left through, but Jet cuts him off.

“Not a chance. You two-“ he points at Kobra, and then there’s something sticky—like tar or disappointment—that soaks the air when he turns to Frank, “are gonna sort your shit out. You’re both being little kids. Cut it the fuck out.”

It feels like being scolded by a parent. Frank doesn’t reply, and neither does Kobra. Jet goes after Party without another word, slamming the door shut behind him.

For a long minute, the loudest sound Frank can hear is his own breathing. Then there’s a sound of floorboards groaning and he looks up to see Kobra turning to follow after Jet.

“Where are you going?” he asks, and Kobra starts, as if he wasn’t expecting Frank to speak at all.

“To see my brother. Why does it matter to you?”

“We’re not going to sort this out first?” Frank’s not particularly surprised.

Kobra raises a superior eyebrow and the angry sting returns to the room. “I’m sorry, are we in a self-destructive relationship now? Shall we sit down and have a nice chat about our problems?”

Something about the way he says it makes Frank feel like he’s missing out on something obvious—like the times you try to look at something that’s far too close to your face to allow your eyes to focus, and you’re left with a blurred semblance of something that may or may not be what you think it is.

“Go see D,” Kobra doesn’t give Frank a chance to talk. “We told him that Party- and you- are back, but he still hasn’t came out yet. See if he wants to talk.” He’s got his shoulders bunched up around his ears, bricking up a wall and blocking out any further conversation, and then he’s out of the room before Frank has opened his mouth.

Frank’s not even angry anymore. He’s confused and weary and Jesus; if this was what an argument with Kobra felt like, he’d hate to fight with someone he was in a relationship with. The back of his head is beginning to throb—a dull ache that curdles and promises to sprout into a lump within the next hour. The last thing he needs.

Frank sighs to himself in the empty room.

The dry sun stabs at his skin as he slips out of the battered room and back into the hot, soulless expanse of desert, but the sensation’s familiar, bordering on comforting. The rest of the world seemed to be spinning a hundred times too fast, thrashing people and places and events together into an unrecognizable parallel universe.

He keeps his hands in his pockets and his gaze on the ground as he navigates his way to Dr Death-Defying’s radio studio. The door’s kept ajar, so Frank stands in the doorway, his knuckles rapping against the wooden frame.

It’s far less of a mess than he expected, if he’s completely honest. Watery light seeps through the gaps between the boarded-up windows, dust particles dancing through the thin streams as if they’re afraid to touch the ground. A light bulb dangles in the middle of the room, hanging from a single wire and flickering faintly. Watching it for a few seconds, Frank’s starting to expect the fuse to blow at any moment.

Dr Death-Defying is bowed over the microphone, his back to the door. It’s not even clear as to whether he hears Frank knock the first time, but on the second go, his tired shoulders seem to jump.

“Who’s it?”

Frank leans around the door and offers a small wave towards D’s back. “Heya, D. I’m still alive.”

D twists as far round in his chair as he can manage, and his face lights up when he sees Frank.  He can’t help but notice the shadows pooling beneath his eyes.

“Fun Ghoul! You’re still rollin’! Good ta see ya!” He’s turned his chair around before Frank’s managed to actually get inside the room, and is wheeling at a high-speed towards him before stuttering to a stop bare inches from Frank’s feet. Narrowed, coal-black eyes assess him, scraping at layers of skin and making Frank feel uncomfortably exposed, but then the tight-set line of Dr Death’s mouth splits into a warm smile. “Star had came an’ said you an’ Party Poison were back round, but I didn’t wanna come an’ intrude.” He pauses. “How’s he? How’s you ?”

Frank takes a moment. The place still looks just as it always has, just as it did when they were last in there, and the thought’s almost disconcerting; none of them are the same, but everything else is. Blood’s been shed and people have been tortured and friends have fought, but to anyone else, it might as well have never happened. The world moved on regardless. It’s an odd thought.

“Party’s decent,” he finally manages, “I mean, he’s not trying to kill us? He said something changed, so I think… y’know, I think he’s okay. Not great, but okay.”

“An’ you?” D peers at him.

Frank shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m not the one who got fucked around by BLi, so I can’t complain really, can I?”

“You don’t gotta compare troubles,” Dr Death replies with a shake of his head, rolling away and back towards his desk. He readjusts his microphone. “Someone might have it rougher, but that don’t ever discount your own problems. They still have a big effect, otherwise you’d just be able to brush ‘em off. You shouldn’t try an’ pack ‘em away.”

“You’re an oracle,” Frank says flatly, but D keeps his back at him.

“I’d say losin’ your friend, gettin’ close ta’ killed by him, an’ then gettin’ shot outside Bat City wasn’t exactly a whole heap of fun, now was it?” he asks. Frank almost swallows his own tongue.

“How- Who told you about that? There wasn’t anyone else there.”

D turns and tilts his head curiously. “I know plenty of people who know plenty of things. It weren’t exactly a surprise, kiddo, considerin’ you’d torn off like you had Korse on your tail. Didn’t tell your pals, though. So what’d the Phoenix Witch tell you? Sommat ‘bout the girl? Anythin’ helpful?”

Frank forces in a breath and takes a moment to process.

“Uh, yeah? I’m not-” Frank hasn’t told anyone about what’d happened. He’s mostly convinced himself that it was something close to a near-death experience—maybe a hallucination or dream. Anything that can be explained rationally, and still half unsure about what else it could’ve been.

How do you even open a conversation about something as far-fetched as this? ‘Hey, Party, so when I got shot in Battery City tunnel, I had a hallucination where I had a conversation with the Phoenix Witch, who informed me that the girl we’d been looking after possesses some inhuman ability to affect electricity or power or something and will either save or destroy Battery City. Oh yeah, and I had something close to a vision, where I saw you being beaten, drugged and oh, on the brink of death.’

“I guess?” Frank says. “I don’t- I don’t really know? Maybe.”

Dr Death-Defying hums. “Well, if you think of anythin’, lemme know.” He turns back to his desk, fiddling with some of the buttons and the static leaps out of the speakers like a predator before the volume’s reigned in.

Frank drags his feet over the floor. “So, D?” he begins, “you okay?”

“’Course.” Dr Death-Defying doesn’t even look around.

“Still defying death?”

“Always.”

There’s a nagging sense of worry in the pit of Frank’s stomach, one that refuses to dissipate no matter how much he tries to break it apart. He swallows roughly and folds his arms, tries to stare a hole through D’s skull and figure out what’s going on in his head.

Frank takes a deep breath. The air tastes of dried, dead wood and weariness. There’s the muffled sound of a motor—probably a car or a motorbike (no reason to worry: BLi have never found Dr Death-Defying’s shack, and they never will).

“Jet Star was saying you felt guilty,” Frank finally forces himself to say, “and I just wanted you to know it wasn’t your fault. There wasn’t anything you could’a done about Party, like, freakin, and going after-”

He’s interrupted by D’s exhausted sigh. He pushes away from his desk and moves his chair back around to face Frank. There’s far too many tired lines collecting over his face, sleepless bruises hanging beneath his eyes.

“I’m fine, Ghoul,” he grumbles, dragging his tired hands over his face. “Ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle.”

“Seriously,” Frank insists, “it wasn’t anything to do with you. There’s no reason to feel bad.”

He chews over it for a second. “What did you talk to Party about? When you said you wanted to talk to him alone? Was that what set him off?”

The groan of the motor is choked off abruptly, as if its throat has been cut, but it’s replaced with a voice, seemingly female, the words indistinguishable. There’s something wrong, Frank can feel it, just as the way that the hair on your arms stands up a fraction of a second before a lightning strike.

“Can you hear-“

“I should’a warned you about those drugs Show Pony brought up,” Dr Death-Defying cuts in roughly. “When our girl was still ‘round, when we knew that they were makin’ new medicine, I should’a told you to keep safe. I should’a told you to keep careful.”

Frank offers him a shrug and a wry smile, half distracted by the the tension in his gut. “D, do you really think we could’ve actually kept away from BLi? Seriously, there was no chance.”

There’s another shout from outside. This time, it’s undoubtedly Jet Star. Dr Death-Defying opens his mouth and Frank jumps in.

“I gotta see what’s happening. Can- stay here.” He’s running out of the studio, past the small kitchenette where Party had stolen a knife and used it on Jet, through the diner, and out into the open air, where he skids to a stop.

There’s a sense of déjà vu. The faint notion that this has happened before , back when Frank was on the ground and watching Party and the girl being dragged away.

It’s sunset, and the sky’s so red that it might as well be bleeding. There’s a hiss of smoke hanging in the air, grey and acrid, scratching at his skin. It takes Frank another moment to make out the two new figures, standing next to a motorbike: a furious-looking droid and a tall, more hesitant man. Both their ray guns are aimed at Party, who’s unarmed and staring them down.

He looks so blank that it’s bridging on terrifying.  

Kobra and Jet are just metres behind Party, and they have their blasters pointed back at the duo. “You’re going to get the fuck away from my brother,” warns Kobra, but his voice is shaking. He doesn’t sound sure. He’s drenched in the red sunlight and Frank shivers. He inches his fingers towards the gun in his belt.

“You kidding me?” The female droid spits, and Frank imagines a flush rising in her cheeks if she weren’t made of metal. Her voice is a shriek of grinding gears and dry motor oil, but there’s fury rushing off it in a torrent. “After the fucking things he’s done ? Do you know how many people he’s ratted out? He shouldn’t be here . He shouldn’t be alive !”

Party doesn’t say a thing. He doesn’t even flinch.

“That wasn’t him! ” Kobra snaps, his finger flexing at the trigger. No one’s given the opportunity to say anything. “You really think you could handle BLi?”

The man next to the droid takes a step forward and raises his both his hands into the air. “Parley.” His voice is sand-paper rough. “Like, when you wanna chat? I ain’t some killer, so… parley? Ya'know, 'parley', like when ya wanna talk it out instead of fightin'?” Frank can’t make out his face, but he slinks towards Kobra and Jet, trying to attract as little attention as he can.

The girl scoffs. The left side of her face is swathed in scratches, ice-white, as if she’s been dragged along the ground, through the grit and gravel. “I’m not talking this out-”

“This ain’t gonna help matters,” the guy says carefully, glancing back at the droid. He’s got an old scar along his chin and a jaw sharp enough to break diamond, and Frank recongnises him.  “You wanna hear ‘em out? I don’t wanna get in some fight if we don’t hafta.”

The droid glares up at him resentfully. “I’m not gonna sit down to chat with the person who got my best friend killed,” she informs him, and oh , he’s met her before, too: she and another girl had been the ones escaping Battery City. They’d swapped stolen weaponry for food, way back when. “I appreciate your help so far, man, but it’s not gonna change anything.”

The man sighs and turns back to Party, then Jet and Kobra. He finally notices Frank, and there’s momentary confusion before his mouth splits into an oversized, knife-sharp grin. He waves with the hand not holding the ray gun.

“Fun Ghoul! My man!” Cherri Cola calls out to him, “good to see you lookin’ alive! Wanna help me understand what’s happenin’?”

Chapter Text

Four pairs of eyes turn on him and Frank forces a wave. “Heya, Cherri,” he says cheerily. “Good to see you too.”

“What’s going on here?” Jet doesn’t lower the ray gun, but neither does anyone else. They’re all watching him expectantly. Frank’s starting to empathise with any animal finding itself caught in the beam of oncoming headlights. “How do you know Fun Ghoul?”

Party blinks over at him behind a curtain of tangled red hair, his expression unreadable, but Cherri just shrugs easily. “Hey, I just helped him out over by Zone 1 with his car. It weren’t working.” He turns back to Frank. “You changed that lead yet? Otherwise you’re gonna be back where you were again, an’ I ain’t got another spare.”

Everyone else appears no less confused. Kobra frowns, “wait, you didn’t say you’d been over to-“

“No!” Frank butts in, desperately hoping Cherri Cola can understand the blatant ‘DO NOT MENTION’ look that he’s giving him- wide eyes and all. “Why, no, Cherri, I haven’t. Thank you for the reminder!”

Kobra furrows his eyebrows. Cherri catches on. “Oh, well, you probably should-”

“Listen.” The droid jostles him aside. “I don’t wanna talk to any of you, okay? I was told Dr Deaath-Defying was here and that he could help me out, but if I’d known that Killjoys would be here, protecting scarecrows, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“Party’s not a scarecrow.”

The droid’s turning her blaster on Frank even as he speaks, as if it’s instinctual. Her metal eyes are narrowed. She doesn’t trust him; doesn’t trust any of them, he realises, and it’s a sudden, shocking revelation- he’s not used to other zonerunners being suspicious of him.

“Really?” she asks coolly, “because I’d disagree.” 

“I’m not a scarecrow,” Party’s voice is cutting- a rough mess of gravel and serrated steel. He’s still staring- almost as if he’s transfixed- at the ground, his hair hanging in a clotted canopy in front of his face. “I was part of BLi. I helped them. I gave them the information they wanted and shot people they told me to. But I wasn’t a scarecrow. I’m not a scarecrow.” He doesn’t shout- he doesn’t need to. Everyone hears him perfectly fine.

A shiver scuttles down Frank’s spine. He sees Jet’s raised hand tremble. But the droid’s storming towards Party with her blaster trained unsteadily on him, and she’s changed a lot from the droid Frank had spoken to months ago. She’s not even human, but there’s still a harsher edge to her now.

Maybe that’s just the zones’ effect of people: maybe the wear, tear and despair are the concomitant perils that come with a non BLI-approved lifestyle.

“You kidding me?” she bites. “You just think a minor semantic correction justifies it?” She stops less than a metre away, arm outstretched, but Party doesn’t even lift his head. “Look at me you murderer!”

Her voice cracks like heated glass pushed to breaking point. Of course. There’d been that other girl with her. She must have- shit. Frank glances back at Party. Oh, well, shit.

Jet steps forward cautiously, opens his arms. “Listen,” he begins gently, “I understand what must’ve happened, but-“

“You don’t understand shit,” the droid bites back. “If you understood, you’d have killed him. If you’d seen what everyone else has seen, been hurt like everyone else has hurt, you would’ve killed him. But here you are, protecting him instead. It’s despicable. You’re all despicable.”

Party’s raised his head and seems to switch between the exchange like he’s watching a rally. He doesn’t say anything. It’s almost as if he couldn’t care about the outcome. Frank’s stomach twists.

“Seriously? You don’t think that we know? We get it better than you ever could!” He turns the nausea and the anger into something hard, like iron, something he can use. “You don’t think I know this isn’t right? You don’t think that I knew that when my best friend tried to kill us, time and time again?”

He can’t feel his feet. He can’t feel the furious torrent of a voice tumbling out of his mouth, but he can hear it, just like he knows that he’s advancing on the droid with more anger bubbling to the surface. Just like he sees himself pointing to the knife-slash scar that cuts from the corner of his mouth to the hinge of his jaw. “You don’t think that this aches every-fucking-time I talk and that I wish I’d never gone up to Korse when I did? Party came back anyway, but then, he’s fucking pleased that I got attacked, so what had been the point? You see what’s happened to Jet’s face, and you think you know him, or me, or any of us? You think you know Party and everything he’s been through?”

The droid doesn’t move for a long moment- in fact, every single person around him is turned to him, half-frozen- while she processes. And then she shoves Cherri’s hand off her arm. “You really think he should be shown anything different to what he showed everyone else?” she demands, pushing past Party (which is a relief, at least to the unacknowledged, self-destructive part of Frank) and driving forward until she’s nose-to-nose with him.

He can smell steel and oil and anger. He can feel the heat from the metal and her glare. But he doesn’t let himself turn away.

“You don’t know anything,” he finishes, and she doesn’t.

The droid looks at him for a hard moment. “I know that he’s a traitor,” she says coldly. “And he won’t even admit to it.” She twists back around to face Party. “He won’t even look at me- look at me!”

So he does. “Why?” Party inquires coolly, brushing the hair from his eyes. “Would it be easier for you to shoot me if you can see my face?”

The droid readjusts her grip on the blaster. She looks out of place.

Frank’s a handful of feet from Party, slightly closer than the droid. If she tried to shoot… he’d be able to push him out of the way… but then would Kobra or Jet get hit instead? Unless he went for the droid instead…

“Because, you see,” Party continues, voice growing harder by the syllable, a steadily-approaching glacier, clipping of vowels and dragging out syllables until it’s closing in on the Battery City accent with every word, “what I always found was that when I was in BLI, when they were asking me questions, they’d shock you whether or not they could see your face. And they’d cut you up too. They’d break your bones, even after you told them everything you could… you could lie until you ran out of lies, been honest until you’d ran out of truths, and then go back to lying again because you think you can give them what they want to hear.”

The most terrifying this is that he doesn’t move; Party’s almost a statue as he talks- spits out the words like they’re bitter- until there’s only the flash of his eyes and the furious torrent of words that could really convince anyone that he wasn’t frozen. A standing corpse.

That’s it: he’s leaning so awkwardly, his limbs caught at such sharp angles- that he may as well be a scarecrow. A real scarecrow. The thought crashes into Frank like a fever.

“-And the reason that they’d keep- the only reason that they’d keep going is because they could. Because she could.” A harsh rush of dry wind shadows his words, and then it’s silent. Everyone’s silent. Frank’s hands are shaking. He pushes them deep into his jacket pockets.

It’s okay now- Party’s back, Party’s here, Party’s going to be okay. They’re all going to be okay. They’ve got to be okay-

There’s a brief shard of an instant where he almost wonders whether it’s worked- maybe it’s just shock, or horror, but the droid seems to freeze, seems to question herself. Then she steels herself, gives herself a shake, and she makes it a half a metre before Cherri’s hand is wrapping around her bicep and hauling her away.

“I mean it,” her tells sharply, “you’re gonna calm down. You’re not killin’ anyone.”

“You’re kidding,” the droid hisses, and the atmosphere’s spitting with electricity and tension, as if particles are splitting apart in front of them. The hair on Frank’s arms stand on end. The tips of his fingers prickle uncomfortably.

“Did you know that people used to look up to him?” she jerks her thumb towards Party without turning her head. “Did you know that he used to be a hero to some of them in Battery City? People would risk their lives, just to have a chance of getting out and living like you guys. They’d hear about how amazing your girl was- how she could somehow save the world one day- and they’d wish that could be them.” She shakes her head in disgust, finally turns away. “You’ve let people down.”

That. That hurts. That’s a knife in his sternum, a shard of glass sliding in between his vertebrae.

People believed in them. People believed in him. And he’s let people down.

Maybe it’s just more of the confirmation- it’s something he’s always been sure that he’d do, but never knowing when, and now that he has… well, once you’ve lost all trust and respect, what’s left worth saving?

“You know what?” Jet steps forward. “If we have to choose between Party and people’s respect, we pick him. We pick him any day.” He back to Frank and Kobra. “Right?”

“I’m never choosing anyone over my brother,” Kobra agrees. Frank nods.

Jet shoots them both a warm smile, and this is finally when Party lifts his head to look over at them- the corner of his mouth kicking up in relief. This time, he doesn’t flinch away when Jet drops his hand onto his shoulder.

“I understand why you’re angry,” Jet tells her gently, “I do, honestly. He’s the one who did this-“ he waves vaguely towards his eyepatch, “but this won’t help anything. It- this is will sound stupid, I know- but it’s not his fault. He’s not to blame for this.”

“If he’s not, then who is?”

Kobra shakes his head. “It’s BLi. It’s always BLi.” He sighs. “We’re going to take them down, but Party’s one of us. We just don’t work without him. If you won’t do it for us, think about how much we’ll be able to hurt BLI.”

 “I mean-” Cherri shrugs and turns a questioning look towards Party, who stares back at him evenly. “I’m guessin’ that ya know a whole load about Bat City? Like, some real insider info. It could help.”

“He stole plans already,” Frank supplies, and purposefully ignores the sharp look Party sends his way. It’s not like he’s doing much to help himself right now. “You know our girl? We’re gonna get her back.”

Cherri lets out an appreciative whistle through closed teeth. “Really? Damn.” He gives Party an impressed nod. “Nice one.”

“So that’s it?” the droid cuts in, her voice trembling as violently as her hands. “You’re going to pretend that he’s someone worth forgiving? You’re all just- so he comes back, says sorry, and that’s just it? It’s all fine?”

“It’s not fine at all,” Party adds with a shake of his head, and Frank’s ready to ask him exactly which side is he on.

The droid ignores him. “I’m telling everyone about this. Every single person out here is gonna know about this.” She shakes her head bitterly. “Everyone will hear about how you’re all siding with a BLI traitor and you’ll never be trusted by any of them again.”

She’s spinning on her heel and pocketing her ray gun before any of them can try to stop her. “Thanks for the lift,” she spits at Cherri as she storms past him. “Shame it was for nothin’.”

“Hey, Jet?” Frank murmurs, not taking his eyes off the droid’s retreating back, “hypothetically, would it be sexist to hit her next time we see her, or more sexist to not? Hypothetically.

“Bit harsh there, Ghoul.”

“Hypothetically.”

“Oh look,” Cherri says conversationally, as they watch the droid’s retreating back, the darkening sky clambering over her shoulders like a long-lost friend. “She’s taking my bike. Didn’t even ask. How nice.”

The droid manages to stall the engine twice before she actually gets the motorbike running, but they watch her ride away, wobbling dangerously. Frank looks over. “Shouldn’t you be trying to get that back?” he asks Cherri, but he only shrugs.

“T’was on its last legs anyway, man. I’m giving it fifty miles before the engine’s gone.”

He doesn’t seem particularly bothered, so Frank figures he shouldn’t be either. “Thanks for the help there, though, anyway,” he says, “appreciate it.”

“Why were you two coming over here anyway?” Kobra asks before Cherri can reply, and to Frank it sounds like he’s trying his best to squeeze out the distrust soaking his voice. He doesn’t do it very well.

But Cherri smiles. “She was in one of the inner zones and needed a lift outta there,” he says easily. “I said I was goin’ to see Dr Death-Defyin’, and she said that was cool with her. Sorry ‘bout all the fuss it caused.”

“It’s fine.” Party brushes the apology off with a flick of his wrist, like a speck of lint on his shoulder. “It was justified, but thanks, for like, not shooting me in the face. I appreciate that.”

“Nah, it’s cool.” Cherri rubs his hands together. “But anyway, where is D? I got some stuff to catch up on, clearly.”

Kobra waves his hand in the same fashion as his brother. “A bit of drama, violence and evil corporations, just the usual. I’m Kobra Kid, by the way. You’ve got Jet Star and Party Poison, and you already seem to know Ghoul. C’mon, we’ll show you where D is.”

“I’m Cherri Cola. Lead the way.”

“You feelin’ okay?” Frank asks, as Kobra and Jet walk ahead, keeping a careful distance from Cherri Cola, and Party jerks his chin as a reply. He doesn’t so much as glance over. Frank frowns. “What is it?”

Again nothing. Frank drags his boots through the dust as he walks. There’s a weary breeze whipping up, and it seems insistent in repeatedly tugging his hair into his face.

“I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me what’s up.”

“Well, maybe I don’t need you to do anything.”

Okaaaay, someone’s touchy. Frank raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean by that?” He spits out another mouthful of hair caught between his teeth, but Party doesn’t seem to be suffering from the same problem. Damn bastard, not being phases by the same problems as mere mortals; just the bigger ones, like torture and mind-whammying.

He even manages to pull off weeks’ worth of grime and grease as a near-enviable aesthetic. Real unfair, if you ask Frank.

Party sighs raggedly. “I didn’t mean anything. It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, clearly it meant something, otherwise you wouldn’t have said it.”

“Yeah, well…” Party shifts a little, flails his hands in an ‘I Don’t Know What You Want Me to Say’ gesture, and speeds up. “It’s nothing. We can talk about it later if you want. Let’s go catch up with the others.”

Frank spits out an annoyed sigh and hurries after him, but inside, Cherri Cola’s nowhere to be found. Jet and Kobra are clustered in one of the booths, the table lathered with the plans Party had stolen from Battery City

“What’s goin’ on?” he asks, poking Jet in the side with one finger until he sighs loudly and moves over to give him space to sit. Party grins and sits down next to his brother.

“Cherri Cola’s said he needs to talk to D.” Kobra says with a jerk of his head, “so that’s where he went. D’ya think we should’ve gone with him? You seem to know the guy.”

Frank shrugs. It’s not like he actually has anything other than a vague idea of who the guy is. “Gone with him to see D? I don’t think so. He seems alright.” He hesitates. “And he helped me out when the trans-am broke down, out in, like, one of the zones-“ (he won’t say it was Zone 1 he won’t say it was Zone 1) “- so that, y’know, was good of him. He didn’t seem like a raging psychopath, anyway.”

“Most psychopaths don’t, though.”

“That’s sociopaths, actually.” Jet cuts in. “And I agree, Ghoul, he seemed okay. We could- I don’t know- see if he was up for helping us? I mean, there’s strength in numbers, right?”

“Yeah.” Party nods enthusiastically. “That could definitely work. Another shooter would help massively if we’re going to do this right.”

Kobra leans back in the sea and folds his arms, but he doesn’t say anything else. He still doesn’t looks sure. “I guess it could work,” he edges out, “but we’re gonna need to plan this out properly. Party knows the place better than we ever could, but I still don’t think we can charge in and hope for the best. I mean, we’re not doing great ourselves right now. Jet’s still got his eye fucked up.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Jet says dryly, but Kobra shrugs.

“I mean it. We’ll only have one chance for this, won’t we? We need to get in, get the girl, get out. If we’re lucky, Korse won’t be there-“

Party shakes his head, and at that, cuts Kobra off. “That won’t happen,” he promises. “From what I could tell, The Director stays with the important tests and test subjects-“

-‘Ones like Party’ Frank can’t help but think-

“And wherever she goes, Korse follows. Unless he’s- uh- exterminating in the zones, then he’s in the same building as she is. Always. We’d be best to try and get out before he’s even had a chance to work out we’re here. I can find us the quickest route.”

He shifts through the pile of papers before retrieving the one he’s after. It’s a map of the south quarter of Battery City. “You see here?” He traces the outer wall and a narrow pink line dissecting it at one point with his forefinger. “You’ve got the smaller tunnel entrance here, and it’s only been a few days since Ghoul broke through there, and they might’ve fixed it up again, but I doubt they’ll think anyone’ll come through it again. If they do have reinforcements or a checkpoint there, I’d bet my ass it’d be nothing more than a coupl’o dracs who can’t even do their job properly.”

“Please don’t bet your ass," Frank chirps, and after a long second of processing, Kobra makes a gagging sound. “You okay?" he asks innocently, complete with wide eyes and a honeyed expression.

"Please shut up."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

Party clears his throat. "Uh- yeah, so, anyway..." Frank doesn't think anyone else catches the bemused smile Party throws him as he back to the papers. “We could be in an’ out, easy peasy, and maybe even not have to worry about Korse at all, if we’re fast enough.”

Jet draws in a nervous breath. It sounds as if he’s trying to drag enough steel into his lungs to be able to force himself to say whatever he wants to say. “What if Korse does turn up though?” he finally asks, and even sitting opposite to him, Frank feels Party freeze, as if all of the blood in his face sinks down to pool in his feet, leaving his lungs empty, his brain floundering.

“We’d fight him, what else?”

Jet hesitates, seems to shift a centimetre farther away. “Just- listen, Party, this isn’t against you, okay, but I- we- won’t want you to have some… I don’t know…”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Party says firmly. “We’re going to march into BLI, we’re going to steal our girl back, and I’m going to show them exactly what they’ve made of me.”

Chapter Text

There’s something about the palpable lack of trust- the tension that lathers the air, and the apprehension that drags itself over the floor like a wounded animal- that’s led to an unspoken agreement: the sort where they all spend the night wide awake and watching everyone else, but none of them actually acknowledge that they have.

Frank hasn’t actually moved from his spot in the corner of one of the booths for the entire night, and despite not being too tired, his neck is starting to burn. Probably cramp. There’s a tight knot of muscle below one shoulder-blade that protests every time he shifts. A few feet away, just out of his line of sight, he hears Kobra do the same.

There’d been this scientist- according to Party Poison anyway, and that was only according to a book he claimed to have read before BLI had found and burnt it- who’d only sleep for fifteen minutes at a time. He’d go to sleep whenever he wanted, holding a pen in one hand, and then would wake up fifteen minutes later when he lost muscle control and the pen fell to the floor.

Apparently, that was the way to go- although this is only on Party’s good word, and Frank’s not sure if he’d agree. Sounds like a bit too much effort for a bit of shut-eye if you ask him. Which, of course, Party hadn’t at the time- he’d been too busy trying to scavenge up more colouring pencils for the girl to use while Frank lay on a booth table and listened in to their conversation.

But if the scientist had been correct in his napping schedule, Frank was starting to see the appeal; he’s pretty sure that he hasn’t actually dropped off at any point, but dawn’s crept up far too soon on them for him to have been awake the entire night.

Whatever. He’ll have ages to sleep once this entire thing is over. Once they have the girl back and they’ve cleared Party’s name, he’ll be able to sleep easy, but until then-

Frank jumps when someone coughs over to his left. Every sound inside the diner seems magnified, as if the sound reverberates against the wooden walls in ripples, waves growing. It puts him on edge. The same person clears their throat and shuffles, but then seem to settle back again.

It reminds Frank of the time they’d first found Party again- when he’d been a bloody, ragged skeleton, haggard and half-wild with hatred, complete with black hair and clothes. They’ve come so far- different person, different hair, same clothes, different smile. The world feels like it’s hauling itself towards a burst of noise, but for now, it’s impatiently silent.

Across on the other side of the room, Frank can make out Party and Kobra asleep in another booth- both of them with their backs to the window, leaning heavily on the others’ shoulders. Party’s expression is pinched, fingers clenching reflexively. As Frank watches, he flinches, mouth twitching, and his shoulders shudder.

Frank frowns. Leans forward.

There’s a faint sound- something close to a whimper or a sob- that works its way out of Party’s throat and hangs in the air like a scavenger, and Frank shivers. The same sound comes again, this time louder, more disturbed- the kind of sound you’d hear from a dying animal. Kobra opens his eyes, doesn’t even look like he’s actually been to sleep- Frank knew he hadn’t been the only one- and leans away from his brother. He doesn’t seem to know what to do.

“You okay?” Frank whispers, and Kobra jumps, gaze flashing over. He seems lost, a little helpless, as he shrugs before turning back to his brother.

“Party?” He pushes at Party’s shoulder tentatively. “Gee, c’mon, wake up.”

Party doesn’t. He only twists away, cries out again, scratches weakly at his own throat with bitten nails, his eyelids fluttering. He mutters “don’t… don’t… please…”

There’s a shuffle and another cough from Frank’s left, and then Cherri Cola’s head pops up over the side of the booth. There’s shadows clustered in the bags beneath his eyes, running down his face and slicing over the sharp angles on his face. He turns towards Frank. “Is he okay?” he asks hesitantly, but Frank can only gesture helplessly.

Kobra shakes his brother again, this time with a little more intensity. “Party Poison, wake up.”

There’s another sound, starting in the bottom of Party’s throat and climbing up his throat, something close to cornered, to bloody and feral, and Frank slips forward in the booth seat. If Party tried to run for the door, Frank could easily be able to intercept him… If he goes for Kobra, he could be over there in a handful of seconds, but if that is the case, would he be able to drag Party away? Frank’s fast, but Party would have size on his side, and might be stronger too- although Frank’s not alone this time, and if he and Jet work together...

Party’s eyes snap open and he jerks away from Kobra like he’s been electrocuted. “ Get off!”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Kobra edges away, forcing some distance between them, “it’s only me, Gee, it’s me, Mikey.”

“Mikey…” Party echoes the name like it’s a face he should recognise. Then he inhales raggedly, closes his eyes and shakes his head. It’s like he wants to be able to throw the dream out of his brain. “Sorry. Sorry, sorry, I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

Party nods tersely. “Yeah, ‘course I am.” He sounds like even keeping his eyes open is more effort than it should be, but it’s only then that he seems to realise that they’re all staring at him. “ Morning . Remember when coffee was a thing? God, I’d kill a drac for coffee.”

Jet throws Kobra a confused look. “Uh, sure, I remember coffee. It was always pretty good. But are you-.”

“Sure was.” Party brushes off his jeans and sounds like he’s trying to force an overdose of cheeriness into his voice. “They still have it in Bat City, I think, but for they never offered me any, for some reason. Anyway, I’m gonna grab some air. I’ll be a second.”

“Ghoul’ll go with you,” Kobra volunteers, but Party shrugs and doesn’t even bother waiting. As he’s leaving, Kobra offers Frank a wan smile- well, more of a grimace if anything, but it’s an effort. It’s plastic and far too similar to the medication-induced expressions Frank remembers.

He follows after Party, blinking the grains of sunlight out of his eyes as he steps outside. Party’s crouched a few feet out, [in the desert? Zone?] his knees pulled up close to his chest and arms wrapped around his shins. He stares out at the desert, early sunrise dousing the world in careful light. He doesn’t acknowledge Frank as he makes his way over.

For a long time- it could almost be forever, for all Frank can tell- the only sounds are their breathing and the slow grumble of a desert waking up.

Finally, Frank says “y’know, you don’t need to pretend to be fine. No one’s expecting you to be.”

Party takes a long breath. It sounds bitter. “I know,” he says wearily, “I know, but I probably should be. I mean, I wasn’t the one who had my eye stabbed.”

“You don’t need to compare yourself to what everyone else went through, either. That doesn’t help.”

“Hah, yeah, D gave me that speech as well.” Party doesn’t look up as he scratches at the inside of his wrist, at the smiling tattoo etched there. There’s a glimpse of the ragged scars that Frank remembers are lathered over Party’s skin like soap. He wonders if they still hurt. He wonders if they’ll ever fade away. “It’s just, memories. It’s nothing. It’s nothing.”

It sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself more than anything. He still hasn’t looked over. “Frankie… you know I care about you, right? Like, a lot.”

This sounds like the start of a Bad News speech, and Frank’s not sure if he wants to hear it. He swallows tightly. “Kinda fortunate for me then, ‘cos otherwise this might be a bit one-sided an awkward.”

Party bites out a laugh in a guillotine clack of teeth. “Point taken. It’s just- yeah, I wanted you to know. That I do. And, I guess, I’m sorry we couldn’t make more of… this.”

‘This’. Nameless. A bumbling, uncertain, uncoordinated mess so large that it’s developed its own gravitational pull, which would explain why Frank’s felt like he’s been falling towards it from the very first time Party entered his solar system.

“If you’re apologising for a lack of wild, romantic gestures, I already figured it was pretty difficult to be cutesy in a dystopia. You’re okay.”

Party does laugh this time; it’s louder than Frank’s expecting- manages to make him jump- and this is when he knows that there’s still something very, very wrong. It’s the laugh when you’re rotting away on the inside, when the misery’s so intense that it’s painful, when it’s so painful that it’s both numbing and surprising and all you can do it laugh.

It’s the kind of laugh you other hear when the only alternative is crying so hard that you can’t ever imagine doing anything else ever again.

Frank’s stomach twists uneasily. “Gerard? What is it? What’s wrong?”

The last remnants of the night sky seem trapped in the dark in Party’s eyes when he looks over at him. He looks so lost that Frank’s heart cracks a little.

“I don’t want this to be it,” he whispers, it’s a secret that he needs to keep, “I don’t want this to be it and for this to be over.” He reaches out and catches Frank’s hands, holds them almost as if he’s about to pray. His grip’s crushing. “There was this time, when I was in BLI- it thought it was it, I thought I was dead- but then there was just this- this moment - and I swear, Frank, this is cheesy as fuck, but you were there and you told me not to- to give in, to keep fighting, and I know it’s stupid and pathetic and something like a bad comic plot but it happened, it did I promise , and it’s just such a mess now and I don’t wanna give in but- fuck, why did this all have to get so difficult ?”

Amid the rambling, Frank thinks back to the Phoenix Witch, back to the Battery City tunnel, and realises that- ‘oh fuck’- but Party’s still talking and he’s not given a chance to open his mouth.

“It’s like, I know we aren’t gonna win this,” Party says, and his voice is nothing more than stained glass shards piled together on a church floor. “I know BLI are gonna win in the end, but I don’t want them to break me- I don’t want to be some drugged up monster that tries to hurt his own friends-“

“You won’t,” Frank says fiercely, “you won’t, Gee, you won’t, I won’t let them-“

He won’t let them. He won’t let them get near Party again. There’s nothing in heaven or earth that’s going to stop them, stop this , and Frank’s going to ensure that remains the case.

Party chokes on the same convulsive, sobbing laugh as before. “I’m not gonna let them either, Frankie,” he finally says, and it’s some sort of confession. “I’m not scared of them anymore. I’m not scared of any of them. I’m gonna prove it. If- if Korse gets me, Frankie, I’m not scared anymore. I’m gonna look him dead in the eye,”

It’s this awful sense of foreboding- like a black wave, inky and a mess of cacophonous silence- that washes over Frank, makes him terrified that Party’s somehow managed to sign his own death warrant, makes him panic. He lunges forward and drags Party close- close enough to smell the leather and smoke smell of him, the bittersweet mix of hair-dye and sweat and Party that’s so, so familiar; he drags him so close that he can feel the staccato of Party’s breath and the way it mirrors the frantic tumble of Frank’s heartbeat.

He drags him so close that he barely needs to raise his voice above a whisper when he promises that- “wherever you go, Party, I’m going too. I’m not leaving you, ever . You’re never leaving me.”

And they’re so close that Frank can hear every crack and fissure in Party’s watery smile when he nods- slightly, so, so slightly- and just says- “I know.”

And with their arms around each other, they sit in silence and watch the sun come up.

Chapter Text

“So,” Kobra says conversationally, as if he and Frank aren’t checking through the trunk of the trans-am for anything they could use to fight an army of drugged-up draculoids and BLI drones. “I wanted to- like, to apologise. For everything yesterday. For being such an asshole about- I dunno- just about everything, I guess. I was an asshole.”

Frank inspects a loose blaster battery he’d found beneath a loose pile of scruffy magazine and straightens, tugs on his hair, squints at the cloudless sky. The air’s so dry that it makes his skin prickle. “You sure were,” he says, not looking over, rolling the battery between his forefinger and thumb. “You think this has any power left in it?”

“I was, and it probably doesn’t.” There’s a weighted pause, and even though Frank can’t see Kobra’s face, he can tell that he’s trying to force himself to say something else. There’s the rough sound of Kobra clearing his throat. “You- you got anything to say?”

Frank shrugs, reaches back into the trunk until he’s practically inside it, rifling through the dark backspaces, going by sense of touch. “Me?” His voice comes out slightly muffled- “I don’t think so. I mean, like I said, You were an asshole, but it’s fine. I get it. You’re okay.”

At the back of the trunk, his fingers brush the cool leather of… it’s Party’s biker jacket… but Frank pushes it aside. Not right now. He’ll come back to it later.

“Right,” Kobra agrees, but he sounds confused. Bordering on perplexed. As if he was expecting this conversation to go differently. Frank has to smother a laugh into his sleeve. “Right, sure, Ghoul, I guess I wasn’t exactly-“

“Interested in anything anyone else had to say?”

“Well, I was kinda-“

“Obnoxious. Angry. A pissy diva.”

There’s a stony silence, and Frank forces himself to count to ten before poking his head out of the trunk. Kobra’s got his arms folded at the same sharp angle as his frown, and he’s looking less and less apologetic by the second. Even his hair is bristling.

Frank cracks. “Holy shit,” he snorts, jerks upright and manages to smack his head into the roof of the trunk but barely notices it. “Your face!” he wheezes. “Jesus, you took it so seriously, Jesus Christ!”

Kobra only shakes his head, looking unamused. “You’re an idiot,” he informs Frank, like he doesn’t already know that. “God, you’re such an idiot.”

“Nah, it’s just Fun Ghoul.” And this sets him off on another bout of laughter, one where Kobra stares down at him blankly throughout it, mouth set in a confounded line. Frank almost hits his head on the trunk door a second time.

Kobra hasn’t unfolded his arms. “Just so you know,” he says, head cocked to the side, “this wasn’t exactly how I was planning this conversation to go.”

Frank grins. “Dude, I’m messin’ with you. And I get it. For what it’s worth- yeah, I’m sorry for being a dick too.”

“You were a bit of a dick.”

“Only ‘cos I’m after your brother’s.”

“Awh, gross.” Kobra winces. “Is that- you an’ Gee- like, a thing then? Like an official thing-thing?”

And no, Frank does not sound like a smug motherfucker when he smirks and says, “yeah, I guess so”. Not one bit.

Kobra nods, looking slightly mollified, but he uncrosses his arms and sighs. “I mean it, though, I am sorry for being a dick.”

“It’s fine.” And it’s gonna stay fine, as long as this doesn’t get honest and emotional. As long as Frank can ensure that it doesn’t get serious- because if it gets serious, it will be important. It will get urgent, and this will mean Kobra doesn’t think he’ll have another chance to say it.

And then Frank will worry and he’ll panic because they need to save the girl but they also need to stay alive and fuck- this is exactly it. This is exactly what he’s being trying to avoid. He drags a hand across his face. Fuck it. “I’m sorry for leaving you and Jet. You guys fuckin’ needed me an’ I bailed. For what it’s worth…” He drags in a breath (then another one, because the ordinary and commonplace is never valued until it’s gone). “For what it’s worth, I wasn’t going to try and find Party by that stage. I was-“

- eyes to the ground, Frank, get the words out so you can’t take them back, don’t look at Kobra’s face don’t look for the shock or the hurt just get the words out you need tell someone you need to let Kobra know what you were doing-

Another breath. “I wasn’t thinking or caring anymore and I was heading to Battery City.”

There’s silence. People say that it feels better to get a secret out; Frank’s gotta disagree there, because the apprehension, wondering how Kobra will react, fills his lungs with water. He’s left floundering.

“Frank?” Kobra wears a cautious half-smile like an ill-fitting t-shirt, but there’s something warm about it. The knot in Frank’s chest seems to loosen slightly. “Ghoul. Me and Jet- we kinda figured something like that already. No offense, but everything you and Gee said didn’t exactly tie up, and then Cherri Cola said he met you near Bat City and didn’t mention Party – well, we had a vague idea about what went on.”

Frank rocks on the balls of his feet, suddenly feeling very, very small. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Kobra shifts uncomfortably. “Uh, I’m not really- do you, like, want- uh, Party’s the hugger- but, if you want, like, uh-“

“Are you asking me for a hug?” Frank’s grin is stretched so wide that it’s bordering on painful- the scar on his cheek protesting- but it’s worth the sheer confusion in Kobra’s expression.

“I guess?”

Kobra’s all sharp lines and harsh angles, and Frank’s still laughing when Kobra’s arms fold over his shoulders awkwardly, and then they just- just stand there. Frank’s ready for the idiot to pat him on the damn back or something. It’s not particularly comforting or calming, but when Kobra clears his throat and steps away, he’s wearing a small smile and Frank finds that he’s not as ready to scream anymore.

“Thank you, Ghoul,”

“Thanks, Kobra.”

“We should probably get back to going through the trunk.”

Kobra hesitates, runs a hand through his hair. “Just so you know…“ he edges out, “I was angry with you because you- you were able to help Gee when I couldn’t. I’m his brother, y’know? But I let him down, giving up on him before we even arrived at D’s. And then you brought him back, even after he tried to kill you and Jet…” He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a hard breath, eyes closed. “Anyway, yeah, it was jealousy, I guess. Shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”  

Something clenches behind Frank’s sternum. “Listen,” he tries, “you said it yourself- this is BLi’s fault. You’re not responsible for what happened to him, and you’re not responsible for getting him out of this.”

“But you managed.” Kobra cracks one eye open. “Or you helped him, anyway. How?”

Frank shrugs with one shoulder. “Mind-washing ain’t nothing on the power of boners.”

Kobra grimaces. “I take everything I said back,” he says flatly. “I hate you and you’re gross.”

Frank just grins. “We’re gonna be great brother-in-laws.”

“Have I mentioned that I hate you?”

“C’mon.” Frank kicks the trans-am’s rear tyre. Then he figures that there’s something vaguely Pavlovian about the immediate pang of remorse he feels, and the immediate envisioning of Party yelling about ‘respect the vehicle and it’ll respect you’ with a face as red as his hair. Frank takes a step back and clears his throat. “Uh- as much as I love our friendly chats, we gotta sort this out. And then I’m gonna go recruit Cherri Cola.”

“Oh yeah.” Kobra’s face twists. “Are you sure you wanna go ask him? He seemed cool and all, but-“

“It’s fine.” Frank waves Kobra’s objections aside carelessly. It’s totally fine. It’s all fine. “You’re acting like anyone out there wouldn’t wanna come with us on our suicide mission.”

Cherri refuses to come with them on their suicide mission.

“Maybe he’ll change his mind,” Jet reasons, and that’s before Frank’s even opened his mouth- all he needs is a glimpse of Frank’s expression as he climbs into the back of the trans-am. Jet twists around in the front seat to face him. “It can’t have gone that bad, man, and like you said, he seems like a good guy. I’m sure he wants to help.”

“He’s not fucking coming,” Frank snaps, slamming the car door shut behind him. His blood’s boiling. “He gave the same stupid speech that he did to the droid; all pacifism, not killing anyone, blah-fucking-blah. All about sparing psychos, dictators, torturers- the whole lot.”

Frank wants to punch something. His boots leave dust imprints on the back of the driver’s seat. He crosses his arms and scowls at nothing in particular. This is all so fucked. This is all so, so fucked….

 “He said that?” Frank figures that Jet would be raising a cynical eyebrow, if only he were able.

“I’m paraphrasing.”

Jet closes his eye and turns to face the front. Even the breath he lets out- one that’s lead-weighted, seems to sink the entire car by a few millimetres- is defeated. “Maybe he’ll change his mind,” he tries again, but Frank can tell he doesn’t believe it himself. “We’ve got near an hour ‘til we’re heading out. There’s time.”

Frank shakes his head, even though he knows Jet can’t see him. “He’s not coming,” he promises, and he only silently adds the ‘fucking coward’ part.

“Okay then.” Jet replies calmly, as if this doesn’t reduce whatever chance they might’ve had for survival to the bare minimum. “It’s fine. We’ll make this work. We’ll be fine.”

“Will we?” Frank doesn’t mean for it to sound as cynical as it does, but he can’t help it; there’s a tight knot of pessimism coiled in the pit of his stomach, like a pit of snakes, and he can’t manage to ignore the venom invading his organs. He can’t think about it. He can’t think about it.

Jet turns back around in his seat and fixes him in the hard glare of his one remaining eye. “Fun Ghoul,” he says firmly, “we are going to do this.”

Frank’s not sure if it’s reassuring or terrifying, but he knows that, yes, they are.

“You guys ready to go?” A voice comes, horrendously close to his ear, and Frank almost puts his head through the car roof as he looks around to find Kobra with his head through the window. Dude was practically breathing on him.

As it is, he only ends up spitting out an embarrassingly loud yelp and high-kicking Jet’s headrest, which results in Jet choking out a pained grunt that hopefully doesn’t sound too hurt. “Jesus, Kobra,” Frank chokes out, “where did you come from?”

Kobra blinks owlishly at him and leans back a few feet. “We’re leaving in a few minutes.” His voice is relatively steady, but there’s a waver in it, and Frank wonders whether he managed to get even an ounce of sleep last night. There’s fresh red rings around his eyes; a glaring contrast to the dull pallor of his skin. But then again, Frank looks the same.  

Jet frowns. “I thought we’ve got a while until we need to go?” He leans over to push the driver’s-side door open, and Kobra clambers inside before shaking his head.

“We’d be better going sooner, Party says. Ghoul, did’ya speak to Cherri Cola? I couldn’t find him anywhere.” 

“He’s not coming,” Jet jumps in, and Frank snaps his mouth shut with a scowl.

“I can speak for myself,” he says, folding his arms, but Jet shrugs apologetically. Kobra turns around to face Frank, and his expression’s something close to- what, fear? More like apprehension, a sudden flaring of doubt- before he catches it, corrects himself.

“You’re not serious.”

“Of course not.” Frank narrows his eyes. “Because this is the perfect time and topic for joking around.” He pauses. “I thought he’d be up for it, okay? Turns out he’s more cowardly than expecting. Big-fucking-whoop.”

Kobra lets out a laboured breath and hangs his head. It’s as if- for a shard of an age- even the presence of his own thoughts are too heavy for him to bear. He’s silent for a moment. “Okay, “ he murmurs, but when he lifts his face back to them, his mouth is fastened into a tight line. “Okay,” he repeats, and this time he nods so vigorously Frank’s half-worried he’s about to give himself whiplash. “It’s fine. We can totally do this. We don’t even need him.”

“You sure?” Jet grimaces. “Where’s Party? He might be able to talk him into it.” 

Part of Frank wonders what kind of people they are- to be mulling over their different options for coercing someone into something they may never walk out of as if it’s nothing more than another dilemma they need to trip their way through. This is someone’s life.

Then he thinks about the girl, still in BLi, and how they’ve all been torn from their own convenient realities into something newer, more brutal, and he realises that this is far, far bigger than any one of them.

“Party’s still talking to Death-Defying. Something important, apparently.”

“Wait, and you left him in there? With D?”

Kobra’s voice sprouts thorns as he says- “why would that be such a problem?” and Frank lifts his head to see Jet holding up his hands in surrender.

“I just meant- it’s nothing. It’s fine.”

Frank thinks back to the morning, Cherri’s wary expression, the “maybe you gotta do sommat ‘bout him” and shakes his head. “Why are we even talking about this? Let’s just grab him and go,” he snaps. “Let’s just go and do this thing.”

Kobra cocks his head and peers over at him. Frank feels like he’s being scrutinised. “Fine,” he answers coolly, and Frank lets out a breath he didn’t even realise he’s been holding. His stomach’s convoluted into knots.

“Fine.”

“So what were you talking to D about?”

Party raises an eyebrow dubiously, but doesn’t stop carding his fingers through Frank’s hair. He disentangles another collected mass of greasy hair without even a grimace, busying jittery fingers, and Frank sighs, rolls his eyes, and pokes Party’s side. “Hey. Party. Asked you a question. What were you talking to D about?”

“Dr Death-Defying?”

Frank shifts. The backseat of the trans-am is far less comfortable than he’d originally thought it would be- there’s a seatbelt pocket digging into his spine, and his lower legs are worryingly becoming more and more number by the minute from the awkward angle he’s caught himself in. The car rumbles are they drive- a deter hum of a diesel engine, explosive pressure forcing pistons to work faster, the cogs and gears to whir, tyres to spin and purr with friction.

Below all that, though, Frank manages to smother his apprehensive thoughts, but with his head on Party’s thigh, he can feel every rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The world tumbles past his feet as he rests his boots against the rear passenger window (and he hasn’t received any complaints so far, may he add), and he figures that they could all be in far worse situations than this one right now.

“Of course I’m talking about Dr Death-Defying. Who else do we know with a name beginning with ‘D’?” Frank shuffles another centimetre to the left and brushes a loose strand of hair from his face. “Unless- hey, Jet, does your name? Start with a ‘D’, I mean?”

“Nope.”

Frank sighs heavily, but Jet doesn’t even look back at his as he talks, his hands fixed firmly on the steering wheel. “Shame.”

“Oh yeah.” Kobra twists around in his seat, and there’s a narrow grin on his face. A hesitant kind: like the times that the particularly rotten part of your brain suggests another morbid joke, and it’s so dark that it’s bordering on amusing. “We still need to work that whole thing out, don’t we?”

Party tugs his hands free from Frank’s hair (and for half a second, this almost seems to require a certain amount of effort- a sign that Frank should probably think about shearing it all off, and soon). “Wait,” he asks, “what is it you need to work out? Is it something important?”

“Massively important.” Kobra nods.

Frank hums in agreement. “Real top-level stuff.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank sees Party furrow his brow. He looks concerned. “What am I missing? What’s happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Jet interjects. “They’re being ridiculous; don’t worry about it.”

“You telling me not to worry about it only makes me worry more.”

Kobra coughs. “Talking about worrying…“ He looks pointedly to Frank. “Maybe you wanna move over a bit, Ghoul, because you’re a misplaced layer from the both of you committing public indecency.”

“Don’t give him any ideas,” Jet warns, and even Party snorts at that.

“Oh come on.” Frank sits up. “It’s not like my head’s in his crotch.” He looks back up at Party, who smiles at him with a questionably innocent expression. “You could give me some kind of support here. I mean, he’s your brother.”

“I hadn’t realised that before.” Party widens his eyes in mock-incredulity. “Can you believe it, Kobra? All this time, and neither of us knew it.”

Frank plonks his head back onto Party’s lap before Kobra has chance to reply- and maybe he drops a bit too heavily, because he hears Party bite down on a winded cough before pulling in a hard breath. “Stop changing the subject.” He prods Party’s side with each syllable. “I wanna know what you were talking to him about.”

Party lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I’m so glad you respect privacy and personal space.”

“Please.” Frank rolls his eyes as he makes himself more comfortable, poking Party’s thigh until he obligingly moves over to give Frank a few more inches of room. “I don’t even know the meanings of those words. So are you gonna tell me, or am I going to have to convince you?”

It’s only because he’s got his head on Party’s lap- able to make out every single little flash of colour in his irises and the tiny scars and scratches speckling his skin- that he sees the way Party’s eyes seem to change. “Yeah?” he asks, and if Frank’s not mistaken, he sounds something close to breathless.

“Guess so,” Frank replies smoothly, but he can’t stop the narrow smile from unfurling across his face. There’s a spark in Party’s eye that almost feels like a promise.

Under any other circumstance, Frank would probably be wishing that they could reach their destination sooner.

Chapter Text

“Ghoul? Hey, Ghoul . You awake?”

Frank’s always found this a pretty redundant question- usually because the whole point of asking is to actually wake the respondent, anyway, and it’s pretty damn unlikely that they’re going to answer with a ‘no’.

But whatever he might think, Frank still opens his eyes, blearily snorting himself from a dream involving kick-boxing against Show Pony (who was, for some reason, wearing a MouseKat head? He’s not going to question that line of inquiry any farther) to find Party’s barely inches from his own.

And, okay, under any other circumstance, Frank would probably be pretty pleased, but right now, he’s only half-awake and feeling relatively disorientated, with the only light being the low, wary glow of a dying campfire. So, understandably, he’s a little surprised. So much so that his first instinct is to throw himself upright and head-butt Party in the face before he’s even drawn another breath.

“Oh fuck-“ Party topples sideways- well, hey, it’s only then that Frank realises that he’d been straddling his waist- and falls back into the dirt, hands pressed to his face. There’s a silence that stretches on for so long that it almost starts to feel comical, before Party groans. “Ghoul,” he chokes out, “you broke my fucking nose.”

“Shit.” Frank scrambles up onto his knees, looking around wildly to ensure that Kobra and Jet haven’t been woke. They’re both still curled up by the fire, a little way away, but they don’t move. Thank god- Frank’s in no hurry to explain to Kobra how his brother’s face had been reduced to a bloody mess overnight. “Shit, Party, are you okay?”

Party lifts one hand away and gives Frank a contemptuous glare. “No. You hit me in the face. What the hell?”

“Let me look.” Frank prises the hands away from his face. “Dude, you’re totally fine. Stop being over-dramatic. There’s not even any blood. You’re fine.”

There’s a defeated sigh, and the Party sits back up again, wincing as he pulls his hands from his face. “Fuck.” He gingerly prods at his nose before he props himself up onto his elbows and scowls.  “Thanks a whole lot.”

Frank sits back on his heels. “You’re being ridiculous.” He throws an apprehensive glance back over his shoulder. Kobra and Jet don’t seem to be awake.

Party chews on his bottom lip. “I think you’ve broken my nose,” he repeats. “Thanks for that, Frank. Here I was, about to show you something cool, and you hit me in the face.”

“Asshole.” It’s so dark that Frank almost feels submerged in it- minus the crushing claustrophobia that he’d usually expect from being thrown out into an unfathomable mass of water. It’s almost comforting; remembering how miniscule he is within an infinite stretch of universe- how important each of them are anyway. Key players in someone else’s game. “C’mon, get up. What was it?”

Frank offers a hand and tugs Party to his feet. “What do you want me to say? ‘ Your face is just as flawless as it’s always been’ ? C’mon, just get up.”

“So I’m flawless, now?” Even with it being so dark, where a drac could be less than ten metres away and they wouldn’t see it, Frank can’t miss Party’s smug grin.

“You’re an idiot, that’s what.”

“I’m hurt.” Party has a hand pressed to his heart and what Frank assumes is a wounded expression (it’s something a lot closer to the face of a dog that has just shat on your carpet, but Frank can’t remember the last time he’s owned a dog, nor a carpet, so this is only a guess). Party takes a step back, then another, and Frank finds himself following Party away from the others without even a second thought. The world manages to get even darker with each step; not submerged in it, but near-drowning. But at the same time Frank feels almost as if he’s floating. Disassociated.

“You know,” he says, tripping after Party in the near-pitch darkness, “I heard that a guy would usually give a girl flowers on their date.” He stumbles over a loose something and almost crashes face-first into dead shrubbery and dry dust, but manages to catch hold of his balance at the last moment. Party doesn’t blink, but Frank’s just thankful for the lack of ‘enjoy your trip?’ puns that he’d otherwise be expecting.

“Don’t follow gender roles, Frankie,” Party warns, slowing down long enough for Frank to catch up with him, before striding away again. He seems purposeful. That, or nervous, as if he’s just trying to force himself over the cliff edge before he has a chance to second-guess himself. “A girl can get a guy flowers. Or she could get another girl flowers. Why would anyone want flowers, anyway? It’s not like they’re particularly useful.”

“Or a guy could get a guy flowers,” Frank adds, as they approach a looming, shadowy shape that it takes him a concerningly long time to realise is just the trans-am(everything looks different in the dark- that’s his excuse). “But you didn’t get me anything. You’re just lucky that I’m so nice; because otherwise you really wouldn’t have made a good impression by now.”

Party leans down and fiddles with the car door, his tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth before it swings open. He sniffs as he leans inside, fidgets with something on the dashboard “I’ll get you something next time I have a chance. Maybe a rock.”

“A rock ?” Frank can’t decide if Party’s joking or not. He frowns at Party’s back, and when that ultimately produces no answer, he sighs and clambers onto the trans-am hood. “There’s rocks everywhere. Reach down, pick up a rock. Drop that rock, pick up another rock.  It’s not exactly a gift that requires much thought.”

He stretches, the cool metal seeping into the seat of his jeans. They’ve been travelling for so long- hours and hours, blended together into a complete running panorama, until his legs had gone numb. Then they’d crashed out half a day’s drive from Battery City, close enough to the same route that Frank had taken a week ago.

Headed down the same road. Headed to same place. There’s a sense of déjà vu about the whole thing. It’s surreal.

There’s still the barest hint of heat left from the engine, but it’s still not enough to be comfortable. It doesn’t do much to help his aching legs; you’d have thought that sitting in a car for an entire day would leave you more energised that anything, but that’s not the case.

“What are we even doing here?” he asks Party, just as there’s a click and the trans-am’s headlights switch on, dousing the ten metres in front of them in blazing white light. After that, it cuts off abruptly, as if it’s afraid to stretch any further. “Is this the big surprise? Like, ‘wow, Ghoul, it’s the car, can you believe it’s in the same place we left it’? I’m not very shocked.”

Party offers an absent hum of agreement, which usually meaning that he’s not even listening to Frank by this point (it’s the same sound he’d make when he was drawing, and Frank was suggesting they find another scorpion- or what’s left of one of the feral desert dogs’ kills- to hide in Jet Star’s helmet.

“Flowers would die after a few days, anyway. You’re essentially handing someone a handful of dying plants as a declaration of attraction.” Party straightens, brushes off his jeans, and shakes his hair from his face. The black dye beneath the cheap red is starting to bleed through. “Rocks are dependable. And you can hit people with them.”

Frank’s opening his mouth to warn that- “if you give me a rock, I’ll hit you with it” when the music starts.

Instead, what comes out is: “oh my god , you fucking dork .”

Frank’s pretty sure that it’s scientifically agreed that the sense of smell is the powerful trigger of memories, but in this case, he figures that sound must come in a pretty close second. Because it’s the same song that he heard months ago, back when Party had dragged him out into the brush to find the old record player, and while they’re in a completely different area of the zones, he can almost picture himself back there- months ago- all over again.

“That’s a compliment, right?” Party asks after a beat, his brow furrowing, and Frank can’t stop himself from grinning.

“Yes, it’s a goddamn compliment. Is this what you were talking to D about? When it was all hush-hush?”

“Well, yeah, obviously.” Party shuffles over and, after a split-second of hesitation, he pushes himself onto the hood of the car alongside him. “I just asked if he could help me find some tune. Not much.”

Frank scratches at his knee, swings his feet a little, and leans back on his elbows. Despite it being so cool at night, the heat’s still radiating from Party’s skin as if he’s his own electric heater. “Well, it sure seems like a lot. You must have hummed the same tune at him for an hour until he managed to find it in his records.”

Party chews on the tip of his thumb before he pulls his hand away from his mouth, lifting it to brush the hair from his eyes. His eyes are soft when he turns to Frank, the headlights catching the shards of colours in his eyes and making them glint. Frank wonders if this is what it’s like to look at a piece of artwork- the endless fascination, the unrelenting layers of incomprehension.

“Well,” Party shrugs, and his chapped lips split into a smile. It’s so earnest that Frank finds himself mending a little- maybe both of them. “You said that it’d be tricky to have a whole romantic gesture in the middle of nowhere, so I kinda figured I’d- I’d prove you wrong, y’know?”

“So what you’re saying is that this entire thing-“ Frank raises a sceptical eyebrow, “was to prove me wrong?”

The corner of Party’s mouth quirks. “Yeah?”

Frank kisses him. It’s harder, deeper than he’d meant for it to be, but each second stretches on for so long that when Party leans away, his head’s spinning. The pull of a breath is a dizzying relief.

Then Party’s caught his breath and he’s lurching forward and kissing him again, and Frank wants to smile at the image: the two of them making out on the hood of the car, feet dangling in front of the headlights and sending shadows skittering.

For a long minute, they’re just… there? Would that be the right term? They’re just existing, suspended in a moment, huffing breaths into each other’s mouths, Frank cupping the sides of Party’s face in his hands, Party winding his fingers into Frank’s collar and pulling him as close as possible.

Frank’s skin is buzzing, as if he’s hooked up to a 45-volt battery, electricity scuttling over his skin like insects. Party’s lips are dry and cracked, his teeth scraping on Frank’s bottom lip, and part of him almost believes this could’ve been months ago; they could’ve had this back then, back through the night with the music player, if Frank hadn’t pulled away.

It could’ve been another minute, or an hour, or an entire day, when Party pries himself away. Carefully, as if there’s a weight holding him in place. Frank can’t look away, can’t move his numb fingers from the back of Party’s head.

Party’s breathing comes in long, ragged ribbons- carbon dioxide staining the air and pummelling Frank’s face. He doesn’t seem to be able to look away, either.

“Frankie?” he finally asks, his voice caught on the edge of a whisper, “do you think we’re gonna get better?”

Frank’s heart lurches, rush of blood ripping him from the moment. “What?”

The night’s still just as cold and silent as it was moments ago, but now the skies are caught in the darkness of Party’s eyes when he blinks. He suddenly looks far less sure of himself; a lot smaller, a little more lost. “Mikey… me… and you? If you’re staying?”

Frank forces himself to swallow. “Of course I’m staying, you idiot,” he murmurs, shifting his hand until he’s running his thumb back-and-forth over the same spot between Party’s ear and cheekbone, brushing a smudge of dirt from his skin. “I’ve always said that I’m not going anywhere. Just trust me on this, okay?”

Just a most subtle shake of his head. Frank can feel the shudder running through Party beneath his fingertips. “You shouldn’t have to, though. I mean, there’s no way out of this. I was telling Ray-“

“Ray?”

“Jet Star. He said that he and the girl are gonna head out. I think it’s the right thing to do.”

Frank can’t believe his ears. “You’re seriously okay with that?”

Party nods. “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s the best thing to do. If he and the girl can get out… they’ll be scot-free. I’m the one that BLi’s going to go after.”

“That’s true, I guess, but still-“

“Frankie,” Party interrupts, “are you sure you don’t want to- to go? We’re not the same people we were before.”

Frank’s silent. He thinks about this, the music replacing the silence like cement seeping between cracks in bricks. They’re all bruised and scarred and hurt- inside and out. He doesn’t even want to think about what the girl must feel- how she’ll be- if they manage to get her back.

But then he looks over at Party, looks at the way the red light runs down his face like water, highlighting the shadows beneath his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks, and Frank can’t help but think that he’s beautiful: a fragile structure of cracked glass and reinforced stone, with scarlet hair dripping down his forehead like blood. He’s staring straight back at Frank, not even blinking, gaze raking over Frank’s face like he’s something fascinating, captivating, something that he wants to devote to memory and sketch out later.

God, he just sounds so fucking pretentious, even in his own head, but he can’t help it. Party makes him feel reckless and safe, like he’s falling and flying, light-headed and giddy, but also the most sober he could ever be.

Party makes him feel alive .

And, goddammit, he wants that feeling to last forever.

He just doesn’t want to die.

He doesn’t want to die. Not tomorrow, not ever.

The desperation hits him in a wave, drags every other thought out into the ink-black night that they can’t see, and leaves him floundering in an animal fear that makes him shake, fingers trembling against Party’s cool skin.

Oh god, please, whoever’s out there- if it’s the Phoenix Witch or DESTROYA or anyone , please, just don’t let him die. Don’t let any of them die- not him or the girl, not Kobra or Jet, not Party- oh god- he can’t lose Party again.

Party’s peering at him with an alarmed expression, eyes so large he almost looks owlish. He’s twisted around on the hood until he’s sitting on his side. Facing him. “Ghoul?” Party leans closer, drops one hand to wrap around Frank’s forearm, almost as if he’s trying to pick up on his pulse, see if his heart’s still beating. “Hey, Frankie, what is it?”

Frank gulps in a breath, but it sounds more like a hiccup than anything else.

Party leans closer, almost a whisper away, and his hold on Frank’s arm tightens. “Frankie? What is it? Frank .” He sounds scared now, too. But he’s so gorgeous, all tough muscle and ripped angles and bright colours twisting beneath black clothes, and he barely manages to make a sound of surprise when Frank lunges forward and smashes their mouths together.

Frank kisses Party like he’s his lifeline, like he’s plummeting through the air and he’s reaching, reaching for Party’s outstretched hand.  Party tastes of dirt and sweat and cigarettes and late nights staring at black clouds and white walls, and there’s something beneath it that’s just so distinctly Gerard that Frank almost chokes.

It’s nothing sweet; Frank faintly registers that Party’s kissing back just as desperately, his hands cupping Frank’s face, the tang of blood bursting in his mouth from a bitten tongue- bitten tongue, bitten lip, whatever, it doesn’t matter- and Frank’s fingers winding through Party’s hair as they both lean into each other. Frank’s head is spinning behind closed eyes. In fact, it’s only when Frank pulls back to suck in a hurried breath, that he realises what a mess Party’s become- his hair’s thrown into disarray, black collar skewed, lips coated in saliva, his eyes dark.

“Jesus, Frank.” He’s breathing just as heavily as Frank is, and his voice is an octave lower, gravelly, and it sends a shiver shooting up his spine. And then Party’s scrambling off the car hood, dragging Frank with him and shoving him up against the car door and kisses him so thoroughly that Frank can almost feel it in his toes.

But it’s the next moment- when Party opens the door, pushes Frank into the backseat with a hand behind his head, fingers slipping over where skull meets spine- when the phantasmagoria cracks.

There’s a hand is on the back of Frank’s neck and suddenly it’s not Party anymore. He’s got black hair and an expression like serrated blades, and then his other hand is wrapping around Frank’s throat to meet the first and his expression is so cruel and Frank can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe he’s falling-

He’s flailing, falling, and his vision is back to focusing on Party again, pulling away with his bitten lips parted in shock. “Ghoulie? Frank? You okay? Frank?”

Frank’s chest is heaving, rattling for breath that he can’t manage to find. It takes a moment to realise that he’s got a white-knuckled grip on one of Party’s wrists, forcing it away from his face. He takes a shuddering breath. They’re in the trans-am, on the back-seat, and Party’s hair is red, not black, and they’re both alive.

They’re both fine.

“Frank?” Party repeats, but softer this time, more careful, like Frank’s an animal that could be scared away. Frank lets out a hiss of breath through his teeth and drops Party’s hand, but Party moves it carefully away- he understands, but the worry’s overriding the self-disgust, at least for the moment.

“Kiss me,” Frank says. “Please.”

Party doesn’t look sure, so Frank cranes his neck up to kiss him, and after a hesitant moment, Party lets out a huff of relief through his nose and kisses him back. And this is still so incomprehensible, because Frank’s kissing Party Poison, he’s kissing Gerard Way; the artist and the Killjoy and BLI’s greatest threat. And he’s Frank Iero, he’s Fun Ghoul; he’s excitable and angry and hates himself a little too much sometimes. But it doesn’t matter, because Party quiets the noise in his ears, just like Frank pushed away the monsters in his head, and they’re just made for each other. And they just fit together so perfectly through coincidence and pure luck, better than any of BLI’s machines ever could.

And, yeah, they’re both a little rough around the edges, but those jagged pieces are what make them so perfect together .

And Party hauls Frank closer, steering clear of his neck but dragging his lips and his teeth over his collarbones, and Frank just goes with it, digs his fingers into Party’s hair, pulls, and Party breaks away with a gasp.

“What?”

Frank doesn’t let go. “I’m never gonna leave you,” he finally says, and then he’s leaning back to kiss him.

It’s all slow movements and harsh breaths. There’s a small part of Frank’s brain that’s wondering if this will be the last time they’ll ever get this, that they’ll be rewarded just a single perfect moment; but the rest of his brain washes that away beneath a wave of Party Poison Gerard Way god I love you Gerard Gerard I need you I fucking love you Party please , and Frank almost can’t breathe underneath the weight of it.

And then Party’s gasping out- “Frankie-” and it sends another jolt through him, like he’s been shocked, and Frank just falls into him and doesn’t let himself think of anything or anyone else.

Chapter Text

It’s the hands in boiling water all over again. The complete withdrawal of emotions, withheld in a dam. All the fear, apprehension, and anxious energy collecting in a blocked medical drip. It’s all so quiet in the car; as if every breath is kept in check, just in case it was the slightest bit too loud.

Even the purr of the trans-am’s engine seems relatively hushed, or maybe it’s just Frank’s imagination- maybe his brain is too occupied on the imminent to bother fully converting sound waves into strands of electrical information.

Party Poison driving. Kobra Kid in the passenger seat. Frank and Jet Star in the back. Each of them packed into their own separate spaces, thinking their own separate thoughts. None of them speak.

The tunnel hasn’t changed since the last time Frank was here; although he’s not too surprised, considering tunnels don’t typically change shape or size, especially not within a week. Sweeping down the same tunnel that he had a week ago, still with the same destination in mind. The only difference is that this time, he’s not alone.

The plywood that had originally boarded up the entrance hasn’t even been replaced yet- they’d crashed straight through the gaping concrete into pitch-black, but now the strip lighting on the tunnel ceiling flashes through the car windows like Morse code. Cold white light, slicing through the shadows as if they were never there at all.

The air’s sparking with the kind of icy tension that scratches at Frank’s skin like needles, and next to him, Jet fiddles haltingly with his blaster. He offers Frank a tentative smile when he sees him looking over. In the front, Kobra’s managed to catch himself on a broken-record loop of clenching and unclenching his fists, heels of his hands pressed into his thighs.

Frank’s scar prickles uncomfortably.

Party flexes his fingers and readjusts his grip on the steering wheel. He’s wearing a pair of tattered biker gloves that he’d fished from the bottom of the trunk- god knows what they’ve still got crammed in there, but Frank had seen the way that Party had deliberately not seen the blue jacket thrown into the fray- and pulled them as far over his hands and wrists as they’d allow.

It was the temporary solution to a permanent problem: Jet had suggested that they could try and find someone to cover the BLI tattoo on Party’s wrist with another, but Party had shaken his head so viciously he could’ve snapped his own neck.

“No needles,” he’d spat out, like the words had tasted sour, and it’d been pretty clear that there was no room for debate on that topic. But, at the same time, it was almost impossible to ignore Party’s constant, mindless scratching at his own wrist, so the gloves were the best short-notice alternative they could muster.

“You tried your best, Ray,” Frank had assured Jet, quietly enough for Kobra and Party to be out of earshot. He even patted him on the shoulder.

Jet had nodded along halfheartedly before freezing. “Yeah- what? Did- What?”

“What?” Frank had maintained a perfectly innocent expression. “Party didn’t tell me. BLI clearly doesn’t already know all of our aliases. Definitely not.”

“What?”

Poor guy. Frank had left him to his own devices after that, bless him- hadn’t acknowledged any of them for a couple of hours, especially since he figured that you couldn’t really ask if someone had truly worked out your secret name without actually revealing it. Party had thrown him perplexed looks throughout the entire journey.

Now, however, he hasn’t even glanced at Frank in the last hour- completely focused on the road: his jaw set vice-tight, barely even blinking. So still he could almost be a statue, the white lights marbling his skin.

Frank readjusts his own gloves. Jet tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. No one says a word.

Party licks his lips. “Do you wonder if Korse is as bad as we think he is?” he speaks up, glancing into the rearview mirror and catching Frank’s eyes for a second. “Remember when he took the girl and tried to warn us off-“

“No,” Kobra snaps tersely. “Focus.”

Party’s mouth clamps shut. Conversation over.

There’s another checkpoint set up halfway through the tunnel- it hadn’t been there last time, so Frank guesses it must have been an added precaution- but it’s so lazily managed that Party doesn’t even slow down. One draculoid, one scarecrow, and they’ve barely got their blasters in their hands before the trans-am’s slamming through the barrier.

The car jolts from the impact. Two bodies go flying. No one inside the car says a word. Frank concentrates on his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. His chest feels tight. His heartbeat stutters.

It’s still silent- eerily quiet, as if the entire world is holding its breath.

The grind of tyres on asphalt. The crack of white overhead lights. Then they’re bursting out of the tunnel and into the rain, swerving to a stop in front of Better Living Industries’ main doors. Battery City is splayed out around them like it’s set on a sacrificial table; a mess of pinprick lights clustered in a small galaxy. It’s almost surprising that Frank realises he doesn’t miss the place a single bit. There’s no pang of nostalgia for the city he grew up in; the city where he withstood everything from 2012 to the Helium Wars; the city he ran away from, after burning every packet of medication he had been given.

It could’ve been a place that he’s never even visited before.

Through the building’s double doors, Frank can see draculoids and ‘crows bustling in and out of sight. Not one of them turns their way.

This is it.

Adrenaline firing. Muscles tense.

This is it.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Frank clambers out of the car and into the cloud of grey rain.

It’s easier than you’d expect, breaking into a high-security facility. Maybe it’s because Party knows the place so well- knows the quickest route to the offices, knows the easiest ways to avoid the security cameras. Or maybe it’s because BLI is so unprepared.

It must be luxurious, being so assured by your own strength that you don’t need to contemplate the potential of someone challenging it. They make through the foyer within a minute: it feels as if Frank wakes up the moment that the blasters begin to fire; he’s awake, he’s ready, and he’s lifting his arm and firing back without a single thought.

Sight the enemy, squeeze the trigger. Sight the enemy, squeeze the trigger. He can feel the electricity spark, the blaster’s recoil making his fingertips buzz.

Inhale. Exhale. Fire.

The foyer plummets into silence. Every draculoid and ‘crow that he can see is sprawled out on the pristine white floor, grey smoke curling away from the white uniform and soaking the air. Party doesn’t slow down- doesn’t even look back. He steps over one draculoid and heads straight for the farthest door. They all follow him without a word.

At some point, the alarms begin to blare, but Frank can’t precisely pinpoint when; maybe it was just as they entered the building itself, or maybe it’s as they head down one of the many corridors- all he knows is that the rooms shudder from a sharp white glow to a shocking, flashing blue light, and there’s the shrill, incessant wail of sirens overhead.

Frank can taste the electricity in the air. It mixes with the sweat and the adrenaline and the excitement rushing through his veins, tumbling into a wild smorgasbord of noise and colour that’s close to becoming a tangible thing.

Ahead of him, Party lifts his head like a dog on a scent before glancing back to them, and then turns down another corridor. There’s ‘EXTERMINATE’ posters plastered over the walls- Frank’s own scratched-up face staring back at him with tired eyes.

“Get back!”

Party’s lunging back around the corner as a laser-blast crackles over his shoulder, striking the opposite wall and exploding into a shower of sparks. He crashes into Frank and almost sends the both of them flying. Jet catches hold of Frank’s shoulder before they do.

“You okay?” Frank chokes out.

Party’s got a vice-like grip on Frank’s forearms. “Dracs right around that corner,” he pants. “Three of them. Blocking the door.”

He can barely hear him over the sound of the alarm, but Frank stops Party when he goes to pull away. “You still with me?”

Party manages a jerky nod. “It smells just the same,” he whispers, like it’s a confession, like being afraid of the place should be something to be ashamed of. But then he straightens and chokes down another breath, shaking Frank off. “We need to keep moving.”

“Sure.” Frank drops his arms and turns away, slipping over to Kobra and Jet. They’re pressed to the wall, and as he watches, Kobra leans around the corner, just to immediately jump back again as another shot whistles past his face. Jet turns towards them, face tight, his one eye boring into them. “You both okay?”

“We’re fine.” Frank lifts his blaster. “Keep them distracted for a sec an’ I’ll get them out the way.”

Jet’s just opening his mouth to protest before Frank starts forwards, rounding the corner and firing at the first white shape he can see. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kobra firing leaning after him and firing aimlessly at the draculoids, then Jet and Party joining in; it offers just a second of the draculoids’ diverted attention, but it’s still enough. He manages to take down the first, then the second, and the third draculoid is just turning back to him, just taking a step forward, as his third shot gets it straight in the centre of the forehead. It crumples like paper to the floor.

Behind him, Jet lets out an impressed whistle. “Nice one.”

If it were any other day, any other situation, Frank would give a modest little bow.

They continue down the corridor and Party leads the way without a word, his expression rigid and his posture ever more taunt. For a long minute, the only sound Frank can hear is the wail of the alarm, the hammer of his own heartbeat reverberating in his ears. Blue flashing lights.

Inhale, exhale.

Focus on the back of Party’s head.

Inhale, exhale.

He loses himself within the maze of endless white corridors and wanted posters, and after a while- it could be seconds, or minutes, he loses track of time, too- his own face seems to become less familiar, more distorted, and his heartbeat only jumps faster.

He’s not stupid. They’ve got a short loan of borrowed time. Each second passed is another second closer to them being swarmed by an unconquerable mass of dracs. It’s another second closer to Korse catching up with them.

Inhale, exhale.

Another right turn, another door, and then they’re there: the pack of draculoids still crouched at the computers confirms it. Frank takes two of them out, and Kobra takes the other. And the girl, perched on an office chair in the very centre of the room, jumps at the first blast, as if she hadn’t heard them come in.

Jesus Christ, the girl’s still alive. Frank hadn’t been expecting the tidal wave of relief to wash over him, but now that it does, it’s almost dizzying. He hadn’t been sure- He’d always worried-

Party pushes past them all and falls to his knees to wrap her in a hug, and the girl hugs him back without a moment’s hesitation. She looks so relieved.

They’re there for a long moment- maybe a fraction too long, and there’s an instant that Party’s spine stiffens, as if he can see something that the rest of them cannot- but despite the growing urgency of the alarms and lights, and the draculoids Frank can see through the glass walls (honestly, what purpose do glass walls even possess) marching hurriedly towards the foyer, Frank can’t ignore the warm, heavy feeling that’s beginning to settle in the pit of his stomach.

It’s something close to coming home. It’s something close to a spark of hope.

“Oh man.” Party finally pulls away and settles back on his heels. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.”

The girl shrugs it off. “It’s ‘kay. I woulda probably been the same way.”

“Nah.” Party ruffles her hair. “You’re way stronger than me. You’d scare ‘em off.”

She grins up at him. “I’ll do that next time.”

“How about we try not to let there be a next time?” Kobra leans forward with crossed arms. “How ya doing, buddy? Been kickin’ ass an’ taking names?”

“Guys,” Jet interrupts, “We have to go. We have to go right now.”

There’s something heavy in his voice- something sticky and dark as tar, something that hits overwhelms the warmth that Frank was previously swimming in and douses him in something else. It’s not dread- it’s more resigned than that.

When Party stands up, there’s a glimmer of the same distress in his eyes. It’s only there for a split second, but it’s long enough for Frank to catch it. It’s there long enough for his heart the freeze over.

But then it’s gone and the tight, measured expression is back. Party nods sharply. “We need to go,” he agrees, and leads them back to the door. The rest of them fall into step behind- Frank at the back, the girl just beside him. He can’t help but glance back every few seconds. It takes a moment for him to work out quite what’s bothering him.

“Listen,” he begins, and when the girl glances up at him, he bites his tongue. He hasn’t spoken to her for months, but- “did you see Korse? The pale guy in white? Or The Director? You know where they went?”

“Of course.” The girl nods vigorously before slowing down and turning back to point at the same room they just left. She has to raise her voice to be heard, but Frank still has trouble making out what she’s saying. “She was in there, just before you guys turned up. She went off somewhere. I dunno where though.”

“Hey, Ghoul!”

Frank looks up to see Party waiting for them. He’s on edge; Frank can see from the way he holds himself, the white-knuckled grip on the blaster in his hand. When he meets, Frank’s eyes, his jaw tightens. “Come on.”

The girl trots on ahead as Frank catches up to Jet and Kobra, and they continue in silence until they reach the foyer again, ready for another wave of draculoids, but- there’s nothing. There’s no new enemies. No draculoids rushing from cover. There’s something spectacularly off about the whole thing, an uncomfortable itch of foreboding.

And then Korse and a pack of draculoids are streaming towards them, from behind them, and Frank’s turning and he’s got his blaster in his hand and-

There’s only slashes of colour amidst the white, white world, the five of them mixing into a blur of coloured jackets and erratic movements. Franks skips out of the path of one blast, feels the heat clawing at the back of his neck, and he twists to fire straight back at the sender of the original shot.

He doesn’t have chance to check to see if it hits its mark- he barely has time to look around and see who’s left standing. He’s already moving again, darting back into the middle of the room and sending off another volley of shots towards another draculoid lurching towards him.

The girl’s there and she’s still alive, thank god, with her head down and her hands pressed to her ears, but Frank wants to yell at her to run, get out, but he can’t find the voice. And at least he can protect her while she’s close- they’ve only just got her back, and he’s in no rush to get her ripped away again.

But the room’s suddenly brimming with draculoids and scarecrows, every single one of them armed to the teeth, and he almost wants to scream that this is unfair, that they’re completely outnumbered, that all they wanted to do was save one kid. But even if he did, he doubts anyone would listen: he see Korse out of the corner of his eye- a shadow in ruffled clothing, firing off a rapid barrage of shots before melting back into the fray.

And then, for an instant, he’s distracted, but it’s nearly long enough- there’s a snarl of electricity and he dives to one side as a blast tears past his thigh. But he’s too slow, and there’s a fresh flare of pain firing through his veins, like an extra shot of energy.

He hits the ground, staggers, and by this point, there’s no time for thinking; they need to get out of here, and they need to get out of here fast, before they’re overwhelmed. This is all a fight to the death, a survival based on pure instinct, and he lets muscle memory and senses keep his head above water.

His hair’s in his face now, a strand’s stuck in his mouth that he can’t brush out of the way, his fingers slipping on the sweat and the grease. The room’s swimming with the stench of burning clothes and smoke, filling his nose and clouding his head. He can taste the electricity in the air. It mixes with the sweat and the excitement and the adrenaline rushing through his veins, tumbling into a wild smorgasbord of noise and colour that’s close to becoming a tangible thing.

It’s a chaotic mess that blurs into a running panorama of adrenaline, One minute, Party’s at his back, with an icy, closed-off expression and deadly accuracy that would be disturbing if Frank had a moment to fully comprehend it and what it could mean. And then it’s Jet at his side, and Frank’s covering his blind spots as well as he can manage as Jet takes out whichever draculoids come close. And then he finds himself standing over the girl as scarecrows rush for him, but still perplexed to find that they don’t pay the girl any attention whatsoever. She’s the reason that they’re here, after all: wouldn’t BLI want to keep her close?

And now there’s another drac behind him, throwing itself forward, and its fist hits his shoulder just as he takes aim for it. His shot arcs wide and he reels back, almost trips over his own feet, but the drac isn’t giving him any time to recover. It’s raising its blaster and he ducks beneath its arm, forces its ray gun up, the blasts firing uselessly towards the ceiling. A kick in the stomach and it falls. One shot to the head and it won’t be getting up again.

He gives himself a second to look around- the girl still hasn’t moved a single inch, but Kobra’s only a few metres away, shooting at whatever draculoids come close. There’s swarms of them, and he’s firing off with pinpoint precision, not wasting a single shot. But there’s a shape behind him, only a handful of metres away, and it’s raising its ray gun towards him and-

And Frank shoots the draculoid in the chest and it slumps to the floor, Kobra turns to him in surprise- he hadn’t even seen it coming.

“There’s too many!” Frank’s not sure if Kobra can hear him over the cacophony of blasters and alarms, but he’s given a grim nod and a taunt half-smile in reply before pointing back towards the same doors they came through. It’s their only viable way out. But there’s still too many dracs between them and the outside.

Kobra’s being hauled away by a scarecrow before he can get another word out, and then Frank’s got another blast flying past his ear- so close that it burns- as a draculoid crashes into him, sends them both flying.

Then the air’s ripped out of his lungs and there’s a knee in his stomach, and he’s hitting the floor, his vision smeared with red-hot pain as his head strikes the white tile with an audible crack. There’s white gloves tearing at his hair, ripping at his jacket, clawing at his neck- oh god oh god it’s on his neck he’s not gonna be able to breathe oh fuck- before he manages to kick it away.

The onslaught’s unending and overwhelming; he can only make out wave after wave of white masks and bloody mouths, the BLI emblem grinning down at him triumphantly. He tries to rear up, scramble away, but there’s another scarecrow on top of him, and this time, he can’t manage to reach his blaster, and-

The scarecrow gasps- almost as if the snap of electricity comes as a surprise to them- before it splutters, convulsing once in a full-body shudder, and then it slumps to the side. Its breath smells of tablets and plastic.

“You’re my knight in shining armor,” he tells Party, who’s standing over him with a still-smoking blaster in his hand. His chest is heaving, there’s a thin line of blood above his eyebrow, and his hair looks as if it could be on fire, and Frank thinks he looks gorgeous. Gorgeous, but more importantly, alive.

“How you holding up?” Party croaks, his voice hoarse and smoke-stained. There’s a flush settling in his cheeks.

Frank takes a deep, steadying breath, before batting away Party’s offered hand and clambering to his feet on his own. “Could be better,” he manages, and Party gives him a tight grin, a brief small flash of teeth. Frank uses the moment to look around and immediately regrets it: it’s complete chaos, with any semblance of a plan having dissolved into a frantic ecstasy to fight and survive. The frantic flare of blue lights matches time with his heartbeat, the alarm making his ears burn. The mayhem isn’t even particularly surprising- if he’s honest with himself, he hadn’t expected them to even get this far.

Korse is still around- somewhere, somewhere, but just always lurking out of sight- but there’s only the vague threat of him on the edges of Frank’s vision, where he’ll slip in and out of the shadows, aiming and firing and retreating again.

“Listen,” he starts, as Party takes aim at another draculoid and ghosts it before it can leap for his brother. He glances back at Frank. “We gotta get out of here. Right now.” Frank sees him hesitate, casting another fleeting look at the midst of the fight, and feels the familiar sense of dread flood his system again. “There’s no time to go after Korse.”

For a moment, Frank wonders whether Party’s going to leave anyway- wonders whether he’d go after him, or hold him back if it came down to it- but then Party meets his eyes, bites his bottom lip and nods once. It’s nothing more than a sharp jerk of his head, but it’s enough, and Frank can’t help but let out a breath as relief floods his system.

It’s just as Frank’s turning back towards the fight that Party catches him by his shoulders and drags Frank back towards him, smashing their lips together before Frank can even catch hold of a breath. He kisses back as hard as he can manage.

“Be careful, Gee,” he forces himself to choke out, trying to ignore the way that Party’s looking at him, like he’s trying to memorise every line, bruise and scar on Frank’s face, as if he’s expecting it to be the last chance he’ll get. Frank tells himself that he’s not doing the exact same thing in return.

“See you, Frankie,” he says softly, his voice little more than a whisper, but still louder than everything else in the whole world. Party gives a watery smile and a salute before turning away, red hair fluttering, and Frank’s heart stings.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

Frank forces himself to not look back as he steps away, for his feet to start moving. There’s a pack of draculoids ahead of him and he speeds up, head down, doesn’t think as he lifts his blaster and fires. One scarecrow manages to turn, lifts its blaster, but a blast catches it in the chest and falls. The next one doesn’t even have chance to react before it’s ghosted, the electricity snarling and tossing up a cloud of ash and smoke, dissipating with the sound of the blast.

There’s a whistle of a blast above his head and he has about half a second to dive to the side before the wall behind him explodes. The sound is deafening, the plaster pummelling his face and hair, and he only looks up again to find another draculoid aiming right at him.

He rolls, throws himself to his knees, fumbles for his ray-gun but he can’t keep hold of it, his fingers unsteady and uncoordinated with adrenaline, and he looks up to find the drac’s gloved hands reaching for him. He lashes out, grabs its wrist and drags it to the floor, and for a moment it’s caught off-guard, but it’s just enough. The sound it makes when Frank presses his blaster beneath its chin and pulls the trigger is soft, something akin to a sigh, almost resigned, before it drops to the floor. Its red-paint grin leers at up him.

Inhale, exhale.

Frank can taste the metallic tang of blood in the air.

They’ve got to get out.

They’ve got to get out.

They’ve got to make it out

Between him and the exit, there’s about a dozen draculoids. Korse is somewhere. The girl still hasn’t moved a single inch. Suddenly, with a jolt, he realises that he’s still looking out for another flash of red hair, but it’s not there. The emergency overhead lights flare intermittently.

Then he sees Party at the far side of the room, methodically taking out every threat one after the other. Jet’s working his way back to the center of the room- and to the girl- whilst Kobra is battling his way furiously towards his brother. He’s shouting something, waving his free hand, but his voice is impalpable beneath the alarms and the growl of fighting and ray-guns. But Frank starts towards him anyway, unable to decipher what the problem is-

Korse.

Korse barely five metres from Party, but Party hasn’t seen him yet.

No. No, no no no no.

He looks back to Kobra, then back to Party again, just to see him pressing his blaster into the small of another draculoid’s back and pulling the trigger, winding his fingers through the black hair on its mask and ripping it off as he does. There’s a howl, and then the drac falls forward, and Party’s left standing, the glow of the blast still hanging in the air. He looks cold and determined; a bright beacon of hope in the white world, but Korse has seen him- he’s moving forward-

Frank’s opening his mouth, needs to find the sound to yell, needs to warn Party… but Party doesn’t seem to see him. He’s still holding the draculoid mask- standing, staring, shaking as he takes a step back, seems to glance down at his black clothes and then back to the white mask… and for one short second, one short, shattered fragment of an instant, his wide eyes meet Frank’s. He can’t miss how crazed he looks, like a cornered animal at the end of a hunt, the whites of his eyes showing and the fear unmistakable.

But now Party’s taking a step back, slamming straight into Korse, who swings him around and forces him up against a wall. And he looks so small, overpowered by Korse’s comparable strength and size, and Frank’s thrashing  through the dracs to get closer, and he’s raising his blaster for a clear shot-

Something white and large crashes into him, throwing them both sprawling to the floor; it’s another furious, drugged-up scarecrow, but Frank’s past the point of caring as it fumbles for his wrists, trying to force the blaster from its face. But Party’s in danger and Frank growls out a curse as he kicks it away, sends a final blast into its chest, and-

And-

And-

Frank can’t see Party anywhere.

Frank can only see Korse.

He can only see the cold smiling licking the corners of Korse’s mouth as he stares down at the figure in front of him; The figure gradually sliding down the wall, slumped over with their chin to their chest, their luminous red hair obscuring their face.

Party’s lips are inches from his own. He’s looking down at Frank with eyes of broken glass. “Ghoul…” he whispers, “I don’t wanna be alone. I don’t want people to leave me.”

Frank can hear someone screaming.

It’s a sound stained bloody red, rippling with animal horror and incomprehensible agony. It’s the kind of sound that humans shouldn’t ever be able to produce. Faintly, Frank wonders if it’s Kobra Kid screaming like that.

Of course, it could be Frank himself, but he’s not convinced, because Frank doesn’t feel like screaming. He only feels hollowed-out, as if his veins have been taken to with a scalpel, the contents of his skull scraped clean.

The scream doesn’t even stop for air- it just drags itself on and on and on, like barbed wire- and it’s almost something of selfish relief when there’s a hiss of electricity that snaps out like a whip and the scream cuts off. He supposes that it must have been Kobra screaming after all, because Frank can see him collapsing too, folding like someone made from old paper.

The music’s fading again, filtering away into the night like sanding trickling between his fingers, and Frank drags his thumb up the side of Gerard’s neck.

“Ghoul!” Jet’s yelling his name, but Frank can’t make himself take his eyes from the folded-up figure against the pillar.

They look so small like that: with red hair fanning around their face, eyes closed, like they’re asleep.

“Ghoul! Frank, we gotta go! We gotta go now!”

Jet’s got his hands on Frank’s shoulders, trying to shake him into action, and he forces his numb legs to move. He trips, stumbles, but then he’s running, his body cold, all pain gone. He manages to snatch the girl’s wrist and she falls into step behind him. The draculoids are all so focused on the two fallen Killjoys that the two remaining ones seem to take a second priority. As if they only remember why Frank and Jet are there when they’ve passed them.

Frank catches back up with Jet and together, with the girl in tow, they bolt for the exit door, the electricity writhing in the air like it’s something alive and ravenous. He remembers how burnt and bloody it’d left Party’s shoulder- and that’d been with the protective BLI jacket.

“Jet?” Frank pants, breath rattling between words, “Sorry... for sayin’... wantin’ to keep the girl safe was… was selfish…”

“What are you on about?”

Frank can smell the sweat and cigarette smell of him, can feel his body trembling.

Jet gets to the doors- almost crashes straight through them- and Frank shoves the girl after him. Then he pulls up before them, and Jet skids to a stop, tries to reach back for him, his lips forming Frank’s name…

“I won’t leave you,” Frank murmurs. “I won’t leave, Party. I promise. Never.”

The thud as the door swings shut seems so final that the sound reverberates in his chest. The girl’s got tears streaming down her face and she’s yelling for him, reaching back as Jet Star hauls her away.

It’ll be worth it. If Jet manages to get her away, it’ll all be worth it.

Inhale. Exhale.

He can see Gerard curled up on the other side of the room. Black clothes, red hair, white face.

Inhale. Exhale.

He raises his blaster again as he turns around, pulls in another breath.

Frank’s not ever leaving Gerard again.