Chapter Text
Fireworks. Of course, there were fucking fireworks.
The hood of the Trans Am reflects the colors of the explosions despite years of dust and grime layered on. That’s how bright they were, and close, too. The thin streams of light swim alongside my window before twisting around the front and bursting into a thousand hands reaching around the old sports car. I can smell the gunpowder before the twinkling remnants hit the windshield and sparks whiz through the air conditioning, dying out on the dashboard and into my lap. The explosions keep coming as I race across the zones, towards wherever the hell it is I’m supposed to be going. Dr. D still hasn’t confirmed yet. Where the hell is he?
Cretin Hop is blasting at full volume from the old stereo. Ramones. Now and always, my favorite band. Long gone but forever alive. I bet they would have been killjoys, too.
“Hhhhghhn..”
Kobra’s groans of agony fill the split seconds of silence between the explosions around the car while Jet helps him in any way he can. The shard of glass that had been shoved into his stomach wasn't too big, but he's still in pain. The sun is almost below the horizon, and there’s still no sign of our signal. Yet another thing I don’t know the details of or what to be looking for. This plan is a shitshow. All of our plans our shit shows, but this one takes the cake. That’s what we get for totally trusting Dr. Death–getting ourselves into a ghost chase.
“I can’t see dick!” Ghoul is holding an outdated map up to the window, in hopes that the flashes of light will illuminate it.
“Has that old torch in the glove compartment got any battery left?” I grind out between gritted teeth.
1-2-3-4 cretins wanna hop some more..
“The fuck do you think, Party?”
4-5-6-7 cretins wanna go to heaven..
I return my attention to the road ahead. As I reach blindly for the radio to tune back to the Doc’s station, I catch a glimpse of light in the rearview. I thought nothing of it at first, the Dracs should still be far behind us, but as I’m fiddling with the stations, the beam of light continued to flash on and off. That’s no firework.
“Blanketdriver. Ghoul, look.”
“Huh?” He says, still preoccupied by his map fiasco.
“I think they’re trying to pass us.”
“Who the hell would be all the way out here if it's not a pig?”
“Let ‘em go by, they were probably crashing when we led those masked fucks straight by their spot,” Kobra grunts from his fetal position in the back seat. His injury isn’t severe, but it would be fan-fucking-tastic if the Doctor opens his office sooner rather than later. I don’t feel like dealing with this raging asshole if he really is pissed about us dragging Masks to his spot.
I check my mirror to see if they’re still on our tail, and sure enough, the fucker is still flashing his brights like a madman. Some things never change on the open road. In the short intervals where his lights are off, I try to make out who it is through the windshield. As I catch a glimpse of what’s written on the hood of the car, my heart drops right down out of my ass. On the hood, shining in the light of the car’s hi-beams, a clear message written in reflective tape reads:
‘DRIVE OR DIE’
“Fuck. I think it’s RE-Coil,” I whisper to nobody in particular.
“No way it’s Coil, he hasn’t been spotted since the derby in 20XX. And triple D was totally blowing dust bunnies with that lighthouse story,” says Ghoul casually.
“You may be right about the Doctor, but that for fucking sure is him. I’m top left, Ghoul.”
“Poison, we haven’t seen him in years. How do you know he even drives the same carriage?” Jet sighs from the back seat.
“That Camaro is his baby. I would recognize it fucking anywhere. Check it, 6 o’clock, coming up fast.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ghoul poke his tongue at me and spin reluctantly to look out the back window past Kobra and Jet. I double-check the mirror just to make sure I really wasn’t blowing smoke, and watch as Jet and Kid look around too.
“No shit,” whispers Ghoul.
Sure enough, an all-too-familiar jet-black ‘67 Camaro is thundering along the black top behind us.
As if he knew we were all looking, RE-Coil shuts off his lights, shifts gears, and crosses the faded white lines to level his Camaro with my Firebird. It’s just like the old days. I take my eyes off the road and watch as he matches our speed. In the darkness, his bright white hair and biker gloves are the only thing visible in his silhouette. His face is shrouded in shadow from his hood, but the fireworks, slowing down but still shooting over our heads, illuminate the goggles on his forehead and shit-eating grin in short intervals, lighting up his flowing long hair with a combination of reds, pinks, blues, and greens.
He lifts his right fist,
'Sup'
Raises his thumb,
'Gas'
Adds the pointer,
'Brake'
Then the middle,
'Clutch'
“Oh god,” says Jet.
He points his hand downwards in a smooth motion,
'Coordinate pedals'
“Oh yes,” hisses Ghoul, practically jumping out of his seat to get a better look at the signals.
Then, with a smirk on his face, Coil flips his hand back up.
This time, the brake finger is down. Full bird.
'Floor it, motherfuckers.'
With a long-practiced maneuver, we simultaneously shift gears, and with a loud POP, we shoot forward into the darkness, leaving behind the last of the fireworks. He flashes his lights again, and I look over to see him making another signal; fist with a pinkie finger raised–antenna tap. I signal back with the same, wiggling my pinky in question. Coil raises his ring and middle finger. I switch to channel 12 on the old handheld radio that I still keep despite Jet’s complaints about battery waste. I knew it would come in handy again.
“Fzzt–Long time no speak, Party Poison–click.” RE-Coil’s voice fizzles through the outdated intercom system, rendering the entire car speechless. I hesitate before responding,
“Thought you were dust, Coil.” After releasing the comms button, there’s a moment of silence. I almost wonder if the firework residue is making me hallucinate this whole thing, when RE-Coil responds.
“Glad to hear you kept your faith in me, buddy–fzzt–What the hell you doin’ out here? Haven’t seen a cloud in weeks.”
“I could ask the same of you,” I could almost hear him snort at that, even though he wasn’t speaking yet.
Still flying down the tar, I start to wonder why he had us speed up. As if able to read my mind, Jet jumps in.
“Can you ask him why in the hell we are running at Mach suicide?” He mumbles. I nod in silence, but just before I can hold down on the comms button again, a ribbon of bright red light streaks past my rearview mirror between us and Coil. I finger the comms button once again when his voice crackles through the radio.
“Let me correct myself, I haven’t–fzzzzt–seen a cloud until you idiots showed face.” And like a group of bots, all four of our heads–myself, Ghoul, Kobra, and Jet–all swung around once more.
Behind us was the group of Masks on bikes. They caught up to us faster than I thought. In the center of the motorcycles, a deathtrap of a vehicle was carrying a venomous group of Dracs, all sticking their torsos and rayguns out of the windows like some sort of fucked up midnight parade.
Two more cars reveal themselves from behind the first, and in the lead vehicle, as if he were the grand finale, a foul face rises through the sunroof.
Korse’s ugly mug was sporting a grin that could peel the paint off of a porno-droid.