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Mad Gear knows what people say about him. They say he’s insane; that he makes good music, but he’s completely off his ass on cactus juice. People can say whatever they want about him. Mad Gear doesn’t give a shit about any of that. It’s what they say about Missile Kid that pisses him off.
“I heard he drank too much caffeine and hallucinated a weapon dancing on stage with him.” Mad Gear had once overheard some Killjoy-wannabe (who clearly wasn’t being as quiet as they thought) in Tommy’s shack.
He had half a mind to turn around and sock the asshole in the jaw. He didn’t though, because he knew it would just feed into what they already believed (also Tommy would have kicked his ass if he broke any of the merchandise in the crossfire). Of course, this didn’t stop him from anonymously trashing that dyed-up dildo’s Zonerunner. Although revenge was never quite as satisfying as Mad Gear thought it ought to be.
People could say anything they wanted about him, but to talk about the Missile Kid like they were nothing but a hallucination was high treason in his book.
Mad Gear hadn’t always been alone on the stage. Missile has always been with him. Always.
Fresh out of the Helium Wars and exiled to the Zones with his fellow rebels, Mad Gear hadn’t minded being alone. In fact, he would camp out in remote caves in the outer zones just because he could.
After constantly being around chaos and death, solitude was refreshing. He didn’t have to worry about befriending someone only to find them in a BL/I standard issue body bag at the end of the day. He didn’t have to worry about keeping his sudden fits of rage in check. He didn’t run the risk of scaring people away at the mention of his name.
It was easier to tell the difference between the ghosts and the people standing right in front of him when he was alone. It was a change of pace that Mad Gear more than welcomed.
Finding Missile Kid hadn’t been a part of the plan.
Mad Gear had been on a drac-whacking spree because sometimes the solitude became too much. He figured that if he was going to live with his ghosts, he was going to take out some of the piece of shit ghost-makers in the meantime.
It was easy enough to drive into the inner zones and start banging some pots together, a Draculoid patrol would show up sooner or later.
He’s in the midst of a firefight with such a patrol when some cosmic entity decides to intercede on his behalf and send him down a path he never saw coming.
“I suppose they don’t call you Mad Gear for nothing.” A voice calls out. Mad Gear can’t see them, but if they aren’t trying to kill him, he can deal with them later. There’s still one pesky little Draculoid that’s refusing to play ball and get ghosted like the rest of the patrol.
He marches toward the laser shredded Drac-mobile over the bodies of the four others he’s already downed.
“Come out you little weasel.” Mad Gear mutters mostly to himself.
The Drac pops out from its hiding place from behind the car and fires off a couple of shots, managing to graze Mad Gear’s arm. A graze doesn’t mean much though because he’s at the car. Mad Gear fires relentlessly until the Drac drops dead and then he fires some more.
He’s absentmindedly prodding at the dead Drac with the barrel of his gun when the voice speaks up again, this time it’s just behind him. “Pretty sure it’s not pretending.” It says. The voice is smooth and even. Mad Gear might even find it soothing if he weren’t so on edge.
He straightens up and turns to face the spectator at lightning speed, leveling his gun at their head.
They aren’t what Mad Gear expects them to be, that is to say: the voice doesn’t match the body. Big, war withered eyes return his stare. They aren’t particularly tall but they’re awkward, skeletal even.
Physical features aside, what’s even more perturbing is the fact that Mad Gear recognizes the face on the body. He can’t put a name to them but he knows that he’s seen them before.
“Are you a ghost?” Mad Gear asks without hesitation, hand still steady on his gun.
The spectator doesn’t appear confused by the question, rather they press forward into Mad Gear’s space, pushing away the barrel of his gun. They crouch down to inspect the dead drac.
“I really hope not.” They say with genuine concern, poking at the leg of the corpse.
Mad Gear makes it a point not to smirk at the remark. He can’t give anything away. Not yet. This could be some sort of trap.
“Do I know you?” He asks this time.
The spectator stands back up, dusting themselves off. “You’ve heard of me same way I’ve heard of you.” They say. “We fought on the same side of the Helium Wars. Friends called me the Missile Kid.”
The name jogs Mad Gear’s memory. He had heard of the Kid. Tall tales had it that they snatched so much ammunition, BL/I thought the rebels had a person on the inside. Mad Gear had figured it was only ever a story rebels told each other to keep their spirits up. This person standing before him could very well be lying.
“How’d you find me?” Mad Gear asks, deciding not to outright question this person’s identity. Why would they admit to not being who they claimed they were? It would be a ridiculous line of questioning and Mad Gear just wanted to crawl back to his cave for a nap now that the adrenaline rush was wearing thin.
“Dr. Death pointed me in your direction, quite literally. He said you’d be out here blowing off steam. Sure enough, here you are.” The Missile Kid says with a lopsided grin.
“What do you want with me?” Mad Gear treks back to where he’s stashed his quad, watching the Kid out of his peripherals.
“No idea. Dr. Death is the one who sent me out here. Asked me to check in on you. Thought you could use the company perhaps?” The Missile Kid shrugs.
Mad Gear rolls his eyes and holsters his gun. He believes the Kid’s story. This wasn’t the first time that Dr. Death Defying had tried to set him up with someone. However, most of the people the doctor sent were usually running for the hills when Mad Gear brought up the ghosts. Hallucinations were never a good sign in the Zones. Anti-psychotics were hard to come by in the desert.
“I figured I could just tag along with you for the day to placate Death Defying.”
How a day became a span of years is beyond Mad Gear. Sometimes he would wake up in a panic, thinking that Missile Kid had disappeared, only to find them asleep beside him on dusty cave floor.
“I think I’m going to call you Mads.” Missile declares one day while leaning against their vehicle.
Mad Gear has lost count of how many days the Kid has been with him but it feels like it’s been a week, maybe three. He’s never been with someone this long since the war. It’s a strange feeling, but…nice.
“What for?” Mad Gear grunts from beneath the ATV. They’re stranded on the outskirts of Zone 4 after a rather ridiculous game of cat and mouse with a persistent Exterminator. The car took the brunt of the Exterminator’s onslaught, which has resulted in something leaking on its underbelly.
Missile peers their head beneath the ATV to look at Mad Gear. “You need a nickname. Something only I get to call you.”
Mad Gear rolls his eyes. “I don’t need a special name from nobody. I certainly don’t need one from you.” He says as he reaches around for a tool that has magically disappeared.
Missile makes a distressed sound before lying on the ground so that they can shimmy beneath the car beside Mad Gear. “Yes you do.” Missile says as a matter of fact and hands him the tool he was looking for.
Mad Gear takes the tool a little more forcefully than needed. “No. I Don’t.”
Missile hums thoughtfully. “Why not?”
“I already got a name. Use it.”
“But, Mad Gear isn’t your name no more than Missile Kid is mine.” Missile says.
Mad Gear doesn’t respond to that. Instead he pushes himself out from under the car and gets in, slamming the metal door behind him. Missile follows and says nothing on the ride back to their cave.
Once they pull up into their cave, Mad Gear shuts off the engine, but doesn’t move to get out of the car. Missile waits, picking at the holes in their jeans.
“My name,” Mad Gear says after an unmeasured amount of time, “was Erik.” He chokes on the name but carries on. “Before the wars and before the ghosts, I was Erik Madsen.”
After the bombs began to fall, Erik Madsen lost his family. His parents and little sister died when a bomb shelter collapsed during a raid.
During the war, his friends called him Mad Madsen because the man saw the ghost of his little sister in the middle of firefights. Those same friends died in an ambush after being betrayed by a coward. People in the rebel camps would tell the story to each other when they thought he wasn’t listening. They said a car exploded and that’s how a gear got lodged in his head. Others say he tried to kill himself ramming his head on an exposed gear. They all agreed that Mad Madsen died in that firefight and Mad Gear was born from beneath the corpses of the people he loved. They said that something inside him finally broke and he’s never been the same. If anything, they were right about that.
When Mad Gear finishes his explanation, all Missile Kid can say is, “Okay” and holds Mad Gear tightly.
The next day, when Missile wakes up, the first thing Mad Gear says to him is, “You can call me Mads. Only you. Got it?”
Missile smiles softly and gets up to hug Mad Gear. Mad Gear sags into the physical contact ever so slightly when Missile replies a quiet, “Got it.”
Mad Gear swears he can feel that broken thing inside him carefully begin to mend itself.
It was Missile Kid’s idea and Mad Gear had wanted nothing to do with it.
“I know you can sing Madsie! Don’t you dare lie to me!” Missile’s shouting echoes across the cave. Normally, Mad Gear would put up with it but at six in the morning, he’s less than pliant. He tries everything he can to drown out Missile’s excitement to no avail.
“You never hear new music on the radio anymore because no one’s making new music anymore! Everyone’s scared Mads!” Missile continues to harp. “The only new music that’s around are those stupid fucking BL/I jingles that thank you for compliance to subjugation! I fucking hate those fucking jingles.”
Five minutes pass and Missile shows no signs of slowing. Mad Gear gives up. “Yes.”
Missile stops mid-rant. “Yes?” Their voice drops to a confused whisper. “What are you saying ‘yes’ to exactly?”
Mad Gear groans and rolls to face Missile. “Yes, I’ll be in your stupid band. Can I please sleep now?”
“NO!” Missile squeals. “We need to get this up and going ASAP! I have so many ideas Mads! You have no idea.”
“This is true. I have no ideas. I’m useless. Absolutely no help at all. I’m going to sleep.” Mad Gear says gruffly and rolls to face the cave wall, but the air gets knocked out of him when Missile launches themself at him.
“You’re not going to sleep. We need to find someone to sell us a guitar.” Missile says, head snuggled firmly between Mad Gear’s shoulder blades.
Mad Gear groans loudly, knowing he’s not going to get out of this now that he’s agreed to it. “Who set a fire under your ass, Kid?” He can feel Missile’s grin through the fabric of his shirt.
“I had a dream.” Missile says.
Mad Gear shifts so that Missile is lying on his chest. He looks Missile dead in the eye, and he can see the Kid is telling the truth. He sighs.
“That’s one hell of a dream.”
Dr. Death Defying holds up the freshly pressed record with a skeptical air. “I didn’t know you made music Mad Gear.” The DJ teases.
Mad Gear grips at the cushions that he’s sat on. He’s so used to sitting on rocks that the plushness of a couch is almost unnerving. Missile Kid is in the next room over with Show Pony, fawning over an infant that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
“I didn’t.” Mad Gear says adjusting himself on the couch again, watching Missile Kid out of the corner of his eye. It’s become a habit now to keep the Kid in his peripherals at all times, and he’s not sure he could stop even if he tried. This doesn’t go unnoticed.
“You two have been partners for over a year now,” Death Defying smirks. “You like the Kid, don’t you?”
“I don’t like you.” Mad Gear glares, although he’s more bark than bite.
Death Defying grins. “I’m just saying, you two are good for each other. Damn good for each other.”
Mad Gear frowns. He knows Missile Kid is good for him. He knows the ghosts don’t come around as often now. He sleeps better at night and is happier during the day. But, Missile seems just the same to him as the day he met the Kid.
“You probably wouldn’t guess it, but Missile was whole different person before they met you.” Death Defying explains. “Didn’t talk much, didn’t smile much. Has a lot of ghosts of their own. Maybe not the ghosts you have but the Kid has ghosts. Everyone lost people in the war, but the Kid…well the Kid lost—” Death Defying stops himself, clearly about to give away something he know he shouldn’t. Instead he begins again with, “The Kid lost too much. I figured they might find a kindred spirit in you.”
Mad Gear throws his head in his hands, running his fingers through the locks of his ratty brown hair. When he pops his head back up, Death Defying is looking at him with a small indistinguishable frown. Mad Gear turns to look at Missile Kid straight on. They don’t catch him watching, too enthralled with the sleeping baby to notice. Mad Gear sighs.
“Just play the damn record.” He says.
The answer appears to be satisfactory because Death Defying smiles and places the record on the turn table.
As the sounds of Mad Gear and the Missile Kid spill out into the Zones, their musical infamy still in their future, Mad Gear sits on that couch watching Missile Kid, thinking (knowing), “I’m home. I’m finally home.”
On stage Mad Gear and Missile Kid are an unstoppable force. Together, they bleed their demons into the energy of their music. It’s rough and raw, and powerful beyond belief. The people that come to their shows are enthralled by the kaleidoscopic arrangement of guitars and it’s not long before they begin to draw larger crowds.
“It’s going to be hard being on the map you know.” Cherri Cola says, reclining in a beach chair. The sky is overcast but the day is warm. It’s the best weather in the Zones for a get-together.
Missile Kid ignores the warning with a swift change of topic. “Hey Death, whatever happened to that baby you had around here?” They ask from the beach towel they’re sitting on.
“Gave the small one to the Fabulous Four.” He answers, rolling out of his radio booth.
“The four teenagers in Zone 6 people can’t shut up about?” Mad Gear asks, surprising everyone (including himself). While being increasingly more social, taking an interest in something that didn’t directly concern him was still unheard of.
Death Defying nods slowly. “They’re good kids.”
“Pretty young to be making a name for themselves.” Mad Gear says sternly.
“I could say the same to you.” Death Defying shoots back. “You’re not all that much older than them. Besides, they’ve got good heads on their shoulders and they’ll keep the small one safe.”
“You should meet them sometime.” Cherri adds. “I bet you’d like them.”
Mad Gear raises a skeptical brow but says nothing.
Death Defying returns to his booth to change the tracks.
“You know, we’ll be okay.” Missile says seemingly from nowhere, confounding everyone. They’d all forgotten about Cherri Cola’s initial comment with all the talk of the Fab Four, but Missile continues. “Me and Mads…we’ve had close calls before. But we have each other’s backs. BL/I is stupid if they think we’re going to go down without a fight.”
Mad Gear smiles.
The mass of bodies writhe and sway to the rhythm. It’s one of their biggest concerts yet. A laser show moves across the crowd in time with the music. Mad Gear watches Missile Kid dancing, swinging their guitar around recklessly by the shoulder strap, as he belts out the lyrics to their penultimate song in the set.
Each pluck of Mad Gear’s bass thrums through his bones, easing the pain he so often feels from wounds that never healed quite right. The beat of the song is fast, erratic and demands Mad Gear channel his very being into it.
Half way through the song, Missile waltzes up to Mad Gear, still playing, and kneels before him. Missile leans back until they’re folded in half on the wooden stage. The crowd screeches and howls at the move. Mad Gear can’t help but grin and feel a little mischievous (which is not a feeling he gets very often).
He widens his stance and walks forward until he’s standing over Missile, looking at the ridiculous smile on the Kid’s face. Missile leans up and Mad Gear leans down. Their foreheads touch, transferring heat and sweat and an emotion that can’t be communicated solely through words.
The crowd is losing its mind but neither of the performers could give a damn because this moment, this singular moment, is just for them and them alone.
They only pull apart so that Mad Gear can go to his microphone to sing the final chorus, but that’s when he sees it: an army of white cars heading straight for them.
Mad Gear signals the person operating the lights to stop the laser show and put the flood lights on blast. The crowd sobers up quickly, most are familiar as to what the flood lights mean: Party’s over.
Missile Kid scrambles to their feet to announce the imminent party crashers arrival and stir the crowd into a force.
People dash to their cars: some to make a split for it, others to face the BL/I goon squad head on.
Mad Gear packs their equipment into the ATV as quick as humanly possible. The moment he’s finished, he’s dragging Missile to the car and away from the mic where they were shouting at BL/I to fuck off. Admirable as it is, they are high priority targets. Long gone are the days that Mad Gear and Missile kid could go Drac-whacking to kill the time and ghosts. They needed to get out of there before the Exterminators got too close.
Missile is reluctant to leave and Mad Gear resorts to picking Missile up and hauling them over his shoulder. “Never let them take you alive!” is the last thing Missile shouts from over Mad Gear’s shoulder as the mic gets further and further away from them.
BL/I’s forces are closing in.
Mad Gear drops Missile into the passenger seat of the car and he runs around the front to get in through the driver’s side.
“This is so awesome!” Missile Kid flails around in their seat, excited.
Mad Gear smirks and starts the car. He’s glad at least one of them is overjoyed by the presence of BL/I at their gig.
He watches Missile out of the corner of his eye as he peels out onto the desert road.
“Did you see the crowd? We are changing things out there. Really changing things!” Missile’s smile seems to brighten by the second. “This is my dream, Mads! This is my—”
Bang. Crack. Flash. Smoke. Red.
The world turns upside down.
Mad Gear sits in Tommy Chow-Mein’s shop. He could sit in the same corner of the shop for hours. Tommy doesn’t seem to mind as long as Mad Gear keeps his fists to himself.
The bell on the door will ring, signaling a customer’s entrance, but Mad Gear never pays them any mind.
Sometimes he’ll jot something down in a small journal that has a suspicious red stain on the cover. Most of the time he’ll simply stare off into space, despondent.
The kids that come through the door recognize Mad Gear more often than not. The smart ones know to steer clear. The less than intelligent might try and engage him in a rousing discussion about music but they never stay around long. One irritation-fueled glare and they’re on their way.
The bell on the door jingles and a head of red hair walks in the door, followed by shorter head of black hair.
Mad Gear had taken to leaning his head back on the wall, a change of view from the floor. His gaze was limited to stacks of Power Pup and Tommy’s front desk.
“Well howdy there.” Tommy greets, something he only does for friends and close associates.
Mad Gear can see them now as they approach the front desk: Party Poison and Fun Ghoul, the former of whom appeared to be carrying a small child.
Party says something to Ghoul that Mad Gear can’t hear and Ghoul heads down the aisle straight toward Mad Gear. Ghoul stops in his tracks, head swinging from Mad Gear to Party, and then back to Mad Gear. Ghoul steps closer, mouth agape.
“Mad Gear?” Ghoul hisses out.
Mad Gear remembers what Cherri Cola had once said about him liking the Fabulous Four. He hates that the stupid pink streaked DJ was right. Mad Gear only met them once and briefly, because not soon after introductions did a Drac Patrol descend on their location. The kids held their own in a fight. They had guts. Mad Gear liked that.
“You’re Fun Ghoul, right?”
Ghoul nods, eyes wide, perhaps not expecting Mad Gear to recognize him.
“I remember you,” Mad Gear says slowly. “You’re good with your fists.”
Ghoul blinks rapidly, mouth still hanging open a bit. Mad Gear knows it’s not because the kid is star struck. Quite the opposite. “Thanks.” Ghoul says breathlessly. He swallows some air before asking, “What happened?” Blunt, direct. No dancing around the issue. Mad Gear can respect that. It’s not like the question requires much context anyways.
Missile slams forward violently from the force of the impact. Blood spatters the windshield.
Mad Gear turns to look but another impact turns the world on its head. The car rolls to a stop, leaving Mad Gear unconscious and dangling upside down.
“Mad Gear?” Ghoul asks, still waiting for an answer.
Mad Gear doesn’t respond because Party Poison walks up from behind Ghoul with the baby. Party gives Mad Gear a quick once-over, sizing him up with his eyes. He whispers something to Fun Ghoul, adjusts his hold on the child, and then nods in greeting.
“You must be Party Poison.” Mad Gear says. “I’ve heard stories about you.”
“Likewise.” Party replies.
Mad Gear doesn’t miss the way that Party’s free hand snakes down and takes a firm grip on Ghoul’s wrists. He suppose that’s warranted all things considered. He knows what’s being said, what people think he’s done. And, they’re probably right.
Mad Gear’s only out for a minute, and when he comes to, it doesn’t take him long to remember what happened.
“Missile?” Mad Gear calls out. It’s dark. He can’t see anything.
Mad Gear manages to escape from his seatbelt and drop onto the roof of the car. He ignores the pain of the glass that becomes imbedded in the flesh of his hands from the drop. Nothing matters until Mad Gear has Missile Kid somewhere safe.
He crawls over to where Missile Kid is hanging, hands dangling limply against the roof of the car.
“C’mon Kid, talk to me,” He grunts out as he struggles to get them loose. “Whoever shot out the ATV can’t be far behind.” The seatbelt refuses to unbuckle. He pulls out the switchblade he keeps in his boot and cuts through the material. With Missile free, Mad Gear kicks out the windshield and pulls them through.
From outside the car, the blood bath can be seen in HD. Lasers streak across the darkness of the night. White suits open fire on colorful attire.
Mad Gear takes a moment to catch his breath, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He shifts his hold on Missile. Missile’s head lolls into the crook of Mad Gear’s neck.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mad Gear can see the red streaked across Missile’s face. He can feel the stillness in Missile’s chest. Skin grows cold as the red hot life drains out of them and drips down Mad Gear’s neck.
“Missile?” Mad Gear’s voice cracks on the name. “C’mon now. You have to wake up and tell me about your damn dream.” He pleads, desperation thick. “We have to get out of here.” Mad Gear pulls Missile Kid to himself tightly. His chest feels like it’s going to collapse. Mad Gear chants a silent prayer to any god that’ll listen. He refuses to admit the truth.
Mad Gear can hear the car that was following them drawing closer.
“Please.” He begs, shifting Missile so that he can look at them. Mad Gear looks into Missile’s eyes, ignoring the way their eyes have grown dull and hollow. “Please.” He sobs.
But, Missile doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Missile is gone and Mad Gear is alone again.
Mad Gear holds his breath, eyes screwing shut. Tears fall hot against his cheeks.
He can hear the car braking and Dracs getting out of their car, weapons drawn. As they begin to fire upon him, Mad Gear can feel something inside him, something small, something vital, break.
“Mad Gear, what happened?” Ghoul asks again, resisting Party’s insistent tugs on his wrist to leave.
Mad Gear looks away, not sure what to tell him. He supposes only the truth will do. “I don’t know.” He says with a sad smile as he watches the Killjoys exit.
“I don’t know,” is all he can say.
When Mad Gear opens his eyes, he’s standing. A smoking gun in his right hand, and Missile secured with his left. Three Drac patrols and an Exterminator are dead. He’s covered in blood, most of which is not his own.
In a daze, he gathers up the rest of Missile’s body in his arms and walks off into the desert.
Dr. Death Defying wakes up to a loud rapping on his door and the subsequent squeal of tires as someone drives away. He gets to the door in time to see the car swinging onto the main road and speeding out of sight. Looking down as the door step, he sees what his impromptu visitor has delivered him. It’s an unmarked manila envelope. He scratches the back of his head and leans down to pick it up. Unsealing the back flap, the content of the envelope slips out and onto his lap.
It’s a record, encased in a blue and red cover. In black spray paint, across the cover is the title and just beneath is the name of the artist. Death Defying isn’t sure if he should laugh or cry.
As he listens to the record in the safety of his home, he cries.
He quickly pulls himself together and heads into his radio booth to breaks into the airwaves. The Zones need to know.
“This is Dr. Death Defying and I bring you breaking news folks. After two years of silence, they’re back by way of the Phoenix Witch: The Mad Gear and The Missile Kid are at it again. That’s right, The Mad Gear and The Missile Kid are back!”
A lot can alter in the course of two years. The crowds are different and the trends have changed. But, the stage? The stage is the same.
The heat of the lights beat down on his back as the cool night winds batter the front. The weight of Mad Gear’s bass anchors him to the splintered wooden slats that form the stage. The microphone is cool against his lips as he sings the final chorus to the penultimate song in the set. The roar of the crowd reverberates in his soul.
As the last notes of the song ring out into the darkness, Mad Gear closes his eyes.
“I heard that the song is a ritual to make a weapon fall out of the sky.”
It’s not a weapon that he’s trying to make fall out of the sky. It was never a weapon.
Mad Gear opens his eyes, and begins to play the opening chords to the finale. He doesn’t have to say the name of the song anymore, the crowd knows what it is. They scream and howl in anticipation. But, Mad Gear is deaf to it all. None of it matters, because he sees what he waits every night he goes on stage to see.
Out of the corner of his eye Mad Gear spots the Missile Kid, playing along on their guitar, hips swaying in time to the slow beat. They make their way across the stage to Mad Gear.
Mad Gear holds his breath. Missile is there, in his periphery. So close and yet a million miles away. He can’t take it. Mad Gear turns from the mic to face them.
Missile hasn’t aged a day. Still perfect, still breathing. Still impossible.
The song begins to pick up in tempo. Missile matches Mad Gear, chord for chord, perfectly in synch.
Then, just as it does every night, the music suddenly cuts out for a few short seconds, enshrouding the world in silence.
“Are you a ghost?” Mad Gear whispers.
Missile leans forward, pressing their forehead to Mad Gears. The touch says more than either of them ever could, in this life and the next.
When Missile pulls back, they smile sadly and say, “I really hope not.”
Mad Gear closes his eyes.
He lets go of the breath he forgot he was holding, and turns away from the empty space on the stage. The song picks back up again at full force now, continually gaining momentum until an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. At that exact moment of collision, he can feel the overwhelming surge of energy that the song conjures within him.
A voice he’s not even sure is his own bellows into the mic, “WITNESS!”
Mad Gear opens his eyes.
"THE GALACTIC SHATTER!”