The place we stop for the night feels too much like a graveyard, or the remains of some ancient civilization. We set up camp beside a mostly-upright wall to block the wind that’s picked up just enough to blow eerily around corners. The adrenaline from the chase has faded; everyone is subdued now, and I try to bury the cold shakiness that’s left in its wake.

Party Poison pulls out a medical kit the moment we get out of the car. It’s a BLi MediPack and I wonder how they got their hands on one of those. Inside is all the standard first aid stuff along with a buffet of drugs, mostly bottles of pills, a few prepared needles for quick injections. Party Poison steers clear of those and wraps Jet Star’s arm, though he does offer painkillers once he’s done. Jet Star waves them off.

Fun Ghoul and Kobra Kid have managed to get a fire going and I pull out a few cans for tonight’s dinner. “We should take shifts on watch,” Party Poison says as we finish up. “Keep your guns close and boots on, those Dracs might catch up.”

“I’ll go first,” I volunteer quickly, because there’s no way I’m going to sleep anyway. Not when every time I close my eyes I see black eyeholes on a dead white face with a messy red mouth. Draculoid masks, painted on the backs of my eyelids.

So I sit by the fire as everyone crawls into their sleeping bags with quiet murmurs of goodnight and quickly lose track of time, listening to the wind moan. I’m not supposed to wake Kobra Kid for another few hours, so I settle down, drawing my knees up to my chest and focusing on the fire. Determined to ignore the shivery feeling inside, I stare into the flames. My toes and shins and face warm up quickly, my back chilled. I don’t look away or back up, even as my skin gets uncomfortably hot.

This is how he died. The thought rises, unbidden, and refuses to sink again. Skin like parchment paper, bones like dry tinder, soaked in gasoline. Incinerated. Ashes to ashes in a burst of blazing heat. Heat like what’s licking my outstretched fingers right now, greedy, flickering, burning tongues–

Cool, slim fingers like iron bands around my arm, yanking me back, shaking me out of my trance. Tuning into a voice, blinking away the bright after-images.

“–the fuck are you doing?” The silence stretches, interrupted only by the crackling of the fire. “Don’t move,” he instructs finally, squeezing my arm before letting go. “I’ll be right back.” He gets up and walks away. I cradle my right hand. The ends of my index and middle fingers are an angry red, the skin tight, white where it’s blistering already.

Then another hand takes mine away from me. He’s kneeling beside me with ointment and bandages, his movements smooth and efficient. I watch his face, half-shadowed by the messy hair that looks nearly magenta in this light. Brow creased, mouth pressed into a line.

I suck in a ragged breath.

“This is how he died.”

Suddenly I’m acutely aware of how bad my hand stings. The pain punches through the tightness in my chest. I try to stop the strangled, grief-stricken noise I’m making, jerking my hand away from him and pressing it tightly over my mouth. I taste salt. My cheeks are wet. I try to hold it in, to clamp down on it, but he’s peeling my hand off gently and my exhale is a sob. He pulls me to him as I collapse in on myself. I cling and press my face into his shirt, soaking it with choked tears. He holds me close while I go to pieces, murmuring soothing nothings into my hair.

***

The next morning I wake with my head pounding. I have a vague memory of passing out in Party Poison’s arms, being helped into my sleeping bag, curling up and passing out again. My fingers throb with every heartbeat, and that’s what I fucking deserve. Static was my distraction and now that I’m back out in the desert it’s like the past four months of moving on never happened. God, I’m so fucking weak.

Everyone else is up already, which is even more embarrassing. “Morning,” I mumble, keeping my eyes down. I get a chorus of good mornings back. I roll up my sleeping back, ignoring the stabbing pain in my fingers. Party Poison stops me with a hand on my arm as I shove it in the trunk.

“Take something if you need it,” he says quietly, gesturing to the MediPack. I shrug him off and shake my head, avoiding his eyes. “Death Angel,” he says, but doesn’t make to touch me again, crossing his arms and standing like he’s not going to let this go. I rub my eyes.

“Alright, I will,” I mutter. He nods, satisfied, and leaves me alone. I open the MediPack and riffle through the bottles, looking for the painkillers he offered Jet Star yesterday. Instead I freeze, my hands landing on a familiar white bottle, a familiar label. It’s full. Of course it’s full, it’s a BLi special, a numbing mood-booster, something none of them would ever take.

I close my eyes. Break the seal, pop the lid. Shake a handful into my palm, shove them into a zippered pocket of my pants. Reach for the actual painkillers, swallow two dry, close the MediPack and put it back.

***

The sun is just dipping below the horizon when we arrive at The Worst Place In The World. We crest the top of a hill, Battery City grey and looming in the distance, and then descend into the dustbowl until it’s out of sight. The big warehouse with rusted siding and blown-out windows squats at the bottom; it’s the only building for miles around still standing and looking remotely solid, which has a strange effect on its presence, like it’s a spray-painted monolith rising out of the rocky sand, all dusty weathered metal and concrete.

There are scattered groups of Killjoys, circling a bonfire in a big corroding oil drum, lounging in and on and around a few cars and trucks. Looks like this area was hit hard by the bleaching; BLi destroyed the land with chemicals. It’s a hardened, angry crowd that dips their boots in this dust.

I remember my days of scampering around the edges of this scene. I know this is the kind of spot where they’re not shy about trading drinks and drugs and guns. The pills burn holes in my pocket, two less. The headache that’s been pushing against my temples fades to a ghost of what it was an hour ago, until it’s gone. Until I feel like I can function.

The sheer number of eyes on us, faces turned toward us as we park and get out, should be unnerving, but it doesn’t bother me now. We get the same stares as we walk inside, where it’s slightly smoky and smells like dust and sweat with an undercurrent of something a little too sweet, like fake strawberries. It’s one big space, completely packed with Killjoys. Party Poison’s got his professional face on, the one he had when they first walked into Static. But there’s no welcome committee here. The only person who looks mildly in charge is the bartender; tall, blonde, solid, shooting a glare our way.

“We’re looking for the Headlock Jerkovs,” Party Poison says, leaning over the makeshift bar that’s possibly being held together by duct tape and the sheer willpower of whoever taped it. The guy nods like he was expecting this and says, “Take a seat,” before walking away.

Music competes with voices, but not for long. Lights buzz to life, brightening the far end of the room. Cheers go up and Killjoys crowd the stage, packing against it. Music swells, a ripping guitar riff. There are five people on stage, but the girl with an electric guitar has the mike. She’s got long hair so blonde it’s almost white.

“Welcome, Killjoys!” she shouts and the response is deafening. She stalks the stage. “I’m Mad Gear and this is the Missile Kid,” she says, slinging an arm over the shoulders of a boy not carrying an instrument. Even from here I can tell they’re related, even though his hair is neon green. She gestures behind her at the rest of the band. “And with us we’ve got The Black Spacesuits! Can you dig it?” More screaming and she screams right back. “Alright Killjoys, let’s fuck this whole wide world!” She gives up the mike to the boy and the drums start as she slams the strings of her guitar.

I’m not the only one who’s fidgety. The guys look restless; even though the place pulses with energy, it’s like we’re out of the stream of it, practically the only ones not having fun. Well, fuck that. I jump to my feet and declare, “Let’s fuckin’ dance.”

Party Poison frowns. “We have to wait for the informant,” he says.

I nearly roll my eyes. “So? Doesn’t mean we can’t have a good time while we wait.”

“Yeah, why not?” Fun Ghoul says, sliding off his barstool and flashing me a grin. “The music’s pretty good.” I smile back widely, and then even bigger when Jet Star and Kobra Kid get up as well.

“We’re here for information about a deadly attack on innocent–”

“Yeah, we know,” I say, running over top of him. “But we gotta let loose too, at least a little. If we don’t–” I giggle a little, and hopefully the thudding bass drowns out the hysterical edge. Maybe two was too many for my first time in so long. “–we’ll go crazy.”

I don’t give him a chance to respond. “Meet up back up here in a bit,” I call over my shoulder at Party Poison’s thunderous face. Fun Ghoul bursts to life like I’ve given him permission, surging ahead of me. The crowd parts for us; we get our own bubble of space. Fun Ghoul faces me and smirks, lips quirking, eyes darkly playful.

“Dance with me, Angel,” he says. I laugh and take his outstretched hand, letting him pull me close. After a minute the crowd melts back in and we get lost in it, the hot rush, the pounding beat. I catch the drift of the song quickly and sink into it. Fun Ghoul’s only slightly shorter than me (for what he lacks in height, he makes up in presence) and I lean in close, singing along in his ear.

“C’mon, c’mon, kiss my battery, c’mon, c’mon, I’ll be your android girl–”

I feel his grin rather than see it. His hands find my hips and I’m surprised by the thrill that shoots through me. Chalk it up to the fact that Ghoul is actually a good fuckin’ dancer. We keep going like that for a while, his fingers pressed to the small of my back. I feel wild and free, drinking in the blaring music and the singer’s rock’n’roll voice.

​The last notes of the final song are fading out and cheers are rising up when a hand comes down on my shoulder, yanking me away.

Notes

So I've discovered that the person I based Noise off of is (supposedly?) named Show Pony, and is, in fact, a boy. What the fuck. He looks so androgynous in the video! Oh well, on with the story.

Special thanks to RedRomRomance for faithfully commenting. You make my day!