Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Amidst the Helium Wars, a significant number of lives were lost, the full extent of which remains unknown, and significant damage was inflicted on the world. Although estimates suggest that the death toll was in the several hundred range, precise figures have not been determined. Further research into this matter has been prohibited.

Following the fall of Australia during the Analogue Wars, Better Living Industries emerged with a promise for a brighter future. The Analogue Wars came to a close with the Great Fires of 2012, yet no subsequent research has been conducted. The number of casualties from this conflict remains undisclosed.” — Official Records of Better Living History, vol. 1, 2018. 

The lights turn on at exactly 07:00 every morning. 

Battery City rests at a perfect 27.8°c, as was forecasted for this day and is forecasted every day. The weather is comfortable, there are no clouds in the sky, no strong winds, or humidity — Battery City does not have a proper sky. Instead, a perfect dome sits above the city, assuring citizens a burdenless, safe environment to flourish in, provided they take their recommended dosage of daily pills at the right times, and follow the rules and regulations set for their own personal wellbeing and safety. No burdens, no pain, no heartbreak, because there are no pesky, natured feelings.

Approximately 63% of Battery City’s citizens are getting ready for work at 7:30. The cameras come to life, whirring quietly, as they search — all for the safety of their citizens, of course —, while the commute begins to buzz, ready for its first travellers. The big screens flash on at exactly 8:00, and the Neo-Director’s voice can be heard from the speakers. 

Headphones are required to be worn during designated periods of the day to minimize any external distractions. Specifically, headphones must be worn between the hours of 8:30 to 9:00 on level 4, 12:00 to 13:00 on level 2, and 16:00 to 17:45 on level 4. This measure is in place to help safeguard against negative thoughts and promote a focused and productive environment. Have a better day. 

Citizens commute to work at 8:00.

Dante Gallo considers himself a near-perfect, class-A citizen and worker of Battery City. At the age of 32, he’s the ideal image of Better Living Industries. He takes his pills on time, he wears his headphones when prompted. He’s polite and works quietly and with precision, an accomplished man and one of the more valuable assets to the Industry. He does what is expected of him. 

In fact, Dante would be surprised if he’s ever failed to fill his role or follow the rules. As a perfect image of his city, it would be a cardinal sin to have failed it. Dante brushes the thought from his mind, and watches himself in the mirror. 

His suit fits perfectly, as it should, and he follows the uniform code for a male-type citizen — short hair, clean face, straight posture, no blemishes or tattoos, no scars. Almost. A thin scar runs along his cheek, connecting to his lip like the thin tendril of a spider-web. He doesn’t understand how he’s gotten it — his doctor said it was an accident serving his city (though how serving his city would lead to violence is completely beyond him), which had, coincidentally, been the same accident to take most of his memories out —, but he pays no mind to it. He’s not supposed to. Just like he’s not supposed to pay mind to the bracelet he wears around his wrist. He doesn’t know how he got it or when he got it, but his doctor said it would be better if he left it on. It’s nice, too. When he looks at it, it fills him with a sense of something. What it is, he’s not sure, but it’s something. There’s some kind of epiphany attached to the red, yellow, and the odd, lace pink strands woven together into the bracelet. They used to have blue flowers interwoven in the lace, but those have long since disappeared.    

As he laces his standard, uniform shoes, Dante can hear the odd buzzing in his ear. He’s been having it since he woke up in the hospital, and it seems to start whenever he thinks about his past. It starts out quietly, like a soft purring, before the entire thing blows up into the swarm of locusts and Dante feels near losing his mind. He supposes it’s a side effect, some small inconvenience from hitting his head, or something other. It doesn’t matter much, not when he simply has to increase the dosage of pills to feel better again. The buzzing is kept at bay.

Dante takes another pill. 

The rest of his morning is completely normal, as expected. He eats breakfast — the same grey-coloured cereal he eats every day — and puts his headphones on when required, finding that all his negative thoughts have dissipated. All his worries, all his fears are gone, and Dante is in complete sound of mind. Battery City is good, his headphones hum; he agrees. I am satisfied, he is told once again; he agrees. I want to serve my city, he is told; yes, that is right. Dante will serve his city and always has. His headphones only recite affirmations in the mornings (and most evenings, too). All dedicated to his own development. It’s good.

 He travels to work with this reassurance, taking the metro/skyline. It’s not far, his building — he could walk — though he much prefers to watch the city wake up. With the lights appearing so suddenly, one can watch nearly everything going on (as long as it’s permitted). But if Dante looks past all the perfect, tall buildings here, at City Proper, he can see the Lobby. It leaves something odd in his chest, something he should probably consult his doctor about, because even with the headphones on, he finds that he feels something, even though it’s within the chemical boundaries of his pills . Dante doesn’t want that. 

He steps off of the metro, with several others, all walking in a perfect single line. He makes polite conversation with a woman whose hair is brown — she’s heading the same way as he is. She’s also jittery, her supposed-to-be-perfectly-curated smile doesn’t sit quite right on her well-made-up face. Dante supposes that she’ll be taken away before lunchtime and reconditioned. It’s for her own good, his thoughts remind him. He does not ask for her name. 

As he enters through the automatic glass doors of the Headquarters, Dante’s immediately greeted by the strong scent of antiseptic and cleaning solution — he’s not surprised, the building is in perfect condition. His hands itch, like he should be cleaning them, as if he doesn’t fit in with this perfect building. He should.

Hushed voices fill the empty space, alongside the low hum of machines he doesn’t know the name of, and the constant buzz of computers working tirelessly in the background. Dante can hear the rhythmic clicking of his co-workers’ heels, across polished marble and linoleum floors. He takes a moment to inspect the plaque by the door — In honour of our beloved Director, whose legacy of excellence and innovation will live on forever, is engraved in the grey, stone plate. Dante doesn’t remember the original Director, but he knows she’s the reason the city is still flourishing, despite the efforts of the terrorist killjoys. She eliminated the threat of rogues with her death and appointed the Neo-Director. A hero, a saviour, a liberator. The reason Dante was here, in the first place.

A droid stands at the reception, mouth curled up in an artificial smile, as she types away on her computer, whirring softly with each artificial breath. Dante walks up to the reception, checking his pocket for his ID-card. It’s there, just like he knew it would be. He says his pre-thought-out-goodmornings and tries to hold a polite conversation with the receptionist. Her politeness is clearly programmed, but he doesn’t mind.

“You’ve been requested to participate in a meeting on Floor Ten, at 12:00,” She reads out from the screen, eyes flashing briefly, as if she’s as surprised as Dante, in the dull, chemical way, of course. Not that he’s surprised, it’s just not…something he’d expect.

“Oh,” Is all Dante manages. 

“Yes…” She agrees.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about the meeting?”

“I don’t have anything on my document here,” The Droid pauses, “But it seems like your meeting would have to do with a new project. Besides, Floor Ten is rather official, if you know what I mean,”

Of course Dante would know what she means. The Floor Ten is possibly the most daunting and important floor in the building. Of course, all work in the HQ is essential, but Floor Ten is where the city is run from. Only the most influential and respected people have access to Floor Ten; executives and officials with Class-A clearance. Dante might consider himself a good citizen, but he is far from significant and even farther from reaching that kind of clearance.  

So, why him?

Dante thanks the receptionist and makes his way to the elevator, trying to think of something else. After all, he is a busy man. A few other similarly dressed workers step into the elevator beside him, giving polite smiles and good mornings. Dante’s glad to exchange pleasantries with them. He recognizes one of the men from his floor — he has a wife and two children. Dante’s met them, they’re pleasant. As are all families in City Proper. Dante wouldn’t know, though. 

His workspace is on floor 4. 

The scent of coffee and freshly printed papers linger in the air, and Dante’s quite sure he can hear the coffee machine under the distant chatter of his fellow floor 4 employees talking about projects, assignments, and the weather. He makes his way towards his own desk, finding his half-finished coffee from yesterday. That’s not a good look. The rest of his desk is (luckily) quite neat (thank goodness).  His finished papers have been taken away by one of the assistants, and a new stack sits there, waiting for him. Like most of his fellow employees, he doesn’t have anything decor-like in his plain, grey cubicle.

He sits down, preparing to start work.

“Good morning, Gallo,” A voice interruptsfrom behind him. Dante has no enemies in the city, but if he did, Mickey Vore would be one of them. Top in his classes and someone who’s very insufferable for being on his pills. Of course, the pills are what keep Dante from caring. He’d be more concerned about Vore’s pill dosage. 

“Mickey,” He greets (and not because Vore’s perfect smile falters a bit), “How is that project of yours coming along?” 

“Good, good,” The blond says, “Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t heard more about it,”

“Oh?” 

“Yes, well, it’s supposed to be incredibly important for the Industry. I wish I could tell you more-” He pauses, nonchalant tone taking on something false- “And I tried to advocate for you, I really did — it just didn’t work out. They didn’t even consider you,”

“Shame,” Dante replies, tone matching his. Vore’s clearly lying, but Dante doesn’t mind. In fact, Dante’s preoccupied with whether to bring his headphones to the meeting at noon. It was forecasted for today, but Dante supposes he can gain clearance on the subject matter - he’ll have to email the receptionist. 

This is good for him.

- 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐓-

It never stops raining. 

Metaphorically, of course; the desert hasn’t seen a single drop of moisture in the last three months (objectively, of course, no one counts days anymore). The days are growing hotter and the nights are growing shorter, long-lasting supplies and oasis’ are drying up quickly, there’s nothing left. And the deserts have never had so many stray and vulnerable kids. 

Your shadow lives on without you, in the wise words of the late Dr. Death-Defying; the desert’s never been so dark. 

The floor itself is splintering and falling apart, splintering like the old, wooden beams of an abandoned house that’s been broken down by years of misuse and carelessness. The same splintering that feels much too close to the porcelain cracks of Party Poison. 

They used to be unkillable. Completely invincible. Immortal, even. And now? Now, Party Poison, a legend, a hero, a saint, has been reduced to this pathetic husk of what they once were, holding onto flimsy threads that are going to give way as the clouds roll in. Party Poison never feared death—they’ve died multiple times to get to this point—and now they couldn’t hope for it to come sooner. 

All they have left is their crumpled paper-dreams and that disgusting, morbid, joy-like feeling they get when they bleed. Their bleeding heart became an open wound. 

They drive across the desert at 82 miles per hour, gripping on a worn-down leather-metal steering wheel, until their knuckles match the colour of the old durapore tape. The ‘Am isn’t what it used to be. Poison’s prized possession, wasn’t it? They never dared let the paint fade, not until now. Now they can barely see the spider. But that’s in the past, isn’t it? Does it really matter? 

No, they’ll tell themself, it doesn’t.

Even when their hands are bloody, and they can’t feel the wind in their hair anymore, even when they don’t see the patrol nearing their car on the Route Guano. When their eyes are clouded over, and their life flashes before their eyes, because they. Just. Don’t. Care. They can’t. 

On the verge of death, Party Poison laughs. In life, Poison is muted. 

And when they get home, when they limp back to the Diner, or when some random ‘joy takes pity on them and drives them home—although all those people should be pitying themselves—they’ll drag themself through the doors and to the bathroom, and their brother will give them this stupid look, and say, Poison, you have to stop doing that , and they’ll pretend they don’t hear him and think, hypocrite , but they’ll never say it. 

Because he’s doing it just like they are. They know he goes up to the Crash Track when they’re gone, and they know he races around until his recklessness lands him into a ditch or under his bike, and they know he picks fights. He’d say it’s because he has to. It gets them carbons. And they know he has to, but not because it brings them profit. There’s other, much easier ways of doing that. 

But the Venom Brothers have had one very serious problem since they were brought back from the dead, a problem they won’t talk about—not that they talk much anyways —, but both Party Poison and the Kobra Kid don’t have a cause anymore. They’re both tired, worn down to the bone with exhaustion and pain, and they don’t feel anything. There isn’t a reason, anymore. 

Maybe that’s why Party Poison is the problem. Maybe that’s why they’re not listening to some fake on the radio, trying to be the next Death-Defying. 

They’ve lost everything. Their family, their future, their life. Without someone to die for, what do they even have? 

They got so lost in a cause that they forgot to save what was still left. They lost themself in a cause, and now that it’s gone, they don’t have anything. They are nothing. There is no Party Poison. Instead, there’s a stilled inferno of rage, there’s silence that fills an endless abyss. They’re not quite human anymore. 

It never stops raining, not in their heart. 

And maybe that’s why Poison doesn’t see the patrol in front of them, doesn’t see the headlights flashing and the desperate screech of tires, not until they fly through the window shield, taking all the glass with them. Plain, simple, painful. They barely feel it. It burns, it stings, but there's nothing left. They're hooked up on adrenaline and a will to die. They won't die, not yet. The world hates them. Look at what we've become, they'll remember thinking when it's over and they're laying on the cool desert-floor at night. Everything is temporary. They're temporary. At the end of the day, they'll drag themself back through the Diner, and their brother will just look at them and say-

There’s a photo taped to the dashboard. There used to be other people Poison loved. There’s a forget-me-not tattoo on their wrist. Their car holds a sentimental cigarette pack. They want it back. 

Chapter Text

On the edge of the farthest Zone in the desert, under thick radiation and killing suns, lies an old bunkhouse. A broken, worn down bunkhouse, with boarded windows and several layers of tarps keeping the worst of the desert’s harsh winds out. It’s nearly falling apart. The bunkhouse is a place no one would ever want to step foot in, sticking out of nothing like a sore thumb. It’s abandoned, or, at least, it should be. 

Some nights, a single light is turned on in the house. It glows unsteadily, like it’s afraid that something’s going to distinguish the flames quickly. Some nights, gunshots can be heard from the house—real, bullet-powered gunshots. Many folks know who the gunshots come from, but she doesn’t get many visitors. 

They call them Amity. That’s not her name. 

But those who know Amity know one thing—she’ll spare a bit of sunshine for a brother in need. And that sunshine comes in the form of bullets. Amity never misses, their shot is always completely true, and for the right price, they’ll provide their services to anyone who asks. No pity, no mercy, just a promise of revenge. She only has one rule for her services; she does it her own way . And they don’t take too kindly to neutrals. 

But Amity isn’t always Amity. 

In fact, they’re Jet Star most of the time. Friendly relations are thrown out of the window, forgotten, because at the end of the day, Jet lives by her own rules. A rogue, a gunslinger, a wanderer—always on the move, looking for her next mark, for her next kill, for her revenge. To the Desert, Jet Star became a heartless killer named Amity (how ironic), but they knew there was more than that. To them, it was all about survival. The odds were already stacked against Jet, even after she ‘started a new life’, though if she really faced it, nothing had changed. Their wounds were still the same, they just have to face them alone now.

Jet—or Amity, depending on who was referring to them—had seen horrors that the desert couldn’t describe. They’d seen so many deaths that sometimes, she was sure they were chipping away at her. Her hopes and dreams had been stolen, but if asked, Jet would simply shrug and say, It’s all part’a the livin'— an understatement of the century. Probably even ironic, because it shouldn’t be part of the living and Jet’s sick of it. And all their problems come from an era ago. 

Jet remembers growing up in Zone 3, back when her mama had a fresh garden with plump tomatoes and juicy melons and all these cattle. When it was just the two of them in paradise, laughing and joking because they were safe and happy and everything was okay. Jet still remembers her kind eyes, the way she said, it’ll all be okay, in her airy desert lilt, how strong her mama was. And then they joined a crew because Mama’s garden had been ruined, and she had gotten herself ghosted when Jet was just 10. Maybe she should’ve learned from her mama and stayed away from crews.

But the Fabulous Four had been something special, at least, that’s what Jet had thought. Up until things began to grow tense, sometime before they had all been separated. They have no idea where Ghoul is, whether he’s still alive, and they’re almost a bit glad for that; he doesn’t have to be there when she inevitably ends up in the same room as the Venom Brothers and her trigger slips. 

Jet’s mama was wrong about one thing—it was not all going to be okay. 

And now Jet Star’s grown up to be a real bully. She used to be real nice, too nice . If their mama saw them now…

Well, it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it? 

And at leas’ I’m still alive, she points out to herself, frustrated. And that’s true; it’s all about survival here. Sometimes, Jet gets a bit too lost in her thoughts—she can’t help it. But when they get lost in their thoughts, Jet tends to wake up somewhere else, and all the colour drains from the sky, like dripping paint, and all she can do is stare and watch as the desert glitches, turning various colours and then nothing, and no else sees anything. 

That’s what’s so ridiculous! Someone tried to tell Jet it was a trauma response, which is ridiculous, because it’s been a hundred percent smooth sailing since she woke up with glass shards in her back and no one to save her. It’s been perfectly, completely easy and relaxing from here. Of course it has. And it’s not like she’s bottling up any kind of emotions that are slowly eating them alive. That’s ridiculous. 

Jet pulls a cigarette out of her pocket and lights it. They didn’t always smoke, in fact, Jet used to be nearly completely against it, whether it came in the form of Fun Ghoul coughing or Poison burning their fingers. It just never really felt very appealing, but Jet was beginning to become rather grateful for the added weight in her pockets, grateful for the smoke that curls around her shack. 

So she just lays back on a faded hammock, kicking up her boots and enjoying complete, total bliss. Jet pulls a cigarette from their pocket and lights it. See? It’s not so bad out here. The house may be falling apart, Jet may have severe injuries that never seem to heal and terrible emotional wounds, but it’s not that bad. It’s not like- 

A knock at the door interrupts her trail of thought. 

“Gimme a minute,” Jet yells, voice rough. The sound is unexpected—Jet doesn’t get many visitors out here. She tends to meet up with travellers and clients in easier, more populated places. It’s just better that way, out in the public. It’s more convenient for both parties, since Tommy’s is easier to reach (and to give directions to), her clients are more relaxed, and above all else; Jet is so, so much safer in public. No one knows who she is, and Jet’s more in charge.

For a moment, Jet wonders if it’s Poison or Kobra coming through the door with an apology, or a hey, I missed you . They’re quick to brush that off—the Venom Brothers would never show up to her door, not in a million years. Ghoul, on the other hand, is a more likely candidate. He disappeared after their clap, it’s been static since then—they’re not even sure if he’s alive —, but he knows his way around, and if he were in Jet’s Zone, she would know. Witch, she misses it. 

They hesitate at the door, like they’ve forgotten how to move. A sense of apprehension creeps up their spine, she fears the worst as she gets the half-functional door open, anxiety sits in her gut, while her mind screams at her, this is so unusual, what is wrong with you? until she meets the stranger.

“Didn’ know ya smoke,” Show Pony says, looking rougher than before. Aer covered in bruises and bandages, and that helmet of xers is not in good condition. It’s like being hit by a wave of nostalgia, except it’s been attacked and wounded several times.

“Rough times,” Jet supplies, “What brings y’here?”

“Mh, don’ wanna talk about tha’ yet. ‘Ow ‘bout we catch up first?” They pop the ‘p’, “Jus’ like old times,”

“Y’ don’t hav’ta pretend you care, Pony,” Jet finally says, after a long moment of silence. She almost sounds sad and defeated. “There’s nothin’ to catch up on anyways, jus’ bullets and sunshine,”

“Bullets and sunshine,” Pony echoes, “Jettie, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Jet replies, but they don’t sound too convincing to themself. Which is ridiculous, because everything’s fine. Jet’s life is great—she makes fast carbons, has no one to bother her, and has found an old bunkhouse that works just great. She’s totally moved on from her past. 

Jet’s not one for stupid decisions, but letting Pony in is just a mishap. “Here, how ‘bout I get you some tea? I made it myself. Then you can tell me why you’ve disappeared for years an’ are sudd’nly showin’ up on my doorstep, and why you’re tryin’ this whole ‘but we’re friends’ thing, yeah? I don’ have any friends out in the desert, not anymore,”

Pony sighs, skating past Jet. “You’ve gotta stop hidin’ away, Jettie,” Xe tells them, with this awful look of sympathy on aer face. Jet doesn’t need sympathy, she’s doing fine. 

“How’s the Girl?” Jet blurts. She’s probably already an adult now, Jet knows she can take care of herself, but it’s been hard. Sleepless nights, thinking about how Jet Star managed to fail the Girl. Jet always had a soft spot for her. And Jet almost regrets asking, because Show Pony’s expression just gets worse. But they need to know how she is. 

“She’s alright,” A sense of relief washes over Jet almost immediately, as Pony continues. “She’s got a crew now, down in Zone _. I was a bit wary at first, y’know, with D. and Cherri’s deaths, but they’ve changed,”

D. and Cherri. Jet misses them, too. Coming back into the Desert after waking up, tuning the radio to the correct frequency and finding nothing. Not even the tell-tale static buzz of a bad connection. She kept the radio on, back then, until a glitched kind of anthem played. It went on for three days, and at the other end? Nothing. Not even Dr. D.’s old words or some kind of repeat of Cherri’s poetry. 

“Hm,” Jet doesn’t say anything more, stirring the mixture of dried leaves and petals in two glasses. They bring them out to Pony, who gladly accepts one. They sit down beside the ex-DJ, taking a big breath before continuing. “I just- I feel so old, y’know? And the reality is, being dead for so long, I’m not. I didn’ age, but it feels like I’ve been around too long,”

Pony looks like he’s about to say something, but Jet dismisses it with a wave. She sure didn’t let Pony in to become her personal counsellor. And yeah, maybe Jet doesn’t want to hear it, it’s not that deep. And Jet has been around for too long - the Desert’s changing and Jet can’t keep up. Poison used to tell them all that they’d rather die young, that they never wanted to grow old. And on the other side of that cliff, Jet’s beginning to see why they were so afraid of living. 

“Look - I won’t waste your time, Pony. I’ve got to meet up with somebody tonight-” They pat the pistol tucked into their holster- “So I’m jus’ gonna ask, why’re you here?”

“Didn’ know yer an accoustic,”

Jet sighs, rubbing at their eye. “Stop deflecting, please,”

“Alright, Alright, geez , Jet. It’s been years, okay? This is hard for me, too,” Pony snaps. “Here’s the memo—I think I know what happened to Ghoul. From my intel, he’s just where we could find a whole lot of supplies, and figure out what’s up with you and the rest of your crew—okay, ex-crew -” Ae doesn’t miss the look Jet gives aem- “Plus, the Desert’s got some’ing wrong with it, and I’m pretty sure it has to do with the City,”

“Tha’s a lot,” Jet sighs, but she already knows what she has to do. “I just hope it’s not too late,”

- 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐓-

Dante makes his way towards the elevator, checking that his tie and suit are as perfect as they could be in the mirror. He’s glad to find that everything’s up to standard, and the email disclosed he didn’t have a need for his headphones during the meeting, but he feels like he’s missing something. It’s this nagging hole inside of him, like someone took something from him, which just isn’t true. Dante really needs to talk to his Doctor. He’ll schedule an appointment after his meeting, if he even has time.

The elevator ride would be rather daunting, if he could feel anything—Dante’s being completely objective here, he’s not actually nervous. In fact, he’s looking forward to this meeting, as much as he can be with the chemical artificiality. But still, he wonders why. Why him? 

No one else steps into the elevator. 

He finally gets to Floor Ten. This is a huge opportunity for him, he has to remind himself. This is what he is intended to do, how he’ll finally serve his city. The officials of the City want to see him. For a moment, Dante wonders if he’s done something wrong, and his officials are sending him to Rehabilitation. He isn’t worried. If that’s the case, he understands that this is what’s best for him. Whatever happens, Dante will emerge a better citizen, he will be better. 

The promise of purpose brings him more peace of mind than the pills do. The hall is long and brightly lit, all white and pure – almost like Dante’s being forgiven for something he’s never done. The windows are large, larger than they are of Dante’s floor, with a view of the whole city—Dante can even see the faint outlines of domes from here. The walls themselves are completely empty, save for a couple screens embedded into them, playing several videos—Dante recognizes muted safety videos, Mousekat, and something he’s never seen before. 

Surveillance of the Zones. He didn’t know they still stood, but the Zone 3 sign is right there. There’s nothing there, save sand and weeds, until Dante looks closer. There’s someone standing there. But the Desert is empty, isn’t it? The killjoy threat is gone, the Director made sure of it. The footage is in black and white, but Dante recognizes ugly piercings, blemishes, and tattoos, hair that’s too short for a standard female uniform cut, but too long for a male citizen. They wear a deep, hideous snarl. No face should be able to make an expression like that, if at all. Dante blinks, repulsed, but when he looks again, the outsider is gone. But how? They were standing in the middle of the camera, Dante’s sure of it, he saw it, he knows they were there. But something gnaws at his insides, like he should almost be-

“Ah, Gallo. I’m glad you’ve joined us,” A bold voice interrupts his thoughts, and Dante turns around to be met with a blond man in a pristine uniform; an executive Dante recognizes. He almost feels like he’s done something wrong, which he knows he hasn’t. The pills he’s drugged up on combats the tension, and he gives the Executive a polite nod.

“Thank you for meeting with me, sir.” He says, watching the executive take his glasses off and rub them with a precise and perfect rhythm on a white handkerchief. 

“Yes, well, we’ve been looking forward to this appointment for a while. Allow me to re-introduce myself,” The Executive puts his glasses back on, “I’m Nicholas Marshall, lead executive of operations,” He says, almost nonchalantly. “Usually we’d have an assistant to come greet you, but I thought it would be better if I met you myself, after all, Floor Ten can be somewhat intimidating,”

Dante nods again. 

“If you’ll follow me then, the others are waiting,”

“Ah,” He’s not really sure what he should say, but he follows the Executive through the halls, coming to a big glass room, where several other perfect-looking officials are seating at a long table. They all wear synthetic smiles and perfect postures on their black leather chairs. As Dante enters, everyone stands up. He recognizes no one. 

Still, they seem to recognize him. Something seems false, underneath one of the Executive's red-lipped smile, but Dante doesn’t dwell on it, not when another man reaches his hand out for Dante to shake. He holds on firmly, with an air of familiarity, as if Dante should know who this is. 

“Gallo, it’s good to see you,” The man says; he looks just like the men before and next to him and the Executive Dante spoke to, but his voice is like honey—it’s easy and reassuring, pleasant to listen to. There’s a strange sense of recognition to it, and Dante can’t figure it out. 

“I’m Mitchell Greeves, but I don’t suppose you remember me,” The man continues, “But we used to work together, way back when, until your accident, of course—I hope your recovery has gone well,” 

Dante can’t think. The buzzing absolutely explodes in his brain at the mention of Dante’s past, like an ugly, swarming pest that drones in his ears in a persistent and overwhelming drilling, something that is much too chaotic for this perfect outline of a city. It’s too much, too much, too much, it’s like standing on the metro/skyline tracks with trains coming from every side, crashing and screaming violently against the tracks to slam into Dante repeatedly, so loud, too loud, why won’t it stop? It’s not supposed to be like this. Not here, not now. It’s almost like a warning, like Dante’s missing something, something that feels much too similar to what he felt before, like there’s something wrong, that Dante should be-

“Of course,” He manages to force out, hoping his voice sounds indifferent enough. “I can only assume things are going well for you?”

The man smiles, and the buzzing slowly creeps back. But Dante shoves it back down, somewhere deep and dark, so that he can put a smile on and greet the rest of the employees sitting at the table. Financial officers, general executives, and class-A employees. Greeves, a chief information officer, as Dante’s just found out, seems to be the most approachable person here, like he’s on Dante’s side. 

“Good, well, let’s get started,” Greeves says, once everyone’s settled down. “We’re here today to discuss a new division, to fight back against newer threats from the Desert. They want to destroy our beautiful city, they want to put the wellbeing of our citizens in danger, and it’s time we fight back.

“Which is why I’ve called Mr. Gallo here today. His work in our lower divisions, and previous experience serving our city has not gone unnoticed, and after discussing possibilities with the board, we have decided to give him a chance to lead a new project.

“We’re going to exterminate the threat of the new-wave killjoys once and for all. Tomorrow will be our Better Day, that is, if you’re up for it, Dante,”

It will be a Better Day.

 “Of course,” He says, feeling the words scrape dryly across his mouth, as something feels odd, “I won't let you down,"

Chapter Text

Dante finds that his life has rapidly changed in the last couple of days. So much so that Dante hasn’t had time to reach out to his doctor. No matter, though, he’ll find time later. And besides, the buzzing isn’t bad, necessarily, he only feels it come back when he speaks with Greeves (it’s only subtle, though) and when he spends too long looking at Better Living’s smiley faces or lingers at the television. In fact, it’s mostly just resigned to a very dull ache in his head that he can’t do anything about. When he closes his eyes, Dante faces a throbbing sharpness that hollows out behind his eyes; Dante doesn’t sleep. 

It’s better like that, though—he finds himself terrible busy. He watches Mickey Vore’s face fall when an assistant packs Dante’s things and follows him to the Elevator. Dante didn’t smile, but the triumph was clear. He did nod, politely . 

And Dante’s new office screams victory, too. It’s huge, barely even a cubicle anymore, with a view of the city—the huge, perfect city that Dante is going to save, with his team. It’s only been a couple of days; Dante doesn’t even know the plan, yet, but whatever it’s going to be, it’ll be huge. Dante’s completely sure. 

“Gallo! How are you settling in?” Greeves asks, appearing behind Dante. He rests his hand on the edge of Dante’s chair, like they’re already close friends—they probably were, back when Ghoul still knew what his past was. Greeves tone is completely friendly, and Dante’s immediately put at ease; he almost can’t feel the subtle buzzing.

“Good, good,” Dante replies. All his things have already been set up and organized, Dante sips on some coffee. 

“Splendid—tell you what, I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Greeves leans closer to Dante, running a hand through his own hair before speaking, “They want you on the big screen tomorrow,”

Dante turns his head slowly, exhaling a sharp breath. It feels like he and Greeves are back in Kindergarten again, trading rumours that are harmless to no one except for them. He lowers his voice. “An interview? Already?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there with you,” Greeves reassures, “With you and me as the faces of this project, I’d say we’ve got a definite chance at succeeding,”

“I suppose so,” 

“I know so. How about you and I go get some coffee after work? Catch up as colleagues, hm?”

“That sounds great,” Dante replies, and Greeves leaves after giving him a pat on the back. It almost feels odd and stiff, like Greeves can’t believe that Dante is real in the flesh. But that’s rather ridiculous, Dante knows he’s not thinking clearly, what, with his headache and all. It’s evolved into a pounding sort of pain, something that spreads across his eyes, only for him to find that covering his eyes does nothing to help his cause. It’s almost distracting him from what actually matters—the interview. 

Dante’s seen television shows and black and white-chequered interviews, he’s found himself sitting in front of the television for several days, when he isn’t working, as most citizens do. The television is always on—can’t switch it off—and now Dante’s going to be on it. 

Interesting. 

The coffee with Greeves is a big nothing, in fact, it’s rather relaxing (save the pounding ache in his brain that he tries to desperately drink away with the coffee offered to him. His desperation comes in the form of long, mechanical sips, like everyone else in here, to the beat of an invisible rhythm. Greeves mentions his wife and two children, which makes Dante wonder if he’s compatible for someone yet—it’s not unusual for men in his age to remain without a partner, but in a couple of years, it’s going to be mandatory for him. However, most of Greeves’ conversation is mostly just the standard, until he leans in— like he did this morning, Dante thinks—and begins to speak in a more hushed tone. 

“Y’know, Gallo, I myself am quite pleased we’re on the same side here,” He begins.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Before you had your… accident, I wasn’t sure what the deal between the two of us was. We weren’t always good colleagues, if you understand what I mean,”

Dante doesn’t understand, but he nods anyway.

“I’m just glad you weren’t injured too bad—that scar, on your face, though, couldn’t they have fixed that? Do you know what it’s from?”

Dante shakes his head, throat dry all of a sudden. He’s not sure if he could manage to force anything out through between his teeth, instead, he watches Greeves, waiting for him to say something more. Something feels awfully wrong, underneath this cellophane haze, like someone is watching him, waiting for him to slip up and fall—and even worse, the buzzing has paused, like something terrible is on the verge of happening; that, or he can’t feel it anymore. He doesn’t know what’s worse. 

“Shame,” Greeves says, with a relaxed air, as if he doesn’t notice (or is indifferent to) Dante’s suffering—probably for the better, though. “And you can’t remember because-?” 

He’s waiting for an answer, Dante realizes, as he finally forces something out, through gritted teeth. “Accident,” He says, trying not to groan. He’s sweating now, deeply uncomfortable, unable to look Greeves in the eyes anymore. 

“An accident,” The latter repeats, “But shouldn’t they be able to fix that?” 

“I don’t know,”

“Aren’t you tired of not knowing? Of asking questions? You can’t remember your accident, sure, but you can’t even remember your childhood. Doesn’t that baffle you?” 

“No,” He hates that it comes out more as a question than anything. Greeves is getting under is skin, he can’t even think straight anymore. And then a terrible thought—what if he knows Dante’s dosage isn’t high enough? Surely he doesn’t, and if he does, Dante will be fixed again. But the division! What happens if he’s taken away for reconditioning? It’s getting to him though—those words—of course, he wonders, of course it bewilders him, but he isn’t supposed to think that, at least not consciously. And now he’s squirming under Greeves’ cool gaze, trying to keep control of his breathing, of his thoughts, because Greeves could never find out. 

“But your childhood. Shouldn’t everyone know about their own childhood? The city should be able to fix you, my friend, such accidents shouldn’t affect you much,”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m happier without them anyway,” 

“Are you really? I’ve seen you, you know, I’ve seen the pain you’re in,”

“I’ve scheduled an appointment,” (Another lie.)

“Don’t you want more than that? You’re suffering, and all you get is an appointment?” 

“I am content, Mitchell,” (Liar.)

Greeves pauses for a moment, shrugging. Dante almost thinks he’s done whispering daggers and cruelties (things impossible for him to understand he’s doing—Greeves is a good citizen) and that he can finally catch his breath, but Greeves has one final thing to say. 

“Doesn’t this make you upset?” He makes clear what this is by bringing two fingers up to Dante’s scar. The nerve endings were severed a long time ago, he can’t feel Greeves’ touch, but he still jerks away, standing up with a shocked ah. The buzzing comes back full force, like Dante’s an explosion. It stings, worsening the already growing pounding in his brain, making him keel over and gasp, because everything’s grown twice as loud with the ugly cicada buzzing and Dante can’t think, and it stings and burns, and he wants to tear his eyes out of his head, if only it would just stop. Stop, stop, stop. He would rather go out into the Desert than feel the buzz, he just needs to get out now, the light hurts and Dante can’t breathe and everything sounds like too many computer keys pressed at once, like wings flapping together in rapid succession, like-

“I’m sorry, I do not feel well,” Is the excuse Dante manages to come up with and fumble over when the buzzing relents, taking a much softer sound, like a swarm of honey bees that Dante has only read about.

As he walks away, he can’t help but ask, why can’t mom and dad fix him?

- 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐓-

Poison fixes themself time and time again, alone, under the blue haze of fluorescent lights. They don’t ask for help, they don’t need help, they can do it themself. Sometimes fixing comes in the form of needles and floss, threading it through their skin without making a sound, pulling the wound together and remembering to breathe. Other times it comes in the form of forgetting. Forgetting that they’ve got no reason to exist, forgetting that their purpose has been snatched from their grip, right when they thought they had it, forgetting that their face is on saint cards. 

It disturbs Poison. Before their death, Poison wanted to be on Saint cards, Poison wanted to be a prayer for lost and dying ‘joys. But now? Now they see something that reminds them that they should be dead. That if they’re recognized and word spreads, people will expect something of them. 

They can’t even look in the mirror most days, they’ve become so unrecognizable. It’s not their face that has changed, necessarily, but their freckles are faded, and their eyes are dull and muted, because they’re just not the same. What’s happened to them? This fire, this burning passion that bled through them and devoured every single piece they still had, has been replaced by a tired resignation—a certain kind of fatigue that won’t disappear.

Today, though, Poison fixes themself with bandages and antiseptic. They’ve pulled glass shards out of their skin many times; the wounds on their hand and back from the blunt force of the impact aren’t deep enough for them to worry. Most of the pieces can just be pulled out, cleaned, and bandaged—the rest will probably fall out eventually. And if not, Poison can’t really bring themself to care. 

Maybe it’s time they go out again, check out Hyperthrust - no one will recognize them there with the technicolour lighting and pounding music, which is, coincidentally, exactly what they need. And maybe Kobra will come along, if they ask him. 

The car’s trashed anyway (Poison’s fault, but they’re sure they can get someone to fix it. They miss Jet.). Getting to Hyperthrust would be terribly tricky to get to alone, and they suppose it’s about time they actually get the guts to actually talk to Kobra again. It’s been lonely. 

Poison pulls themself from the Diner sink, putting the commitment band in their pocket. It’s stupid, really, they’ve been mourning for several years now, they should be able to put it back on, and in fact, they’re ashamed they took it off in the first place, but it’s been in the same stupid compartment that everything else they ever cared about was hidden in the car, along with some photographs that they clutch onto and hide in a different pocket, like they actually care. 

Kobra’s reading by the door when they finally find him, limping towards his figure. When he notices them there, he furrows his eyebrows, like he’s concerned for them, but doesn’t say anything. They don’t say anything. 

“Hyperthrust?” They ask, almost tentatively. A peace offering.

Kobra nods slowly, reaching for the keys in his pocket. He must’ve seen the ‘Am. They pretend not to notice a new bruise forming around his eye. He doesn’t say anything about the blood streaked on their jacket and their arms. That’s just principle now, Poison supposes. 

“Give me five?” They ask after a second. If they can’t be their old self, at least they can try to look a little more normal. 

They don’t look quite right by the time they’re done (not like they used to), but the glitter makes them feel more normal—like the smudged and blended blotches of glitter around their face makes them a little more like what they should be. It’s almost a daunting feeling. 

By the time they’re done, Kobra’s already got the bike started. He doesn’t notice them there until they’re right next to him, holding their jacket close, as if the heat isn’t killing them. They’re on fire. 

They’re on fire the entire way there, and when the heat begins to make them light-headed and disoriented, they revel in the feeling, because at least it’s something, right? It’s better than nothing. And the desert goes by like a metro Poison prefers not to think about, like it’s not even there in the first place. 

Until it doesn’t move past them at all.

They hear Kobra curse, voice all cracked and near-silent, as if he doesn’t want them to hear it — or maybe they’re just not listening well enough. And they hear his voice, but they don’t understand a single word he’s saying, so they just smile and nod, watching him speak like he’s only just seeing them now. Maybe they’re seeing him now for the first time in years. He’s their brother, he looks the same as he always has, with faint freckles (like theirs) and the same bright eyes beneath his sunglasses (when did he take those off?). And he’s remained a constant, with the same features since they first got out here — the only thing that really changed was the darker expression and the scars that he wears now — but they haven’t really noticed, not since he first went down all those years ago. They don’t even know what half of the scars plastered across his face come from, or which of his piercings is the newest.

It’s pathetic, really, the one time they actually pay attention to their brother is when they feel like they’re dying. 

They feel absolutely nauseous by the time they tear their eyes off of him, looking around to see a smaller shack a couple metres in the distance. They could walk it. It reads something, and the lights flash on and on and on against the cold backdrop of the setting sky. 

When did it get so late?

They don’t say anything when they feel the sand beneath them, or when Kobra’s holding onto their jacket, trying to speak to them. The lights are beautiful , Poison thinks, blinking slowly. They want to go to the lights, please, take them to the lights. It’s an omen, it’s the future, it’s a vision just for Poison. A beautiful, perfect, neon-lit sign for them to follow, because it’s going to save them all, it’s going to bring the heavens down for Poison to grasp and use. They can already hear the voices out there, telling them to just see what’s waiting there for them. 

They try to gesture in the way of the shack, but Poison barely manages to lull their head in the direction of it. Kobra seems to get the message, looking behind him after a desperate look of concern. He says something again, but it gets lost in the translation of their own ears. 

They sigh and close their eyes—when they open them again, they’re propped up against the wall, and there’s a plastic bottle of water beside them. They drink, pretending not to see Kobra looking at them. Instead, they look around. 

The bar is crammed with odd pieces of junk, broken figurines with missing limbs, dead and wilted plants in cracked pots, forgotten CDs with unpopular bands. Empty bottles line the shelves, like they would in a proper bar, except they’re so filthy and crusted with sand that it’s more off-putting than anything, alongside the eerie emptiness and quiet music playing in the background. But what catches Poison’s eye the most is the small TV sitting at the bar. 

It plays something straight from the City, and Poison feels their stomach drop, not because they recognize the first guest speaker in the interview as a chief member of the Industry, but because they recognize the man sitting beside him. 

“Kobra-” Their voice comes out as a surprise to them, hoarse and cracked- “Is that-?” 

Kobra nods. 

For a moment, Poison keeps watching, listening to the conversation. Some kind of interview that fills Poison with the worst kind of dread, because it’s been nearly 15 years since they’ve last seen him, and he’s still wearing that dingy bracelet around his wrist, and his scar on his cheek, but it’s all been put together wrong. Everything about him is wrong as he exchanges pleasantries, in a perfect city accent. It fills them with guilt and shame. 

“Fun Ghoul,”

Chapter Text

Jet Star is frustrated, to say the least. It’s been several hours, and she doesn’t even know what the city looks like anymore. It’s completely blurry to her, the tunnels (were there even tunnels?), the buildings themselves, the streets—they’re all faded with the suppressed memories—and she knows old drafts of city plans are back at the Diner. 

Oh, the Diner. The root of all their problems. If they hadn’t shown up on Party’s doorstep, clutching onto their red-streaked side with a desperate prayer and call for help, none of this would have happened. Well, Jet would have also bled into the sand and died in that scenario. 

“Dude, relax. I can hear you thinkin’ from over there. ‘N I think I’ve got something,” Pony says, pointing at the maps xe got from the radio station. “We could try ta come in from here-” Ae drags a finger around the map, pointing on the right side of the wall- “An’ then we could…”

Jet sighs. “That map of the city is completely outdated, Show. Besides, we can’t jus’ walk into the city and grab Ghoul, the pigs’ll be on us as soon as we even set foot in it,”

Well, what do you propose? will be what Show Pony would say next, and then their planning will turn into a full-blown argument, and Pony will throw his hands up and storm off and Jet will yell and raise her hands and push the maps off the table when it goes too far and snap their glow sticks and then finally resign into this stupid, tired shell of a person and call after Pony with an apology just for them to then start the cycle all over again, going nowhere (except for in circles). 

“I just don’t know what to do,” Jet says, hours after they’re both exhausted from arguing. “I jus’ wanna get ‘im back, y’know?”

Maybe getting Ghoul back would fix things. It’s selfish, yeah, but Jet’s already come to terms with that. All she’s really got left is herself—survival of the fittest, isn’t it? And of course Jet cares about Ghoul, he was one of her best friends, it was her brother. And yeah, they care about all of them, they always have. Their wounds are just too deep right now, that’s all (it still stings—an apology would have help). Maybe if Ghoul comes back, everything would heal over. Yeah, it would take a while, but wounds heal better with stitches, don’t they? 

She feels awful. 

Witch, what Jet would do for Party to call them Star again, or to work on an engine with Kobra, or even to just feel okay again. All they want is to be okay. To be what they used to be, this crew, this family that used to have each other's backs and love, and argue, but they were the Fabulous Four. And now every single one of them is covered in filth and dirt and so much hate, and they’re certainly not Four anymore. 

Pony sighs, sipping on her fourth cup of tea today. At this rate, Jet Star’s going to have to go to the market by the time they finish their plan—if there’s ever a plan. Not that she’s any better. They’ve been sitting here for too long, and the anxiety is slowly rooting itself deep in her gut, making her bite down on her knuckles and bounce their leg. 

What if it’s too late? What if Ghoul’s completely gone by now? They’re running out of time, and it dawns on Jet that she never asked what Pony knew about Ghoul, she just trusted xem completely. Maybe Jet hasn’t moved on completely. 

“Pony—do you even know what’s happened to Ghoul?” She asks. Maybe the plan will finally come together.

Show Pony grows strangely defensive. Weird—Jet’s never seen him like that.

“Pony?” 

“What?” The ‘joy snaps, setting aer cup down. “What do you want?”

“You keep deflecting! Why won’t you just tell me what’s really goin’ on?”

“Nothing, nothing! I’m jus’ tired,” Pony says quickly, standing up. “Look, I think we jus’ need to rest for a while, ok? I’ll show up again t’mrr’w, ‘n we can plan from there, yeah?” 

“Now, wait a minute,” Jet frowns, joining Pony by the door, arm outstretched to stop xem from leaving. “You can’t jus’ go now, leave me here completely beamless. Pony, you’re being all looney tune, please just tell me what’s going on,” 

“I-” They stop, throwing their hands up in the air. “I want to go,”

“What am I doing wrong? Just tell me, and I’ll fix it.”

“There’s nothing to fix, Jet. I’m going home, and I’ll tell the Girl that you miss her, and then I’ll come back when I’ve got a new plan,”

With a deep, exasperated sigh, Jet pulls away from the door, crossing their arms. “Fine. And I’m sorry,” She doesn’t know why she relented, maybe she’s feeling bad about something she may have done, or maybe it feels like she’s been cruel to Pony in the past. And maybe, this feels too close to some of their last moments, huddled in the Diner, arguing over a plan that just wouldn’t form, until Party set their foot down and said that they were going, and Jet agreed and that was the catalyst in her own death. 

Pony doesn’t come back the next day.

Or the next. 

Or the one after that.

By the third day, Jet grows anxious. They pack their things—bullets, water, food —, and keep their mask close, waiting patiently by the door. If Pony doesn’t come back, Jet’ll go on her own. She leaves a note by the door, telephone pole, before dusk, and makes her way out. They have to go to out to the small town anyway. 

It’s nothing much—just bordering Zone 4, but some killjoys came together to share all their common needs and hide away in an old pre-war village some years ago. Just a couple buildings, mismatched in colour and shape, with faded names and letters printed on the tops of buildings and on large signs, where the sand is red and rocky. Exactly where Jet doesn’t want to go. 

Now, it’s not that she doesn’t like the village—folks over there tend to keep their cool around them, help them out if she needs anything, even use her services —, but they’ve got rules there, and not unspoken rules (like the rest of the Desert). They’ve got a sheriff and everything, and Jet doesn’t like the sound of that. 

Not that she’ll try to cause a scene. 

It’s nearly dusk by the time Jet gets there. Folks tend to stay in at night—patrols aren’t uncommon here—but there’re still a fair amount of ‘joys running about. She recognizes a couple of them, keeping her hands on her pistols, ready to aim if push comes to pull and worse comes to worst. 

Jet talks to the owner of the Seloone (that’s what he’s called it—said it was what stood on top of the building when he found it), relaxing for the first time all night. He gives them a drink—cold, fizzy, and alcoholic—and she sits, propped up against the bar. It’s been a long couple of days. And when another one is offered, she takes it, and everything falls into a fuzzy, calming haze. 

“Y’know, Amity, I couldn’ thank you enough f’r what’cha’ve done t’ this place,” The bartender says, “I dunno where y’re from, bu’ we coul’ really use someone like y’,”

“Yeah?” Jet almost considers giving everything else up. It would be so easy, just to settle into the town here and make a comfortable living, to forget about everything else, because none of it would matter anymore, but she can’t. She can’t, and that’s the worst part.

“Mhm - between you and me-” The bartender lowers his voice, leaning over the bar- “The law ‘n’ order ‘ere is gettin’ pretty chilly. Some red-haired, saint-lookin’ freak like that-” He points over at the array of saint cards hanging on the wall, interrupting his words once again- “Came in here and’ passed out after watching the TV, seriously,”

Jet swallows thickly. Red-haired saint. Party Poison would absolutely gloat if they heard someone talk about them like that. But Party Poison was here? And Jet missed it to argue with Show Pony, out of all people? 

“An’ there’s this new guy, Amity,” The bartender tells her, “There’s this new guy and his snarl doesn’ sit quite right, ‘n his slang’s a bit outta touch—I’d even say he’s a gemi-”

Jet hears a creaking thud from behind them, and the ever so-subtle click of boots across wooden floorboards, until a figure comes across in their peripherals and someone sits beside them. The look the bartender gives them is nothing short of, that’s the guy. See? That’s the guy, and Jet risks a glance over at him. 

A glasses-wearing, chilly-looking man in a Stetson, with two rayguns pocketed on either side of his hips that shifts when he sits down. And his guns are white, perfect, batt-issued, white. Newest model. Jet gets goosebumps all over. He asks for a drink, but leaves it on the table, nestling it in his clean, spotless hands, like he’s read too much on how he’s supposed to be behaving, but never put it in play.

He’s a walking red flag, and he makes Jet’s fingers twitch under the table.

“Evenin’, Sheriff Marshall,”

Marshall? That rings a bell. 

The man only nods. 

“Ev’rythin’ up to yer standards?” The bartender asks, frowning deeply.

“Well, actually, I’m finding myself rather concerned at the state of this place. It’s not up to standard,” He says, rubbing his finger on the rim of his glass. 

“And whose standards are those, pally?” Jet barks, turning around in their seat. 

“That isn’t any of your business, wheelie, and besides, I don’t think a girl like you should be- ” 

Jet used to be so, so patient. But with one eye gone, and no one to hold back for, she finds herself swinging at the  man, catching him off-guard with a hit to the jaw. Her knuckles sting, and Jet said she’d stay on the low, but his slang doesn’t sit right, and nobody calls Jet Star a poser. Nobody. 

Marshall reels back, but doesn’t waste any time in recovering, swinging his fists at them. They fall into an uncoordinated rhythm, fists flying fast and furiously. Jet tries to dodge what she can, but after landing a couple of good hits, she begins to feel the exhaustion seeping through her rage, and Marshall manages to land a punch that sends her stumbling backwards.

He swings again, but this time Jet’s ready. She ducks under his arm and delivers a sharp, angry uppercut to his jaw, watching Marshall's head snap back, eyes rolling backwards.

Breathe, Jet, breathe, she tells herself, shaking her fists out. She forces a lunge, trying to get this moron onto the floor, pinning him down, to rain hit, after hit, after hit, down on him, letting her anger and resentment and fear pour out of her like the redhot hiss of rage blinding her. She loses control, relishing in the deep ache and pounding in her muscles. 

Amity kills, but Jet Star hasn’t had a good old fistfight in a while. 

“I’m going to make one thing clear,” They say after a moment, through gritted teeth, “No one talks to me like that, yeah?”

Jet emphasizes her words by landing another punch on Marshall’s face, watching the blood stream from his nose, with a malicious smile. But they watch a second too long, because Marshall manages to throw them off of him, taking a couple steps back, catching his breath. 

Jet does the same, circling him warily. They may be a reaper, out here in the Zones, but they still have a sense of honour.

Marshall charges at her, grabbing her by the arm and slamming her against the wall, moving his fingers to tighten around her throat.

Jet gasps for breath. She claws at his fingers, tearing blunt nails at down his hands, trying to pry them off, vision starting to fade. Her lungs burn under the strain, but she barely notices it when her head is slammed into the countertop. Something shatters against her skull, and their body convulses in the pain, as she tries to pull off of the table, kicking upwards. The wood digs up into her neck, sending shocks of pain down her back and through her ribs.

Just when she thinks everything’s over, Marshall lets go of her neck, deciding that this isn’t enough. She chokes on the sudden air that fills her lungs, trying to find purchase. He grabs Jet’s hair and slams her head against the top again, “Let me tell you something, Jet Star. You may have made a new life for yourself, and a pretty little name, but I’ve been waiting for you. And now, I’m going to hunt you down until you bleed out into the sand and wish you had died before,”

She feels along the table, with wide eyes, horror turning her limbs cold and hazy, and in a moment of clarity, Jet gets a flash of an 8-year-old Girlie, looking up at them through teary eyes, back in the HQ. And then she’s taken back to the moment of her death, brought back to the lethal shot at her chest, that sent her onto the roof of the ‘Am, staring up into the face of a Nicholas Marshall, as she took her last breath.

No, no, no, no, this can’t happen again . Her heart races heavier than it has, pounding in her chest in a desperate attempt to escape. Jet needs to get out of here. Her chest constricts painfully, like they’re being choked again, like everything’s ending over and over again, in an eternal nightmare.

She moves her eyes and finds the pint glass she drank from, grabbing onto it in a last-ditch effort to slam it into Marshall’s face, taking advantage of the way he stumbles backwards, to get up and near the door. They grab their pistols, loading and aiming them, fear and rage making her fingers twitch. 

All honour is gone. Kick them when they're down, a little voice says in the back of her head. And she does. 

At least, until Marshall gets up and immediately falls again, because Show Pony’s standing over him, holding onto the bottom of xyr raygun, knuckles white and eyes glassy. 

“Look,” Ae says, “I’m sorry,”

- 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐓-

The atmosphere is cold when Kobra gets back to the Diner. He’s kept his mouth shut the entire ride back, brought a dizzy, nauseous Party Poison home without complaining, without saying a thing, because at least they tried. But everything is being to wear thin, where Kobra’s beginning to get irritated at the crashed ‘Am in the garage, the way Party slips in and out of the shadows without saying anything, coming back half-dead and completely delusional. 

As soon as he and his sibling are through the door, Kobra can’t hold back anymore. He’s not sure why he starts yelling, but maybe it has to do with the fact that Kobra’s grown bone-tired and is dying without all the technicoloured, glorified hail of laser fire and explosions. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that his Party is slowly being chewed away, slowly falling apart like grains of sand in a sculpture, and won’t even hear him when he says anything . 

But as much as he hates to admit it, maybe it has something to do with the fact that Kobra’s just lost his best friend again. He sat there and watched Ghoul talk up on the screen under a different name, as the demons wake up, crawling up through underneath Kobra’s skin. He hates it, hates how he can’t do anything about it, watching Ghoul die again. Kobra still remembers what he said, up on the roof of the Diner. I wanna go out in an explosion, one of my own, y’know? Well, that didn’t last, did it?

And yet, Kobra knows it has to do something with the fact that Ghoul, his best friend, who he just lost, again and again and again, is beginning to look too much like Kobra himself. Back when he was in the City, back when he used a different name, with the same articulated and perfect speech Ghoul uses, with the same intonation and artificiality Kobra spent years trying to replace.

“What is wrong with you!?” He yells, turning to face Party, who’s sitting on a seat. 

“What?”

“I just—you’ve spent the past several years rotting away and doing things because you don’t think anything’s worth it anymore! You’re killing yourself, and you don’t even seem to care! I don’t get it. The ‘Am’s crashed, you’re in constant pain, and you just move on like nothing’s happened.

“And now Ghoul’s gone, and Jet’s gone, and, Witch, you’re gone, too!” 

Kobra didn’t use to cry, in fact, Kobra prided himself with the way he composed himself, but now everything feels like it’s too much, and his eyes prickle and tear up. 

Party Poison just stares. 

“Please, just talk to me!” He screams, “Say something, Party, I’m begging you!”

They’re completely silent, shaking their head at him, and whether it’s disappointment or disbelief, Kobra can’t tell. It’s been so long since he’s said anything. So long since they’ve even acknowledged him here.

“Party?” He asks, voice weak and broken. 

“Fine,” They whisper. “You’re no better.”

“What?”

He’s met with silence again. Silence that makes fury flow through his veins, that makes his breathing turn fast and clipped, before he finds himself throwing his hands up. 

“We’ve failed, P. And now you’re sitting here, pitying yourself, instead of doing anything. Don’t you care? What about Ghoul, what about Jet, what about the Girl? What about me? You’ve left me behind, Party, and I can’t stand it! Do something! Yeah, it’s my fault, too, but you’re sitting around wallowing in your misery, because you’ve become selfish. You were a saint! We were saints!”

Right when he thinks he’s finally come through to them, Poison stands up. And leaves. Kobra watches, watches them leave, watches the uncharacteristic hollow shell of Party Poison, the most famous crash queen and killjoy to ever grace the Zones, leave him behind in a silence that brings him to tears.

They left their jacket in the booth. Something catches his eye in the dimming light, something that breaks his heart more than the fight did. A printed photograph that they had worked so hard to get, that the crew had put a huge effort into getting. All of them are smiling, and Kobra clings onto it, sinking down onto the floor. 

I’m going to fix things, he promises.

Chapter Text

Dante took the day off work. It was issued to him, in fact, advised that he take a break to recuperate from his endeavours. He had been advised to keep his headphones on for the entire day, and to change the television to Channel Three , which had managed to soothe his aching and his thoughts, through its comforting imagery. Dante supposes it’s something like rehabilitation, but easier—it doesn’t mean Dante’s done anything wrong, though, does it?

He supposes not. 

But his program was interrupted earlier this morning with a message from Greeves - the project could not wait, they immediately had to make a run down to the library. 

When he thinks about Greeves, everything grows hazy. He barely remembers coffee the other day, or the interview the two of them did. He’s watched it play back a couple of times, but it seems to slip his mind every time, and Dante goes about his day like it never happened. 

He steps into his routine again. Wakes up at 07:00 and is out the door by 08:00, back on the metro with the same suit he’s had every day, with the same attitude when he sees the Neon Light district past the Lobby, and the same words when he greets his co-workers. The only difference today, is that he doesn’t get up onto Floor Ten, in fact, Greeves is waiting for him by the doors of the HQ, bag in hand. 

“Ah, Gallo, I am so glad to see you. I take it you’re well rested?”

Dante nods. “I’m feeling much better, thank you,”

“Good, good. We’ve got a large day ahead of us—I’ve gained clearance for the official library,” He says, “It should have some records to assist us in our project,” 

Once more, Dante nods, lost in thought. The library is completely off-limits to any citizen without Class-A clearance, a miracle for Dante, probably an every-day thing for Greeves. Vore told him about it, once, told him how the library was covered in old city records and killjoy files—of course, it’s not a library in the sense of the ones Dante was taught about, from before the wars —, but rather a proper, digitalized library, with everything from history to current news updates, meant only for executives.

Following Greeves, Dante makes his way down the street to the building, connected to the HQ, and feels oddly giddy for such a small trip. The building looms over them, terribly daunting and brutal-looking, with reflective glass panes and sharp cement corners. Still, it’s pristine appearance manages to fit in with the rest of the city, it just looks more official. 

The doors make a soft, whirring click when Greeves points his key card at the reader, and open soundlessly, allowing the two workers to make their way inside before closing again. Computers line the inside of the building, rows upon rows upon rows of digital devices line the library, in a way that makes Dante feel light-headed. He half expects the building to be collecting dust, but everything remains perfectly orderly and pristine, managed by Droids, who clean and scan documents, mindlessly working to the kind of pulse that underlines the City.

The only sounds here are the footsteps coming from both Greeves and Dante that seem to echo in the silence, and the humming from Droids. The rest of it is completely, almost eerily empty, and Dante knows he’s being watched. He swallows the irrational fear that they know, Dante, you idiot, they know you’re slipping up, and considers maybe reaching out to authorities for a reconditioning. He probably needs it.

It’s scary in a way, this whole business. Dante’s never been reconditioned before, and he hasn’t heard much about it, but in a way, he can’t help but wonder if everything he had worked for would just disappear. A clean, blank slate, yes, but at what cost? Except, of course, there is no cost, because it’s for Dante’s own good. It’s a good thing. 

As if Greeves can read his mind, he suddenly turns to say, “My wife is getting reconditioned today,”

His nonchalance makes Dante freeze in his tracks. He recognizes the tone all too well, by now, and ducks his head, swallowing. “Yeah?” He tries.

“Mhm,” Greeves flicks at a computer. “She was getting a little… frisky, if you know what I mean. It was surprising, really—unexpected. First Christie was a perfect citizen, and then all of a sudden, they took her away,” He pauses, “It should be alright by the end of today, though,”

“What a relief,” Dante says, completely void of tone. 

“Mhm,” He hums again, “Hey—check those files over there, for me, yeah? Computer 5b. We’re looking for something titled Killjoy Threat, Weapon, or Victories—Volumes 4 to 7,”

“Yeah, hold on,” It takes Dante a little while longer to find the computer than he’d like to admit, but it’s a sturdy thing—rooted to the table with a cold keyboard attached to its base, just waiting for someone to use it. He turns it on, watching the blue screen light up and welcome him, as the time reads out, 09:42. He’s never met Christie Greeves before, not even at those staff conventions for all families at the HQ, but he’s seen photos of her, and nothing ever seemed to be amiss. Odd.

Finding the files isn’t as difficult as he expected it to be, though, and Dante finds the file names relatively easy—it works like his work computer, but faster, and with proper, designated pages for him to follow and sort through, and it doesn’t take long to find the first file. He almost has a thought to ask Greeves what the actual plan is, since it doesn’t seem very clear at all, and Dante feels nearly blind sorting through all this information, but he stops when he sees something peculiar.  

A face that looks eerily similar to his own, with the same slightly crooked nose glaring up at the screen through a snarl, except there’s blood on the side of her cheek—where Dante has his scar— and they’re filled with something raw, something so startlingly full of energy, that all of a sudden, Dante has to wonder whether Christie had looked like that. The image falls under the headline KILLJOY THREAT, with a name that spells out, FUN GHOUL.

And Dante doesn’t even register he’s falling, until he lands on the floor, frozen in shock and horror, and a gross kind of pain prickles and stabs at his brain, like some kind of white noise. It hurts , and Dante barely manages to say something along the lines of, I’m fine, just tripped, when Greeves questions him. Everything feels wrong, but logically, Dante knows it’s not him. It’s not him, it’s not him, it’s not him. 

Just some odd kind of coincidence. It has to be.

Except, the doubt begins to creep into his mind, something that at the farthest corners of his mind, tearing wall-paper layers of cotton and fuzz apart, almost to say-

“Ah, Gallo, come over here. I found something,” Greeves interrupts his train of thought, and Dante gets up gingerly, shutting the computer off without looking back at that upsetting face. By the time he walks over to Greeves’ desk, his co-worker is already downloading files. “Isolating Zonerat groups would be too much work, since we’d have to single out every fear and weakness. So what do we do? 

“Killjoy terrorist groups only have one thing in common, and that’s their fear of getting Dracc’d,”

Dante furrows his eyebrows, only slightly confused. 

“I suggest you do some reading on that,” Greeves tells him, like he can read his mind, “I’ll send you some copies - it’s not a very popular topic for the office. But Dracs are disposable, easily killed. So what do we do?” 

Greeves turns around to face him, grinning. His teeth are raised in a predatory smile, like some kind of animal that’s about to cause ruin and destruction. “We lead them into a confined space—let’s say a place where rebel filth hang, like their Hyperthrust-” He says the world like it’s a curse- “And Drac them,”

“But how would that work?” Dante asks. It would take a mass effort to Drac even a single rebel, wouldn’t it? And hundreds of rebels? The thought alone exhausts him. 

But instead of helping him, Greeves says, “That’s up to you to find out, Gallo, you’re a smart kid; that’s why we hired you,”

Dante sighs. “I suppose I can find something,” 

“We’re counting on it,” He says with another smile. 

-

Poison has done many, many stupid things in their life, but this decision seems to rival everything they’ve ever done. See, Kobra’s words had made them think. He was right about most things, they were a saint, they still are a saint, for pity’s sake. The living, walking saint of the desert. And if the saint cards make them uncomfortable, if it feels like they’re a fraud, they’re going to find a reason, they’re going to make sure they deserve it. They are a saint.

And Poison’s going to prove it. In a hail of bullets, drenched in blood, Poison’s going to prove it. 

Except, the drive to the city isn’t very intense or glory-filled. It’s like returning somewhere disguised as home, like a runaway child, full of shame. The radio’s on, blasting whatever crappy song the DJ decided to play, and it’s not even any good, and it’s a warm day, sand sticking to sweaty skin, as the sun beats down on them. Horribly uncomfortable, in Party’s opinion, because it hasn’t been this warm in a week. 

A terrible little voice in the back of their mind says, I bet the City’s temperature is perfect.

They nearly slip and swerve off the road, or into a ditch, until they realize Kobra’s sitting beside them. When they brought up the idea of a rescue mission, their little brother had seemed completely enthused by the idea, like it was going to solve all of his problems. And Poison won’t lie, they felt the same. Except it’s clear now that this isn’t going to save them like she hoped, in fact, it’s probably going to be the opposite.

At least they’ll have Ghoul back.

Kobra murmurs something under his breath, and for a moment, Poison thinks he’s singing along to the radio, or something. 

“What?”

“I- it doesn’t matter, P. I’m sorry,” He says quietly, pulling on a scab that sits on his lower lip. They’re brought back to the days when they were still teenagers, and Kobra would sit, feet up on his seat, smoking a cigarette or starting light-hearted arguments with Ghoul from beside them. It feels so long ago. 

Poison sighs. “Me too, I’m sorry,” They tell him, and they mean it. Well, they mostly mean it. But they can’t dwell on those thoughts, because then they see the huge city walls looming over them, nearly daring them to crash into it, like something that wants to fall. Something that needs to fall. Oh, but it would be so easy. Just to let go of the wheel and press on the gas. Martyred. Totaled. Dead. Not dead, because Poison doesn’t die.

But Kobra said something about how it would be easier to go through the tunnels that lead into the City Propre, and then lose the trail of Dracs from behind them, by disappearing into the Neon District. Pigs would catch up to them, he had said, but they’d still have more than enough time to grab Ghoul and leave. 

Poison watches from the corner of their eye, as Kobra pulls his gun from his holder and checks the batteries, looking over at his sibling. “Frequency?” He asks, holding his hand out for Party to give him their blaster.

They give him their gun, and he checks it over before they answer. Poison can see the tunnels up ahead, dark, empty tubes ready to swallow them. They don’t know why, but the look of it sends shivers up their spine and makes them feel uneasy, like hollow eyes staring at them, watching them with a foreboding sense of failure. Poison lives off of dying, adores the adrenaline that courses through their veins, but everything about these tunnels makes them feel off-put.

“27.715 MHz” Poison says, blinking rapidly to make those tunnels look less distressing.

The lights turn on in the back of the car as they race through the tunnel. “I swear I got those to turn off. It wastes so much fuel,” They complain, “What if the car stops working?”

“It probably will anyway,” Kobra replies, and even though their new-found sibling banter is supposed to be light-hearted, something beneath it stays tense, pulled taught like a cable ready to break. Poison doesn’t dwell on it though, keeping their eyes on the road, like they had several years before, driving through the obstruction in their way, pretending the sound of engines won’t scare them half to death.

“We’re close to the slums,” Kobra tells them, as the City comes into view, looking, watching the silent city. “Just don’t take the bridge, we don’t wanna go to the HQ. Take a left,”

Poison gives him a curt nod before following his instructions, stepping on the gas. It doesn’t take long before they hear the aggressive revving of motors from behind them, piercing through the silence of the city. 

Poison’s hands grip onto the steering wheel tightly as they spare a glance to the rearview mirror. The patrol cars are gaining on them, lights flashing in their wake. Adrenaline surges desperately through their veins, fueling their determination to escape. Beside them, Kobra’s eyes flicker with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, as he grips onto his blaster.

Just protocol, like always. Poison has done this a million times before. Leaving the City, following flaky intel, and finding their own death in between these walls. All for their selfish selflessness. 

The city's empty streets turn to a blur, racing past the ‘Am, tires screeching on the dark asphalt at every turn they take. Poison can still recall the way the lights danced off of the hood, as the engine seemed to sputter with every bit of speed they tried to force out of it.

They turn the knob on the radio frequency until a voice comes through the speaker. 

-out of the vehicle. Pull over, killjoys.

Kobra laughs.

The voice distorts, and then comes in again. 

“Breaking code - pop! - Over, pull over. - shhkrt - Surrender-”

Poison turns the radio off. "We can lose them," They say, voice filled with as much confidence as they can muster, while their companion nods, gaze fixed ahead. They’ve been here so many times, driven through so many alleyways more times than they can count, they know how the city works. How the city breathes and hums, where it turns a blind eye, like it’s almost alive. And once upon a time, Mom and Dad were something more than fixed TV screens.

Poison can almost laugh at how foreign the city feels now. And how odd it must be, to watch several city-approved vehicles follow a near-totaled Pontiac, with a shattered windshield and too much tape. Almost like a mockery of something that used to be beautiful.

And still, the ‘Am accelerates, engine roaring in harmony with the Patrol cars as they push the impossible limits of speed and control. Poison knows that the ‘Am is going to leave tire marks on the perfect asphalt, and they relish in the fact.

Their heart pounds in their chest as they near the heart of the metropolis. They can see citizens taking their lunch break, bustling along the streets in a rhythm Party is desperate to interrupt. They almost keep going. Just to see. Don’t those people feel suffocated? Are they even people?

Party veers to the left sharply, surprising their pursuer. The manoeuvre’s a gamble, a calculated risk to throw the relentless Dracs off of their tail. They know that. But they’ll be damned if it doesn’t work.

Kobra’s eyes widen beneath his sunglasses as they leave the grandeur behind. The chase takes on a different rhythm now, as they enter a maze of narrow alleyways. They’re so close now, close to the uncertain safety that should hide them. Shadows envelope them, adding an extra layer of thrill to their daring escape.

Poison navigates the tight corners and narrow passages, senses heightened. Kobra’s fingers graze the window. The District, Poison can see the District. Straight ahead, as a once-perfect city now appears distorted, revealing its hidden grit and secrets. Neon lights and flashes of murky, filthy colours. It fills them with a sense of glee.

In a sudden twist, they swerve into a particularly narrow alley, ‘Am brushing against the side of the wall, leaving a trail of paint in their wake. The chase had reached its climax. The shadows engulf them, hiding them from prying eyes.

Kobra holds his breath. Feels his heart pounding as they push deeper into the labyrinth of alleyways. They’re so close to disappearing, he can feel it. And he closes his eyes. Briefly, but he’s taken back to much younger, much angrier days without this tired resignation and loss, where he could still laugh and feel okay with this team. He’s brought back to his last mission with his team, if you could even call it that, looking up at pictures taped to the dashboard and the guarded smiles of his best friends, before the illusion shattered.

As they enter a dimly lit alley, Poison slams on the brakes, bringing their car to a halt. The two exchange a glance, filled with a mix of relief and exhilaration, the pursuit had ended, it seems, at least for now. They take a key out of the ignition, locking the doors (it isn’t much use, though), and grabs the tarp from the back.

“Ready ta help me with this?” They ask, over at their little brother.

Kobra nods, catching the end of the tarp and laying it over the ‘Am. And then he laughs. He doesn’t know why, but he starts laughing. The ‘Am looks so busted. He tried to fix it, he really did, but the glass is so shattered and the hood of the car? Looks like paper. Crumpled, torn paper. 

What surprises him, though, is that Poison joins in. A little unsure at first, and then there’s that completely familiar, full-body laugh that Kobra missed so much about his sibling, the one where their shoulders shake and their laugh turns into a snort. 

“Alright, so,” Poison begins, after they’ve stopped laughing, “I found this guy the other day, who told me he knew where Ghoul would be. “He’s got an apartment near the HQ, ‘s’is a couple blocks from here, I got the address,”

“I really don’t like this,” Kobra says, mostly to himself, as they start their trek. He had hoped that Ghoul might just be in hiding somewhere, that Ghoul was still Ghoul and that his scar wasn’t just a mockery of what he once was. And worst of all, Kobra’s been here for a couple minutes, and already, his old city accent is showing through. So he keeps his mouth shut as they walk. 

The lack of attention they get is concerning, and he can tell that Party’s just itching to start a riot. But their walk remains uneventful, his gun remains in his holster. They turn the corner to come to a pristine apartment complex, labelled A-3, like every other building in Sector A. 

Poison doesn’t waste any time. Before Kobra can stop them, they drive their keys through the glass, wincing at the collision of shards between their fist and the window. It dots their skin like fragments of glitter, finding speckles of blood in between the glass.

“Don't say anything,” They tell him, entering through the building. Kobra follows them to an elevator in the middle of the hall, pristine slabs of white metal fit together perfectly. Witch, this place looks completely identical to Kobra’s own childhood, like he’s having a nightmare about being stuck in the city again. 

Things have changed, he reminds himself as Poison presses the number 7 and the elevator moves without a sound. You can leave, he tells himself as he picks the lock on Ghoul’s door. It’s not a pre-war lock, like many of them in the desert, but the fact that it needs a keycard and not a key doesn’t really bother him.

Ghoul’s apartment is awful. Everything is put in place, void of colour. For a moment, Kobra almost doesn’t believe that his best friend lives here, it’s like no one lives here. A wave of disappointed helplessness washes over him like a flood. The once vibrant and explosive character of Ghoul is gone, without a trace. Every inch of the stupid space is pristine, almost obsessively clean, with no sign of personal touches or decoration.

The living room lies before him, a sterile expanse devoid of character, taunting him, as if to say, I took it all away, what are you going to do? The walls, painted in a muted shade of grey, are completely lacking warmth and the mess that was so Ghoul-like. The complete absence of small pieces of junk or oil stains or photographs make it look so similar to everything else in this stupid place, this stupid, stupid place that took everything from him. 

The furniture, meticulously arranged, lacks any semblance of comfort or personality. It’s all bare and rigid, and it’s suffocating. Kobra used to want the city, back when he was younger, back when he was scared. And now he’s still so, so scared, more terrified than he used to be, and everything looks so empty and hopeless and Kobra can’t believe he ever wanted this, because now he can’t breathe and oh, Witch. 

His pill dosage. It sits on the counter, the only thing that seems out of place at all. 

All Kobra’s hopes are crushed.  They can’t just take him back into the desert like they planned, they can’t rescue him, like they thought they could, with Ghoul waiting here for them, happy to finally leave. 

Because Fun Ghoul isn’t Fun Ghoul anymore.

And it’s too late to turn back, because Kobra hears the tell-tale click of a keycard being entered into a reader, which means-

“Someone’s home,” Poison whispers, voice filled with shock and horror. 

Chapter Text

Jet doesn’t admit to fear. She never really did, what, with the constant pressure on survival on her. Fight or flight, and Jet had had her response chosen for her. Almost a shame, really, they bet their life would be so, so much easier if they had just fled at the first sign of fear and then decided to live in a nice little house by the ocean, or something, with a lasting supply of food and relaxation, alone. In fact, Jet Star needs a holiday.

Of course, she doesn’t even need the fight or flight response, because she doesn’t feel fear, ever. 

She is not, in fact, scared of how high the top of the wall is that she’s standing on and how dark the sky has turned (it’s not the fact that she can’t see the Desert anymore). Her heart isn’t beating at a rapid pace, their breath doesn’t feel short, and they are most definitely not about to cry. 

The plan had been decided on the way here. Climb over the wall with the large amounts of rope that Pony secured from somewhere, because as ae had said, it would be better to climb over instead of going under. 

Well, Pony was wrong. 

And Jet is feeling dizzy.

“What’s taking you so long?” They hiss, looking down at the other side of the wall. A large dome secures the city, but Pony said a charged raygun blast—on kill— would easily crack a large enough hole through it. The Outskirts look blurry beneath them, but Jet can see small flashes of light, movement. Witch, she remembers going through them, several years ago.

“I’m just trying to secure it, relax,” Comes the response, before Jet is greeted with her worst nightmare (second-worst, actually, she's not falling). Show Pony hadn’t traded aer rollerskates for something safer up here like xe said xe would, in fact, Pony was skating around the top of a wall. 

A very high wall. 

“Please, hurry up,” Jet calls over at Pony. The wind is picking up over the Dome, creating a low buzzing sound. Destroya, she hates this, she hates this, she hates this. 

“Why? You scared?”

“No. Shut up,” 

“Right,” Jet can feel aer smirk in the darkness, and is about to say something when they’re interrupted by a red-hot flash of light. For a moment, Jet can see everything—Pony’s expression of glee, the cool concrete of the wall, the stark, white raygun, until it hits the dome, and Pony stumbles backwards, and-

It just bounces off. 

“That’s…not supposed to happen,” They murmur when it’s dark again. 

“What do you mean, not supposed to happen ?” 

“I don’t know, okay? I swear it was supposed to work,”

“You know what? I’m sure it’s fine,” Jet says, feeling the tension (probably because they feel tense). “I just really want to get down,” 

“Try yours,” Pony suggests, after a moment of silence. 

“My what?”

“Your gun,” Xe says, giving Jet a friendly punch on the arm. 

Jet sighs, pulling her pistol out, and aiming it at the dome. If a laser didn’t work, why should a bullet? Then again, the weapon has surprised her several times in the past—what if it does work? If it does, then the worst part would be over, wouldn’t it? Jet would be off the wall, and then she could just relax, and it would be all smooth sailing from there. 

She aims it, pointing it at her feet, and pulls the trigger. 

It goes through. 

“Perfect,” Pony says, “But we need another one,” 

They nod, cocking the gun, and-

It clicks harmlessly, a pathetic sound in comparison to what it was before, which can only mean one thing. Dry fire. No ammunition left. Jet could cry. 

“We’re done,”

“It’s fine,” Pony reassures them, “Just- I’m sure we can find some in the Outskirts. I’m sure we can figure something out. Actually, let me give you this-” Pony pulls out a radio- “Just in case we get separated,”

“Thanks,” Jet says, immediately noticing the frequencies displayed. Pony’s, of course, and one that seems familiar. 

27.715 MHz. Hm.

Jet stares at the dome with a mix of frustration and disbelief. Their perfect plan had relied on creating an opening in the dome, but now, their only means of breaking through had failed. A cruel twist of fate, and Jet can’t help but curse their luck.

“Is the rope secured?” She asks suddenly. 

“Yeah,” Comes the reply, “Why?”

Jet says nothing, grabbing the rope and tying it around her waist. If the Dome won’t cooperate, Jet’s going to enter the city by force. She takes a teetering step to the edge, and tested the dome with a careful step, before giving up and kicking down onto dome, repeatedly, until the material finally gives way, and Jet falls. 

Everything feels in slow motion. 

“Destroya, Destroya, Destroya, Oh, Witch, Destroya, no, no, no!” Jet screams as the sky races past them and the rope digs into and burns the skin on her hips. The wind whips at her face, like it’s trying to steal the oxygen from her lungs and kill her before she hits the ground.

The fear and adrenaline mix in a gross kind of chaos as they scramble to grab some kind of purchase. The world spins around them, in a dark, monotone blur. The ground grows closer with each second, threatening to shatter all her bones and immediately end everything she’s ever worked for.

Jet fights against gravity, trying to grab a hold of the rope and pull, as if it would slow her fast descent. But the pull remains painful and unyielding, burning her palms when she finally grabs onto it and making them sting. It’s going to be hell when the adrenaline wears off, if it ever does.

Her mind races with a possible solution, like there’s a chance they’ll survive the plunge. The rope, the stupid rope wasn’t secured enough and now it’s going to be the end of Jet. The world around them narrows as their screams mix with the wind rushing past her ears. 

Jet’s instincts take over at last, and she feels her muscles tense, redying themselves for the bone-jarring, killing collision she’s about to feel. She reaches her hands upwards, to grab onto the rope again, as it suddenly goes slack and Jet fears the worst. 

Instead, she feels a softer version of a violent and unforgiving collision with the floor, as the ground seems to engulf her in a hurricane of debris and ash. No, not ash, just dust. Oh Witch. Jet could have just died. Jet could have just died. Instead, she’s lying there, alive (but feeling dead). 

Destroya. 

-

Dante’s terribly frustrated. Sure, it’s a low-lying, muted type of frustration, something that’s barely recognizable, but he isn’t having a better day. For a moment, he’s too upset to realize that this may not be good for him, that something must be off in his brain, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s got a week to figure something out that he was apparently just perfect at before he had this—this stupid injury, but he barely knows about now, and when he gets home, he’s going to take his pills and lie down. 

He doesn’t even notice the shattered glass in front of his apartment, or the sand that’s embedded itself in the cracks. He hopes his elevator breaks down, to give him an excuse to be upset, or to kick the stupid machine, but of course everything here is just perfect. 

He storms through the hall and swipes his keycard with a frustrated swipe, mind consumed by the looming pressure of the task at hand, the stupid, stupid task about something Dante’s never heard about, walking straight over to grab his pills. Except, they’re not there. That’s odd. 

Whatever, he’s probably almost out, anyways. Dante heads to the bathroom to wash his face, looking in the mirror to see his exasperated reflection staring back at him. He looks pale. And tired. And stressed. Honestly, he’s surprised Greeves didn’t call someone there and then, no one’s supposed to look like this. His own high-pitched bark of a laugh shocks him. 

His hands float instinctively towards a drawer where he keeps his toiletries, medications, and of course, facecloths. Washing his face would give him a tiny semblance of his ordinary day-to-day life, a small moment of peace from the chaos that has infiltrated his life. He needs to wash his face. But as he looks down, Dante’s heart sinks.

The once neatly arranged stack of cloths are in disarray. Haphazardly thrown about, onto the floor, tangled and crumpled. Towels lie scattered around the room, like someone was in a hurry. How did he not notice before? It's evident that someone tried to rummage through them, and left a mess in their wake. Confusion grips Dante as he wonders who could have entered his apartment and why they would target something as mundane as facecloths.

His gaze shifts to the countertop, searching for any clues, when realization strikes him like a lightning bolt. His headphones are nowhere to be found. Panic wells up inside him, his mind racing to comprehend the implications of this discovery. Who would take them? Did he do something wrong? 

Oh dear. 

Dante grips onto a piece of cloth, running it under the sink to dab at his face. He feels frail. Frail and sick and scared. 

Slowly, he turns and leaves the bathroom. He’s just being paranoid, and all, that’s it. Maybe he was sleepwalking, or something, and just didn’t notice. Or maybe the cleaning crew didn’t manage to come today. But still, the dread unfurls and grows and sits heavily in his stomach, making Dante feel grossly nauseous. 

The living room seems fine, and all, at least, on first glance, but there’s a sound from behind him.

Dante jumps when he turns around, face to face with two filthy-looking, colourful rebels. Killjoy terrorists, Dante assumes, with a hint of distaste. He’s not afraid anymore, just numb. Killjoy terrorists, of course. All he has to do is dial the HQ or the Emergency numbers. That’s all.

Dante's eyes narrow, grip instinctively tightening around the first object he finds on the counter—a glossy, Industry-approved magazine. Dante can hear the tremble in his voice, a mix of apprehension and defiance, as he demands, who they are, ignoring the odd familiarity that unsettles him, a nagging feeling growing at the back of his mind.

“Party Poison, I’m sure you remember me,” The red-haired one says, teeth bared in a smile. Their companion doesn't say anything.

“I don’t remember anything,” He hisses, raising the magazine in a way he hopes to be threatening. “Which is why I’m here in the first place. Please just leave me alone,”

Poison, or whatever they’re called, starts laughing. It’s cold, and heartless, a completely empty sound. “What are you gonna do? Swat at me like I’m a fly?”

And well, they’re just a whole different breed of irritating. Dante said please, he was being polite (mostly), but then again, what should he expect from a bunch of rebel filth? 

The blond just kind of stares for a moment, before he speaks, interrupting the tension. His voice is impossibly small. “Ghoul?”

Dante’s irritation is suddenly replaced by fear, a kind of panic that hits him like a wall and settles in his nerves and makes everything too much and he thinks he’s going to be sick. He hates the way his voice trembles, when he tells them, “You have the wrong person,” 

His pills. Where are his pills? Who is Fun Ghoul? He just wants everything to stop, this panic is eating away at him, and he wants to cry. “I’m Dante Gallo, not Fun Ghoul. You have the wrong person. You have- I’m not- please, you have to understand,”

He watches Poison clench their jaw, and look away with a deep breath. He watches them fiddle with something in their pocket, before their disappointment turns into malice, and they tear their hand from their pocket, pulling out their gun. “If you’re not Fun Ghoul, then where is he? Tell me, Gallo, where is he?” 

“I don’t know!”

The killjoy scoffs. “Coming here was a bad idea.”

For a moment, Dante thinks they’ll just leave him alone now. Thinks that the two will turn around and leave his apartment, before he has to report them, and then he can just take his pills, make that appointment with his doctor and lie down for a while, before doing his reading—what is the Hyperthrust anyway? —, but his relief is short-lived. 

“Oh, don’t worry, Dante,” They seem to spit his name out, “We’re not done here. And if you won’t give us what we want, we’ll take it from you,”

“What?” Dante's heart pounds in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He hears his voice come from his mouth, unfamiliar and quiet. A soft stammering sound, as this ugly, fear courses through his veins, paralysing him as he struggles to comprehend the unfolding nightmare. Too much to comprehend. “I have nothing that you could ever want, please,” 

“Well, first of all, you can put the magazine down, it’s not going to save you. In fact, I have a better idea. I’ll save you, and put you out of your misery instead of letting you suffer,” They say, like it’s the most obvious and simple thing ever, . “I pride myself with my kindness, I mean, wouldn’t you? Now, stand still,”

“No!” He cries, mind racing to find any kind of escape—he needs his pills. Where are his pills? He can feel his fingers twitch with the itch to make a run for it, but he feels completely paralysed, like he can’t move, his limbs grow terribly heavy, like lead.

The red-haired killjoy’s lips curl up into a sinister smile, at his response, eyes flashing some kind of cruel, unforgiving joy. Their smile doesn’t sit quite right; it’s unforgiving and ready to kill. The worst part is, there’s no artificiality between their expression, nothing like the delayed responses from a colleague or droid. It’s there, and it’s real. 

“No? Excuse me?” Their laugh sounds like smoke. It only lasts a couple of seconds, but it’s already laced with a choking kind of thickness that seeps into Dante’s head and makes it hard to breathe, as their face contorts with astonishment and furrowed brows. Their eyes widen with astonishment, before the laughter turns violent. It tuns malevolent and bitter, like their words had, just a few seconds prior. Their shoulders shake, like the three of them are sharing a hilarious joke that Dante doesn’t understand. A sinister, murderous kind of joke. “What are you going to do about it, sugar?”

“I-” Dante cuts himself off as they near him, clicking some kind of switch on their blaster in a new kind of rhythm. Oh, this is how he dies, isn’t it? And what can he even do? If only Greeves were here. Greeves would take him out of this mess and know what to do, because he’s top of his class and isn’t a low-beat, pathetic husk of someone who used to hold so much more, who used to know everything about himself and feels this awful static that’s come back, and he’s got a terrible headache, and now he’s trying his best not to cover his eyes and show his own fear.

“You know, some people-” They begin, whispering in his ear, as they stalk around him in a circle, voice low and dripping with a terrible sweetness- “Show their true colours through fear,”

“Poison-” The blond cuts in. They’re not listening. 

“And I mean, that’s what the main difference between you and me is, Ghoul. Your colours always bled through when you were scared, and you didn’t even try to hide it. That wasn’t your style, was it? Shame, really, I’ve grown to miss it. Don’t you remember?”

“Don’t call me that,” Dante forces out through gritted teeth. Of course, he doesn’t remember. And he hates that they’re being so deliberate. Everything that comes from their lips is intentional, he knows that. But it’s so deeply terrifying, something that makes his limbs turn to lead, and stops the roaring in his head to fix him in a state of icy horror, a moment of perfect clarity.

“I’m terribly sorry, Dante, I wasn’t thinking. I guess you’re going to die again, then, right? For the second time?” The nonchalance is suffocating, “I mean, they took everything away from you earlier, anyway. Disappointing, isn’t it? You don’t ever get anything you want,”

They pause, showing all of their teeth, a glance spared for their companion, before they flip the switch on their gun again, and hand it to Dante. 

“Use it,” They demand, “Use it, or I will,”

And Dante won’t remember what happens next. He knows he held the weapon in his hand, felt the cool, weighted plastic of the barrel in his hand, and the warm grip on his sweaty palms. How many people would that gun have killed? 

He knows that each word had felt like a dagger to his racing heart, pushing him closer to the edge (what edge? What edge? What edgewhatedgewhatedge?). The weight of their presence bears down on him, the air growing heavy with dread. He had been able to feel the suffocating darkness closing in, overwhelmed by fear.

Dante had succumbed to his terror. His legs had given out beneath him, letting him crumple to the ground, like paper, consciousness slipping away as his mind had tried to desperately find some kind of cheap, pathetic refuge from the horrors that surround him. The world blurred, sounds faded, and his senses dulled. His eyelids had grown heavy and Dante had finally surrendered to the darkness behind his eyelids.

Faded. Into oblivion. 

(The pills fixed it all.)

Chapter Text

“It was all part of my plan!” Poison whisper-yells, exasperated. “Look, I knew what I was doing, and now we just have to wait,”

“You literally threatened him with your gun,” Kobra deadpans, as the two of them walk through the Outskirts, searching for a place to stay. The Lobby itself seems too smiley, the Droids don’t sit quite right, and it means too much to the two of them, too many thoughts and memories. At least to Kobra. 

“Well, yeah. But it was working,”

“Until you actually gave him the gun, and he passed out ‘cuz of it,”

Poison makes a clicking sound, halfway between a sigh and a groan, as they walk past a vending machine and some kind of run-down, daunting-looking kiosk too, but no motel. 

“I knew what I was doing, K. He’ll be back, just wait,” They claim. 

“Unless you’ve scared him into reconditioning,” Kobra says.

“I was right. I’m always right,” They quip, like it isn’t a big deal at all that they’ve just quite possibly scared—or even worse, killed—someone who they both thought were dead, but of course he’s not just anyone, and Party doesn’t seem to get that. And now he’s probably in grave danger is he wasn’t already, and Kobra wants to bang his head against a wall, any wall. 

“Fine,” He says after a while, “I really hope you are, because if you aren’t, we can’t wait around,”

Poison shrugs, running a finger along a particularly filthy wall, inspecting the colour like they’re completely careless, because they totally are, it isn’t really a big deal that Ghoul doesn’t remember anything, doesn’t remember them or Kobra or Jet. Witch, Party misses Jet too. 

And all of a sudden, the City feels much greyer and claustrophobic, like it was built to separate them from everything they’ve ever loved. But they don’t have time to dwell on that, or anything else for that matter, other than their perfect plan. All they have to do now is wait. But Poison’s never been a very patient person.

They pass broken droids that call out, reflected in the dim lights. Limbs missing, eyes flashing, and Poison looks away. It makes the guilt pile heavily in their stomach - no, not guilt at all, because Party Poison refuses to feel guilt. Not about the way things ended, not about their brother, not about Ghoul, and certainly not about Jet.

The two of them finally reach a motel, and Poison lets Kobra do the talking for once. It’s not a big deal, really, but all they want to do right now is lie down and sleep. As soon as they’re through the door, Poison collapses on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. Above them, they notice the peculiar text sitting above them on the wall, written in a hasty print. The words stare down at them, like they were made for them, like they’ve been waiting for them, in shaky capitals and black ink. 

yOU’RE KINd OF A FREAk. 

A flicker of unease sparks behind Poison’s tired eyes, as they try to wrap their head around what it could mean. It feels like both an accusation and some kind of comment of fascination. They look around the room for Kobra, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Odd. 

They won’t tell him.

As the minutes tick by on the clock that hangs above the door, curiosity gets the better of them. They push off the bed, reaching up to trace the letters on the ceiling, drawing back when the ink smudges on their fingers. Written recently, maybe? Or in a haste?

They don’t know why it unsettles them, but they immediately wipe the ink on their jeans, turning their back to the text. Party Poison is a freak. That’s a fact, but it’s their own terms, and the phrase begins to itch under their skin, like it’s familiar, or wrong, or just something. They don’t know!

But it dawns on them as they’re washing their hands. 

Those are their words. 

And they hate them. 

They leave the bathroom to find Kobra pulling his boots off, clearly exhausted. He doesn’t even turn around to look at them, not until they clear their throat to speak up. 

“All okay?”

Kobra nods, falling backwards onto the tough mattress. He seems weirdly tense and distant, and Poison sits down on the bed beside him, sighing for what must be the millionth time today. He hasn’t noticed the writing on the wall, but maybe he saw something else. 

“Is this about Ghoul?” They ask.

“No,” Comes the reply, but he sounds rather hesitant. 

“Well, just in case it is, I’m sorry. I know I was being a bit of a screwhead, but just, trust me, okay? I know Ghoul’s there somewhere, he’ll be back, I promise,” 

Kobra remains silent, shrugging. The tension grows thick and heavy, and they try their best to think of anything they could say to fix the situation, anything they could do to break the silence. They used to be so, so good at this, back when it was them and Kobra against the world, back when they had spent their first night in the desert, but now the tension’s beginning to seep into their brain.

“Look, K, I get you’re frustrated, and things seem pretty hopeless right now, but we can’t let this place get to us. We’ll get out of here soon, but we need to stay focused, ‘kay? This funk isn’t gonna work for us,” They barely register their own words, but something inside them sneers at them, there you go being the almighty leader again. Look how well that worked out for you.

Kobra shrugs again, but the tension’s beginning to relent. 

“If you don’t wanna say anythin’ tha’s fine, but please tell me if you need anything, I don’ want you to suffer alone,” 

Hypocrite , the little voice tells them.

Kobra nods this time, sending the smallest wave of relief through Poison. 

“Now we wait,”

-

When Dante wakes up, he’s got a massive headache. It’s like his head is splitting in two, but he has to get up before someone finds him lying on the floor. The pills will fix it. Wait—why is he lying on the floor? He tries to recall yesterday, but his mind is oddly fuzzy and cloudy, like something big happened. 

Did someone break in?

It’s a silly thought, but as he checks the time and rushes to take his pills and leave the house to get to work on time, he can’t shake it out of his head. He was lying in the only blind spot to the camera in the house. It makes sense, doesn’t it? 

Or maybe Dante’s just paranoid. Insane. He hasn’t been feeling well lately, and currently his headphones are turned to level 5, affirming that, I am feeling unwell, but I will get better. Yes, in fact, Dante must feel better soon. He’s meeting with Greeves later today and oh-

The manuscripts!

Dante completely forgot. Something must have happened last night, something that must have deeply confused him—did his routine experience an interruption or something? Was the work too much? It shouldn’t have been, Dante didn’t even start it, and besides, no citizen in Battery City ever experiences a burnout. It simply doesn’t add up.

He begins the reading Greeves had made for him, curiosity drawn in by what seems to be the journal entry of someone. 

I’ve been requested to detail my work as I progress through these new ideas. Officials have so far supported my improvement on the masks, previous draculoids have been a mere nuisance. These are made to kill. Citizens too far gone may receive one of the newer products for testing in the near future. The rubber is reacting interestingly to human skin—it lasts some time before seemingly melding with bits of flesh, nearly impossible to pull off, a new advantage, possibly. The previous chemicals didn’t work well, it seemed to be a euphoric experience for most subjects tested on it, may be kept around for future medications. I’m attempting to try to use a chemical like salvanorium A, pre-conflict texts state it may work. With constant exposure and in combination with the mask, it might work in our favour. Will update as I progress. 

There isn’t a name or a date written on the journal entry, but the text written is interesting. Rubber that melds into skin? The copy Greeves sent Dante also includes a map of the desert, characterized by the six main ‘Zones’ that stirs a familiar ache in his chest, but one that he gladly pushes down.

Hyperthrust. Large garage-like building, used to harbour deals and rebellion between killjoys. Large gatherings every few weeks. 

For a moment, Dante wonders if he could possibly-

“Ah, Gallo,” Greeves greets, coming to sit beside him at his desk, “I’ve been searching for you. Everything alright?”

“Quite—I am simply rather unwell,” He admits, “However, I have a possible solution,”

“I’m listening,”

“If most killjoys manage to be present at a larger event in the Hyperthrust, we could attempt to infiltrate their masses with the chemical used in early models of Drac masks. If we could find a way to, say, spread it through the air, we could target them all at once, with little to no repercussions. We would only need a couple of people on cite, just to release it, with something like a-”

Dante pauses, and it all becomes clear. 

“A bomb. We could strike them with a bomb that contains the hallucinogens. Then, while they’re experiencing the worst of it, we could just end it, we could effectively end the threat once and for all, couldn’t we?”

“Or we could watch them suffer,” Greeves says, smiling. “Like an insect, once it’s down,”

Dante nods. “Once we set it off, the rest of it’s up to you,”

“Splendid! This is exactly why I chose to advocate for you,” Greeves says, placing his hand on Dante’s back, and Dante returns his smile. Except it feels rather delayed, he’s hesitant almost. Not because of the plan, surely not, but because some kind of phrase won’t stop playing in his head.

Some people show their true colours through fear.

Dante shivers. 

As Greeves leaves to take care of some unfinished business, Dante tries to keep reading. Keyword tries , because he’s been feeling shockingly restless and wrong in everything he does, and the words won't register into his brain, not even the simple print letters, because something must have happened last night, something awful and terrifying and wrong, and Dante would be damned if he dared to say anything about it. 

True colours. 

What does that even mean? There are no colours. No colours! Everything’s just plain black and white, and those expressions have been banned. He’s never heard it before. 

And the damned buzzing! He barely noticed it this morning until it came back in full force and now he wants to slam his head against his desk, just to get rid of the awful feeling. It’s sharp, sharper than static, like a thousand tiny needles poking through his forehead and puncturing eyes like someone’s trying to force the stinging and almost forcing his hands up to his hair to pull and thrash at his desk, just until it subsides. 

Please, Dante begs, I’ll do anything. 

It’s unbearable, it’s awful, he needs to leave. He needs to leave and call his Doctor and get out of here. What happened last night? What happened? He racks his brain to find nothing. Of course there’s nothing, there’s never anything. Everything’s gone, taken away from him. Dante doesn’t ever get anything he wants. 

His own thoughts shock him out of the chaos. Those aren’t his words. Those cannot be his own thoughts. It almost sounds like someone is trying to pull him away, someone is trying to advocate for him. But Dante is satisfied, Dante is okay.

(Is he okay?)

It’s only been 5 minutes by the time that Dante manages to lift his head and take another pill to try and stop the static. Maybe he should just forget about this, he’s forgotten about everything else, hasn’t he? Why is he so bitter about it? Battery City would never let him, a loyal citizen, suffer more than necessary. 

Put me out of my misery. 

Dante groans, resting his head in his hands. This time there are two voices—his own, and one he doesn’t recognize at all. The thought is desperate and rash, like the kind of thing someone would beg for in their last moments, but the buzzing begins to give up and settle down. 

And when it’s lunch and Dante can pack up and go to the canteen, he still doesn’t understand or remember. He can’t hear anything, except for the buzzing that’s begun to become more of a pest than anything, settling in his ears. 

He doesn’t even hear his headphones, or their affirmations as he eats. And for the first time he doesn't actually care.

The page left on his desk is left opened. The journal entry he couldn't read sits there, waiting, print smudged with clear tear tracks down the page, making the font nearly illegible. But it only makes the next entry seem worse. 

They want to Drac me. I don't understand what I did wrong. I helped them, I helped them! The new division they created was a lie, I was not sent to eliminate any threats. They seem to think I was the threat, I didn't do anything wrong.

Chapter Text

She is in agony. Something in her back spasms painfully with each forced breath, as her palms throb with stinging. She can’t even tell where the pain is anymore, only that it stops for a second of pure bliss and hits her harder than the last time. Jet Star is dying.

Laying here, with no plan or ammunition, and the constant hum of ringing in her ears, Jet nearly cries. She bites down on her lip, hoping the concentrated sting will keep her from betraying how weak she really is. She’s held it in for so long, can’t she do it for a while longer?

And she won’t cry here, especially not in front of Show Pony. Xe stares down them through concerned eyes, lips twisting into a grimace. Ae opens their mouth to say something, opening and closing it again, as if he can’t find anything to say.

“Go ahead,” Jet manages after another moment of silence. Her voice sounds foreign to herself, it scrapes in their throat and emerges weak and broken. They were both medics in another life, but now, neither of them have a clue on what to do anymore. “Jus’ need a moment,”

Pony shakes xir head, without saying anything. The floor is filthy beneath them, Jet’s ribs throb and stagger with each breath; she keeps silent.  It’s a dream, a horrendous, unending dream, where Jet fell, stuttered and stopped

“Ammunition ‘n batteries,” Jet urges, “‘s all we need,”

Pony’s voice comes out harsh and scared when ae speaks again. “Jet, I’m not leaving,”

She feels dizzy, something like an electric shock shoots through her left shoulder, the world grows blurry again, with each rising and falling breath. Jet Star makes out colours despite the black and white city. The world is cast in a familiar warm gold, like desert sands on a good day. The sun beats down on her face again, the light floods across her vision, she closes her eyes. For a moment, the world is right again, Jet is a child with her Mama again, Jet sits in the Diner and speaks to a tired and relaxed Party Poison in a hushed voice, who laughs, as the sunshine spreads across and warms her limbs in a rare scene of what they all should have been; a family. 

They open their eyes again - the lights are on above them. Battery City wakes up. Droids crawl into alleyways, something flashes in a building above Jet, they hear the quiet bustling of citizens (not people) getting up, like they do each morning, to the motto of, freshen up and wake up with battery city. Jet wonders if city kids still hide their pills and run to the desert. They’ve been awfully tolerating all her life, working hard to make sure all those kids had somewhere to go, but maybe she should have listened to Ghoul - city kids were just geminis, and Party Poison was proof.  The sweet scene disappears, replaced by a fierce agony that embedds itself in her back and Jet floats in and out of a rose dream.

Pony’s got one arm around her chest and the other around her stomach, in an effort to pull her away and into an alleyway. “Look,” Pony says in a hushed voice, “They’ve got eyes everywhere. Stay here, ‘k? I’m gonna go find somethin’ t’ help you, ‘n then we’ll sort somethin’ out,”

Jet only nods. She’s dying, isn’t she? Poison’s leaving her behind again, with shards of glass in her back and blood everywhere, she watches Poison walk away from her, dragging their broken limbs acorss the pavement, light captured around their head in the rain like a halo, Poison is forgetting everything despite the tattoo they got, Poison is breaking all their promises-

Pony’s voice interrupts her thoughts. “I’ll be back,” He says.

See? A small voice tells her, Pony’ll come back.

Instead, Jet Star sits, propped against the wall, for agonizing hours. She dreams for hours. Jet dreams in pinks and blues, until the sharp stinging comes back and the adrenaline spikes and wears off and she burns again. 

Jet dreams of something like love, she dreams of saying, it hurts, and someone red and sweet replying with, I know, you’re doing so well. 

Pony doesn’t come back. 

Jet feels like a kid again. She feels the same trembling fear she’s felt time after time again, when person, after person, after person, has left her. Their fingers clench as the tears mix with the grime on her face and she wants to kick herself for being so weak. But that’s all she is right now; weak and alone. 

And Jet’s been through worse before, she knows that, she knows that it’s hurt more and it’s been more severe, but this time, it feels like the end. Jet Star is at the end, and no one’s coming to pull her out of the rubble. She’s never been defeated like this before, but that’s what it is - you can only shatter so many times before it’s irreparable. 

But it’s Jet who’s always pulled herself up off the ground. Her tears taste salty on their lips, as they force themself to sit up properly, clenching their teeth together to stifle the pained cry that’s about to emerge. Jolts of agony keep her in place and her vision spots and fades out before the alleyway seems to narrow, like it’s one duty is to keep her from getting up again. It hurts, every breath and half-attempted movement that only ends in gasping and darkness. 

It dawns on her then that they never figured out where Ghoul would be. But the answer is clear, despite her haze, and it makes her heart race to think about it. Somewhere in the HQ, beneath all the grandeur lie a couple of small cells, small cells that feel like misery and blood, and a single cell that she’s used to being in. 

Ghoul’s been there for years now. 

Witch. The thought is enough to make her nauseous. And now it’s not just about her carrying broken bone to whatever finish line is waiting for her at the other side, Jet knows she can’t leave him there. Not again.

Jet begins to inch forward with trembling limbs, going against everything inside that screams at them to stop. They grasp the wall and push herself to her feet again, telling herself that it’s the anger that’s making her cry. 

But Jet Star walks. Amity walks. Whatever’s left of her broken soul gets up and walks. She makes it through the lobby without anyone raising an eyebrow, she hopes it’s just the effect of the pills, that’s what Ghoul said once. Witch, she can see it now, covered in blood, reduced to a fraction of the explosion he was and-

A droid calls out to her, asking for some kind of protection. 

All Jet can manage is a prayer for Destroya, before she has to grit her teeth again and close her eyes. She aches with the broken droid, she burns and festers and cries. There’s something so tender about the scene, something so painfully significant between what they are and what they share that Jet has to look away. 

She passes dark alleys and vending machines, hiding in the shadows as a patrol races past her. The adrenaline stifles the throbbing, Jet walks on. She stops by a wall covered in graffiti and saint posters, watching the way the light catches in the white paint. The camera’s broken here, black and red wires torn — it’s hanging off the wall, limp. 

She doesn’t dwell on any of it, turning to see the HQ up ahead in the distance. It shines down on them like a beacon of light, like some kind of post-apocalyptic heaven, coming down just to greet her, and her alone. Like it’s been waiting for her. 

Jet drags herself to the building without gaining any attention. Patrols don’t line the city like they used to, and for a moment, Jet wonders if this was what the pre-war cities were like. They stay out of crowds, limping towards the City Proper in a daze. 

Everything’s blurry and sterile, buildings pass by her in an agony-filled haze, she follows the same path she’s followed years ago, keeping her mouth shut and eyes ahead. They remembers the way they went, back when that was it and it was going to be the four of them against the world one last time, following it like it’s all that’s left of the vision they once had; and maybe it is, maybe this is her final fit, this is just going to be it. 

It’s an honest ending, but it’s a fraction of what it could have been. Wasted potential.

She begins to dream again. Of long summers, of rare rainstorms and the colour they brought, of desert roses and haloes around the sun. She dreams of falling asleep under bright stars, and of the dawns that followed in their wake, they dream of more than just keeping herself alive; Jet Star dreams of living. 

It’s the same scene they’ve dreamt so many times before, except everyone is missing. They expect laser hail as they cross the bridge, they expect burning and failure, but nothing greets them. Not even the subtle whir of a camera clues that someone might be there. And this time, Jet’s alone. Completely alone. 

They’re alone as they walk through one of the entrances, alone as they make it down the stairs, a never-ending war becomes something so, so much easier. And it scares Jet.

The hallway at the end is long and unforgiving. The way is dimly lit, lights faded and yellow, like teeth just waiting for them, illuminating empty cells and deactivated keypads. At the sudden sting in her back, Jet props herself against the wall, forcing herself to just move. The dread and agony are unforgiving, her heart races with the anticipation and fear of what she might see. Maybe she’s too late, maybe all her efforts are for nothing and she’s going to rot down here until someone finds her. 

Jet’s heart stops.

She freezes, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth. Cold, pure horror runs through her veins, like a sudden shock from an electrified fence, except this time, she doesn’t react. She can’t. She just stares, taking a shaky breath, as the world around her becomes distorted and blurry again, focusing in on one point she can’t tear her eyes away from.

She feels icy hands wrap around her chest and tear her apart, as time seems to slow and there’s nothing left except for the suffocating fear and icy dread that waits for her at the other side of the bars.

“You,” She hisses.

“Hello, Jet Star,” The Director rasps, lips twisting into a malicious smile.

-

Dante can’t breathe.

The journal digs into his palm as he holds it shut with one hand, digging into his eye socket to stop the pain with the other. His head hurts, it hurts and hurts and hurts and he can’t even think of the right words to say or think, because it’s all just too much and blurry figures are flashing behind his eyes, screaming and wailing at him, like they’re standing right beside him, trying to break through his forehead and see him dead. 

Dante pushes away from his desk in desperation, like the movement will just make everything stop. He’s got the feeling he isn’t in control anymore, like his life has been taken from him to keep moving. The journal falls to the floor beside him, he barely notices it, gasping in pain.

Oh, he’s going to die!

He slams his palms into his head, covering his eyes with his hands. He barely feels them now, head splitting with such a violent force he swears it’s bleeding. 

He murmurs words that don’t register in his brain, words he’s never said before that don’t mean anything to someone like him. It feels like an eternity until someone finally finds him, slouched backwards on his chair with tears in his eyes. 

He doesn’t hear anything, but he sees Greeves looking down at him with a phone in his hand. His expression is foreign and unfamiliar, he holds the telephone with a certain kind of nonchalance that Dante doesn’t register.

He makes out home, doctor, and minutes as Greeves speaks and a new pain presents itself to Dante. Is he going to be reconditioned? Something rebellious and foreign tells him he wants to stay the way he is, something that bleeds through the headache and makes his heart face again. 

Greeves only looks down at him with a frown as he’s escorted out of the building - no, dragged, because he can’t move -, standing where he is. He could swear he sees the executive smile as he turns his head one last time, but it’s gone almost immediately and he slouches forward, unable to keep his head up anymore. 

Thousands of sharp needles dig into his skull, behind his forehead, digging deep into the roof of his mouth and rattling over and over and over again. 

Dante must be dying, he thinks, arms slung weakly around two twin-looking nurses that multiply and disappear in his blurry vision.

He makes it back up to the apartment on his own after some kind of other pill is shoved down his throat, he makes it to the telephone before his vision blacks out again and he stumbles against the wall. He manages to listen to the automated telephone voice tell him, “Stay calm, you are being assisted in 30 minutes. Have a better day.”

And when Dante’s vision comes back to him, he’s keeling over on the floor, and there’s a picture laying beside him. The faces are blurry, but he makes out four figures. They’re all rebels, he thinks for a moment. They’re all smiling in complete colour. Dante inhales sharply, feeling his eyes widen in a small moment of clarity, the agony he feels stops for a moment, like something’s telling him to just look. 

He sees an eyepatch on one of the figures, framed by dark curls and a smile that’s so real he has to look away for a second. He can’t control the tears fall from his eyes and onto the picture, further distorting the first face that looks up at him. He looks over to see another smile with crooked teeth and red lips, the almost exact same colour as the hair that goes along with it and the sharp nose and hazel eyes that follow. 

Both smiles take him aback, Dante sees the smiles reach their eyes, sees the way their heads lean against each other and the way their arms are wrapped around each other. It seems so real, so completely real and genuine that Dante has to close his eyes again. 

The third one he looks at brings out something painful and familiar in his chest. He looks at the blond undercut and dog tags that hang off the killjoy’s figure. He knows that face, he’s sure of it, perhaps also intimately. It burns in his chest, this sense of longing. He can barely see two differently coloured eyes staring back at him through the figure’s sunglasses that have slid down the bridge of their sharp nose, similar to the one beside them. They must be related, he thinks, noticing the piercings that adjourn the rebel’s face. Dante’s chest grows tight, he can’t breathe when he looks anymore. 

And he stares in horror at the last face that looks back at him. It’s a familiar face, more familiar than the rest. It’s a face he knows without having to look at the scar tearing through its face, he knows this face better than he knows anyone else’s, because it’s his own. Who is he?

The split-skull throbbing comes back in full force, accompanied by a certain buzzing he knows so well and loathes. He’s not supposed to see this, he’s not supposed to be here and see this, he’s not supposed to- 

Oh, oh, goodness, he shouldnt be here at all, and this time, Dante’s certain of it; he’s dying. He thinks to stash the photo in his pocket, before the world is torn away from him, this fragile life he’s built up, everything that never was, that never meant anything brings him onto the floor and shuts everything down.

And before the agony swallows his vision and thoughts, Dante registers a voice coming through the telephone. 

“Stay calm. Fifteen minutes. Have a better day.”