Chapter Text
The sun sets just over the horizon, shining over what’s left of the desert. The wind rushes through as if in a hurry to be somewhere even though there’s nothing else around for miles, and the light reaches almost everything in view.
Party Poison stands just a bit away from the gas station, thinking. He’s been thinking for a long time, but there’s a decision to be made, he can’t possibly overthink it. In fact, as he kicks a stray pebble in the sand and watches it roll straight into a cactus, he can’t think of a thing to do. But he knows, he knows what will happen if he can’t make a decision.
There’s someone behind him. “It’s a fucking deathwish.”
Sure, it is. Poison knows that, although he hasn’t voiced anything. He turns to see Kobra Kid, shriveled up and tired from the heat, with possibly nothing useful to offer to Poison’s thoughts. So Poison kicks another pebble, and Kobra says something else, “He’ll be pissed at you either way.”
Poison can’t think of a single thing to answer with. He can’t think at all. Kobra’s footsteps are silenced by the softness of the sand, but Poison can still hear him walking away. He looks at the sun once more, he doesn’t care if it blinds him, and watches it disappear behind a hill, casting nothing but darkness as far as the eye can see.
~*~
There’s an impending feeling of doom hanging over his head. Poison feels it in every pore of his body, in every breath, and it only gets worse with every second that he’s not doing what’s supposed to be done. The decision is obvious. He has to do it, and it looks like he’ll be doing alone, too. What’s his life anyway? He’s just another rebellious Killjoy. There were many like him. Poison dare say he’s one of the last.
There’s a slap on the table that echoes throughout the small store of the gas station, and he’s snapped out of his self-pitying state. He turns his head, there sits Ghoul, angry, annoyed, his eyes shining brightly in the faint light from the ceiling. Poison doesn’t want to see him right now because the look on his face will affect the decision that’s already been made.
“You’re relentless,” Ghoul grits through his teeth. His breathing is heavy, Poison can see that he’s fuming with hatred, and his hand’s on his gun as if he’s ready for a shootout in any second.
Poison finds little interest in listening to Fun Ghoul’s whines and complaints. He turns back to the window and stares out into the dark desert, where the cactuses are hunched over in the wind. Through the reflection, he can see how Kobra leans on the doorway that connects his room with the main store, watching their argument with amusement as if it doesn’t concern him, too.
There comes another slap on the table, and the attention is now on Ghoul again. He brushes hair out of his face, watching Poison with an expression that can kill, really. But Poison knows the decision is obvious to Ghoul, too.
“You’re selfish. You’re not thinking of anyone else!” Ghoul decides to yell. It peaks Poison’s interests, and he pulls out a chair, seating himself right in front, looking at the prick who's really beginning to resemble one of them.
“That’s the thing. I am thinking of someone else. I’m thinking about her.” He defends himself rather calmly, more so than usual, poking the table with his soft, sensitive touch. Everyone knows that Poison is sensitive, it’s obvious that it annoys Ghoul.
“If we do this, we’re going to die, Why can’t you see that?”
“Oh, I can see everything just fine, thanks. But when did you become more important than her?” Perhaps, Poison chose a wrong set of words because the look on Ghoul’s face resembles something like hurt, but he can’t dwell too much on the fact because Ghoul’s expression suddenly changes into anger, and he really does pull the gun out from its holster.
“You’ve got no respect for anyone but yourself! You’re a fucking selfish piece of shit who wants to get us all killed because of some fucking girl?”
And so Ghoul flinches because the slap on the table that echoes throughout the building is probably the loudest one yet. Now it’s from Poison, who’s standing, looking down at Ghoul with distrust and anger, and whose hand is also on his gun. They stare at each other for a few moments, Poison is looking for anything that resembles just a bit of remorse in the Killjoy’s eyes, but he sees nothing, and it angers him even more.
He wishes he didn’t like Fun Ghoul, it would have been so much easier to kill the guy.
“Since when did you become more important than The Girl?” he repeats with a sort of dangerous tone, one with which even Kobra stiffens in the corner of his eye.
Suddenly, there’s absolutely nothing in Ghoul’s eyes except for betrayal, he puts the gun back in its holster and stands, keeping his gaze locked with Poison’s. His chair falls onto the floor with a kick, and Poison doesn’t move as Ghoul stands over it, breathing heavily. It’s almost amusing to watch him, really, because Poison can see that he knows what the right choice is, Ghoul just doesn’t want to die, which is ridiculous because there’s nothing to live for in the desert anyway.
“Since when did you choose her over all of us?” is what Ghoul mutters under his hair, then walks away into his room with a slam of the door. Poison is left, almost dumbfounded if he wasn’t grounded with the sheer fact that she could die. He looks at Kobra Kid, whose expression is nothing short of agreement, then he also disappears from view behind his door.
Poison breathes, feeling hardly any air reach his lungs as if there’s nothing but sand throughout the whole abandoned desert (which there isn’t, really), and the single light on the ceiling flickers from age. He feels bad for making it seem like his Killjoys mean nothing to him. They’re his friends, his family, the only people he can really trust in the whole fucking world, and they were so close to blasting each others’ brains out less than two minutes ago.
Poison pushes himself off the table, hearing the screech as the metal skids across the floor, and he wants to kill something. He wants to kill anyone and everyone to show them just how powerful a Killjoy can be. He also knows he can’t do that, and that sends the table flying across the room until it almost hits a window.
The decision is still obvious.
~*~
“The Martyrs? That’s your plan?” Jet Star asks, grilling his lizard.
Poison sits grumpily on the sand, munching on his own critter without the company of the rest of the Killjoys. Usually, the morning after an argument, everyone’s fine. Ghoul comes crawling back with a compromise he thought of at night, and Kobra looks guilty from his lack of interference.
Today, however, it’s just him and Jet Star, the smartest of the group, perhaps even the nicest, who can certainly cook the best out of the four. Jet Star’s smart because he goes to sleep early and misses most of the late-night fights the three have because they’re tired. Mostly, it’s Ghoul and Party Poison who disagree. Mostly, Poison thinks, it’s just Ghoul’s stupidity that he disagrees with, and his stubbornness he argues with.
And munching on the crispy lizard that Jet Star had thrown at him, Poison feels incredibly awful for fighting yesterday, he knows how he may have sounded, but he can’t apologize because neither of the two others has even come out of their rooms yet.
“The Martyrs are the best option since everyone’s too fucking scared of a few guns,” he mutters grouchily under his breath.
“It’s not a few, you know that. You can’t blame them for being afraid.” Jet Star sits near him. They’re both leaning against the wall of the store, hiding in the shade from the scorching desert sun.
“I can blame them for fucking running away.”
For a few moments, the only thing Poison hears is Jet Star’s enjoyment of the grilled lizards, so he listens for movement in Kobra’s room since they’re right on the other side of the brick wall, but there comes none, and Poison’s mood turns for the worse.
“Party, we’ve been running from all of them since the beginning. You can’t just…tell us to run toward them.”
“I’d run toward them for the rest of my life if it meant saving her.” There’s a soft and sad tone to his voice, and the lizard is forgotten in his hands as he thinks of the dangers The Girl has been through. The statement leaves the two in a serious silence because Poison isn’t known for being a hero. He isn’t known for doing heroic acts. Poison’s just an angry person, who thinks shooting is the only way out of a desperate situation because every other method has failed so far.
Jet Star has stopped munching on the lizard, but Poison doesn’t turn to look at him. He’s lost his appetite because of the painful realization (of what has to be done if no one will do anything), and then he really will be the selfish son-of-a-bitch Ghoul’s labelled him as.
“So what about those Martyrs?” Jet Star asks suggestively, and for once, Poison can hear the concern in his voice.
“I have no idea.”
The Martyrs. The in-betweens. They’re not Killjoys, and they’re not Dracs. They’re the real heroes, and Poison is afraid of becoming one of them because he’ll never let go of adventure. He’ll never let go of freedom. Maybe he is selfish for thinking that, but he can’t help it. He’s seen how they work, how they think, his mother was one, and she died doing the one thing Poison’s afraid of. Being selfless. He throws the unfinished lizard into the sand, watching it disappear behind a cactus.
“The Martyrs have been known to help Killjoys in the past, sure,” Jet Star states. “What makes you think they’ll help us now?”
“They’ve gotta.”
“And your plan if they don’t?”
He’s afraid to even think of it. He just grunts.
“They will, Jet. They will help us.”
Jet Star sets the grilling stick onto their outdoor table, and stands, offering Poison a hand, then the two walk into the store together. It’s strangely quiet, as if completely empty, and Poison won’t be surprised if he finds out that the other two aren’t even there. Instead, he picks the thrown table and sits across from Jet Star, who’s got the map of the Zones already laid out.
“Here. We’re here,” Jet points to a small area of Zone 4, searching for Poison’s following gaze. But Poison knows what he has to do, and mapping doesn’t matter because he knows the location of the Martyr village, and doesn’t need anyone else to help him anymore.
“Forget it, Jet. I’ll go see the Martyrs, and we’ll figure out the rest later. I’ll just go apologize.”
That visibly shocks Jet Star just a bit, simply because Poison has never apologized for anything, and everyone was sure he’ll never do such a thing, but things change, especially because Poison is starting to realize what he’ll have to do.
When he opens the door to Ghoul’s room, no one’s there. It’s stuffy and emptier than the desert itself, and it takes Poison a moment to register what he sees. There’s a mess on the floor, as if the Killjoy was in a hurry to get somewhere, the drawers of supplies are open, and Poison feels a cold chill run down his spine. He shoots headfirst into the drawer, rummaging through it, looking for that one thing that Ghoul can’t live without, and he can’t find it. He can’t find it.
So Poison runs to Kobra’s room, catching Jet Star’s attention, who’s pointlessly looking through their map of the Zones, and the same mess greets him. It’s almost like Ghoul went through both rooms, searching for what he thought was necessary because Kobra’s supply drawer has also been opened. And it’s also gone.
Poison really wishes he could kill himself right about now.
~*~
The Trans Am’s motor makes a noise as if it’s about to break down and explode, but Poison doesn’t care. He’s been with the Killjoys too long to lose them, he’ll find them at all costs. The car is going far too fast for its own good, it will break down in any minute, but all he can think of is to go faster.
Jet Star stayed at the gas station, in case the two idiots decide to return. What were they thinking? Clearly, it’s Ghoul’s doing. Poison hopes that it’s Ghoul’s doing because he’s taught Kobra to be better than that.
“So fucking stupid,” he mutters to himself. Sand is flying into his eyes through the rolled down window as the car speeds down the empty broken road, passing an occasional cactus or desert tree. Poison swears that he’ll blow Ghouls’ brains out when he finds him, then hang Kobra by his jacket because what was so fucking confusing about stick together. What was so fucking confusing about not going there anymore either.
Poison doesn’t even know how they got there because it’s a long drive as it is, and walking is even worse, not to mention they wouldn’t even have made it without dying from heat exhaustion. Poison’s sure that they’re there, why else take the helmets?
When the place comes into view, he slams the breaks down, and as the car screeches slowly to a stop. His gaze doesn’t leave the tracks. He searches for the two idiots on the race roads, expecting to see Ghoul’s yellow jacket along with a cactus joint somewhere, but the valley-like roads only show dust and the dead spirits of famous Killjoy racers. Poison’s heart clenches because he remembers them, and he misses them, and the few Killjoys left are fucking around after an argument like children. They’ve got no respect for the dead.
Just as Poison jumps out of the car, turning around in a frantic, searching for the two among the long, curvy roads, the faint hum of a motorbike reaches his ears. He turns to face it, and it’s not long before Ghoul’s helmet comes into view, speeding down the roads until, eventually, it zooms past him. A few moments later, in which he stands, dumbfounded, Kobra zooms by even faster. Then it hits him, the two are racing like the fucking idiots they are. Where the fuck did they even get bikes?
And as if the heat has completely obliterated what’s left of their senses, the two Killjoys ignore Poison like he’s just desert dust and speed up, following the race track without a care in the world. Instead of finding a compromise, instead of helping The Girl, they’re just having fun. They’re having fun here.
Ghoul should be the first to help. The first to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness.
Poison fucking hates them. And he hates this fucking track.
But he’s got an idea. He sits in the Trans Am, the motor on and ready, watching his mirrors for the faintest of yellows or reds, hardly breathing from how hard he’s focused. When Ghoul and Kobra reappear for the second time, they speed past, Poison slams the gas down and speeds off with them.
Now, there’s absolutely no way that the old car can handle that kind of drive, the roads are twisted and uneven, and it’s an absolute fucking Deathwish to be biking on them, so it’s not until Ghoul’s behind him again and about to zoom by for the third time that Poison sets his plan into action. He turns the wheel right while Ghoul’s nearing him, blocking the road as the bike’s skyrocketing at full speed. The asshole turns sharply to the right as if in a panic, and hits the border of the track, then part of the Trans Am. The impact sends Party’s head forward. The Killjoy flies over and lands in the sand in front, rolling around until he hits the border of the track and doesn’t move.
Poison’s breathing is heavy and his hands are gripping the wheel as he looks at Ghoul’s lifeless body, his helmet turned just a bit to the side and his chest is still, but there’s nothing to be afraid of. The spiteful ones live the longest, as they say. Poison’s not the least bit worried, instead in shock, his veins pumping with adrenaline, and he watches
Ghoul through the cloud of dust that formed under the tires.
The faint hum of another bike fills his ears, and he sits still as Kobra jumps off and runs to Ghoul, taking off his helmet in an instant to listen to a heartbeat that’s hopefully still there. Judging by the look on Kobra’s face, there’s nothing to worry about because he’s angry instead of upset. Poison lets out a breath, the adrenaline leaves his body and the realization sets in. He almost killed Ghoul. He almost killed one of the last Killjoys.
Then Kobra’s rushing to the Trans Am, Poison doesn’t miss the way his hand’s on his gun, and before anything can be done, Poison steps out of the car, meeting Kobra’s head with his own weapon. He knows he won’t shoot. He knows he’s too afraid to lose his brother. But he doesn’t lower his hand, and Kobra doesn’t back down. They exchange an angry glance, Poison watches how Kobra grips his gun, debating whether or not to point it.
“Calm the fuck down,” is what he settles on because quite frankly, Kobra looks like he’s about to kill him. After hearing a huff, Poison steps back and puts the gun in its holster, walking past Kobra without looking him in the eye. He picks up Ghoul and drags him to the backseat of the car. Kobra’s angry, but it’s not long before the third Killjoy is in the car, and they speed away home.
“You’re a fucking animal,” Kobra says, eyeing Ghoul passed out in the back. As for his statement, Poison thinks that ‘animal’ as a description doesn’t suit him. He’s more relentless when it comes to getting what he wants, after all, Killjoys are like that, and Poison is an extreme.
He shrugs in return. “I guess Ghoul was right then. I’m selfish, relentless, and choose The Girl over all of you. I’m the worst fucking person in the world, worse than them and their fucking bullshit, worse than those who’ve killed the rest of us, and worse than all those who’ve tricked us into doom. Fucking yes, Kobra, I’m the worst motherfucker in the world for wanting to save one of the last people who mean something to me, and not wanting to let her perish under them. I’m fucking sorry, yeah?” Poison lets out a long breath and grips the steering wheel so tightly, he thinks it might burst. He hears nothing from Kobra’s direction, and maybe that’s for the best because he doesn’t want that gun to be used anytime soon.
“Forget risking your lives for her anyway. I’ve got a new plan.”
There’s no other way anyway. There’s no way he’s going to be able to rely on Ghoul, now is there.