Things Fall Apart

A little group of twenty colourful Rebels were standing outside the Radio House in silence, spread over the warm sand, waiting. Today was a Big Day in the rebellion's short History.
At that time, Fun Ghoul, Jet Star, Kobra Kid and Party Poison were just beginning to call themselves Killjoys, though they were still known as the Young Ones down in the Desert, and nobody living outside of the Radio House knew about them just yet.
Poison and Kobra were sticking with each other, as usual, their masks down, sitting on the sand, staring at the multiple fat black wires running to and from the house through each and every overture. Not far from them, Cherri Cola sat on a rock, peeping at the dissimilar brothers, vaguely smiling. Fun Ghoul, standing opposite from them, leaning against a wall, remained abnormally quiet, for once.
The tension was almost palpable, as each and every person standing there seemed to be waiting for Something, a sort of Important Event Worth Remembering. They were all here because they had heard the News. They had travelled through the Desert with grime all over them and slept around bonfires, just because they had heard Something. A rumour.
The Radio was about to be born. The Rebellion was being taken to the next level.
At first, they had tried to steal electricity from Bat City, but it hadn't work for a long time, and so, now, they lived with the power out. But at least they lived.
However, they had soon discovered that Jet Star had a gift for everything technical, and with his help, things had started moving a bit faster.
They remembered, from their childhood, before Everything went Berserk, when the BL/I were still just a tiny enterprise, they remembered how, slowly, electricity had stopped being made, and how they used the power of the sun instead. And, here, in the desert, the sun wasn't lacking. During a full year, Jet Star and Tommy Chow Mein had tried to recreate solar panels. It would have been quicker, hadn't it been for the lack of resources, as they could only use what they found in the Trash Lords. Luckily, the older kinds of droids were sometimes sun-powered, so that when they were thrown away, the Rebels could have got their panels back and studied them.
The day before, they had eventually finished building the quantity of solar panels they needed, and nailed them all on the roof, and, that same day, people had started arriving from Everywhere in the Desert, hearing the Beginning was close.
There were many things significant, about the life of the Radio, and Poison had made a list of them all, in his head.
1. The Radio would permit to reunite all the Rebels everywhere, to coordinate them all together.
2. It could reach the people in Bat City. They would hear there was Somewhere Else to go, that a life better than this existed, and that they could fight for it.
3. It would act as a centre, a sort of Government, for the Rebels outside and inside the city.
4. For Hope.
5. Reunion of all the points above into one conclusion: the Rebels would be more numerous, more organised, therefore more efficient as about their fighting against the Better Living Industries.
Suddenly, everybody present, and formerly lost in their own thoughts, jumped, as they heard a triumphant scream coming from inside the Radio House.
"It's working ! It's working!" Jet Star, only wearing a T-shirt covered with stains, his frizzy hair tied with knots and his hands black with grease, ran enthusiastically from the house and around it, jumping everywhere.
"We did it! The Radio! It's on!"
Tommy Chow Mein, wearing his habitual impeccable suit, not a spot of grease to be seen on it, slowly emerged from inside the House, an unusual yet sober smile on his face. He simply nodded.
And then everyone lost it.
Poison threw a look around himself, an icy look in his hazel eyes. He couldn't care less. Besides, he hadn't been around that much people for a long time, and he hadn't missed it. Kobra just looked absolutely captivated by the sand under his feet, while Ghoul excitingly shared the joy of the others, not for the Radio in itself, just because he liked jumping around and screaming a lot.
Jet Star felt a sense of accomplishment. Ever since he had been here, he had never felt like he truly belonged. He had just stuck with the other newbies, because there wasn't anyone else to stick around to. He wasn't made for killing, he knew that, there was nothing he despised more than taking life from somebody. He felt like it wasn't anyone's role. He believed that life was fragile and difficult to grow: he and some others had had the chance to own one, and it was nobody's right to take it away, no matters how evil a person was. It wasn't any human's role to decide what was Right and what wasn't, and to decide someone would lose their life according to this. However, life outside Bat City necessarily meant "kill or be killed". But now, he had proven himself useful for something. The Radio was extremely important, and he had helped building it. People were grateful, admired him for something else than killing. And he liked it.
Maybe there was a life for him out there, after all.
"My friends! My friends!" On the threshold on the door, in the dark inside, you could barely see Doctor D, moving his hands down, waiting for the calm to settle.
Everyone fell silent. Doctor Death Defying was respected like a King around here.
"Thank you." He continued in his deep and powerful voice "Today will be remembered as the day the Rebellion was truly created, thanks to Jet Star and Tommy here." He said, gesturing towards them. "Enough celebrating. Now, is the time of the first Broadcast. These words have been carefully chosen, as they will be marked down as History. Now shut up, and listen. History begins now!" He pushed a button on a console on his left and swiftly turned his wheelchair around, to face a microphone. His voice boomed from the speakers outside the House and from every radio tuned on the Rebel's frequency, silent for years but now alive again.
"Look alive sunshine!"
Cheers exploded from outside the House, as Doctor D continued, imperturbable.
"109 in the sky, but the pigs won't quit!
You're here with me: Doctor Death Defying.
I'll be your surgeon, your proctor, your helicopter;
Pumpin' out the slaughtermatic sounds to keep you alive!
A system failure for the masses, antimatter for the master plan!
Louder than God's revolver and twice as shiny,
This is one for all you rock'n'rollers,
All you crash queens and motor babies,
Listen up!
The Future is bulletproof!
The aftermath is secondary!
It's time to do it now and do it Loud.
Killjoys, Make some noise!"
And, as a wild rock tune boomed out of the speakers, Doctor Death Defying turned around a tiny smirk on his face, facing the cheering crowd, blinked at Gerard, left astonished, for once, by his use of the term "Killjoys", and dropped his dark aviator sunglasses on his eyes.
And everybody present here, that day, could have agreed:
They had never felt more alive.

That night, a lot of Dracos invaded the Wasteland. Some S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/Ws were even spotted, a Big First down here, though this had never been proved.
The Fabulous Killjoys went on a lot of raids that night. They didn't sleep. Only the Radio House was lit up in the night, along with the BL/i's searchlights, but everyone, both in the Wasteland and in Bat City, were wide awake.
The comeback of the Rebels, now renamed "Killjoys" by Doctor D., the leader of the Rebellion himself, hadn't gone unnoticed, and everybody without exception, laying down in their beds with their eyes wide open, had felt Something that was long buried and forgotten.
It was called Hope.
And, when the sun eventually rose, over Bat City, over the Trash Lords, over the Wasteland, The Fabulous Killjoys were left standing, slightly breathless.
At their feet, a black and white mountain of corpses.
Legend says that the BL/i had sent ten thousand fully-equipped men in the desert, in order to eradicate the Killjoys forever, but, Nobody knew how and by which miracle, the Fabulous Killjoys, only the four of them, had killed each and every one of them.
Some said they got the help of the Witch herself.
They were Party Poison,
Fun Ghoul,
Jet Star
And Kobra Kid.
And the world was about to hear about them.
From that Day, the Killjoy Radio never shut up about "The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys" as they called it. There wasn't one morning without a memorable fight to report. And the Fabulous Killjoys were always left standing, dangerous, invincible, infinite.
There had never been more recruitment in the Rebellion the following month.
They had became famous way outside the limits of Battery City, they were legends, secretly worshipped by the citizens, even though a massive propaganda campaign was held against them by the BL/i.
Sometimes, Poison worried that kids in the city saw his face on the "wanted" posters or television and felt the same terror that he and Kobra once felt.
Fame had turned him even more ruthless and hard than before. He came to like killing "These bastards deserved it. There's no need to give their masks to the Witch." He used to say. "There's no such thing as the Witch anyways. Dead is dead to me."
Sometimes, when the air became too Deadly to breathe, because of sandstorms or pollution, he swapped his thin mask for a huge blue and pink mouse mask, way bigger than his head, a big tube running from its mouth to his back. And, out there, on his own, with his blurred vision, he killed everyone whom he met, he killed recklessly, even those who asked for mercy, he took the life from.
Fun Ghoul acted crazier and crazier too. He would go out and kill without a mask on, laughing maniacally.
He would drink blood out of massacred corpses.
He would scream, alone in the Wasteland, facing the elements.
He wanted people to Talk About Him.
He was pissed.
He was loud.
He didn't wanna die without
making a sound.
Kobra Kid never cared. It seemed to everyone, except to Poison, that all form of Life had left him.
And Jet Star, Jet Star sometimes cried in bed. He felt humanity leaving him, bits by bits, shredding apart along with the lives he took.
And his eyes seemed a little darker,
And his smile seemed a little thinner,
And his conscience seemed a little number.
Patches of Dark appeared in the Wasteland: the blood of BL/i agents, that even Time couldn't wash out.
Nobody cared.
Life was still Brighter and Louder than in Battery City.
There still was a Meaning to Things.
But they were lost.
Lost Somewhere, in the Fabric of a World that was going threadbare.

Notes

Sorry for not updating for sooo long! lots of things going on, I suck.Anyways, here you go.