Giving Up the Ghost - Bandom, NC-17, Bob/Gerard.

[gorgeousnerd]

Title: Giving Up the Ghost
Fandom: My Chemical Romance (with appearances from members of Black Cards, Fall Out Boy, and Cobra Starship)
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~26,300 words.
Characters/Pairings: Bob/Gerard, secondary Pete/Mikey
Disclaimer: Look up the word "fiction" in the dictionary.

Content notes: (unspoilery) (skip) Major character death, self-harm, drinking and drunkenness, depictions of pill use and medical situations (both forced and voluntary), depictions of addiction, depictions of mental health disorders, violence, bad words, bumping uglies.
Content notes: (spoilery) (skip) Only background characters stay dead. The self-harm's in the form of attempted suicide, but it stays an attempt.

Summary: Bob Bryar - also known as Spit Fire, the fifth Killjoy - should've died in the desert after Korse shot him in the head. But death isn't permanent in the zones, and rescue's nearly as ugly. When the fate of the resistance rides on Bob's shoulders, can Bob stop the mysterious enemies who anticipate his every move and cope with the mess Better Living Industries made of his life?

Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content

Fanart:
Art by clandestine_fey

Fanmix:
Mix by desfinado

Author's notes:
For bandombigbang 2011, Wave Two. (This is my second story for this challenge; the first was Crash.) I wrote and posted this before the third Killjoys video release, but well after SING.

Because I always love playing around with presentation (particularly where Big Bangs are concerned), each site gives a different reading experience: LiveJournal has each part in its own post, Dreamwidth has the master post and all parts of the fic in one entry, and AO3 gives the option between chaptered reading and a single page. And then, because the story has special formatting and AO3 can screw that up in their premade ebooks, I made my own: .mobi, .epub, and .pdf.

If that seems like too much? Just pick your favorite site and go. Or stick with the LJ version: I really like the way it looks.

There's a bunch people to thank for this one, including:

+ turlough for reading this at the last minute, and teigh_corvus, puchuupoet, rahnekat1, and omens for their help and encouragement.
+ bloodygoodgirl for Killjoys canon assistance. If anything's off, it's either ~artistic license~ or my screw-up. (And let's pretend there's more of the former than the latter.)
+ were_duck and sassbandit for having genderqueer!Pony in their stories first - I probably haven't done half as well, but I couldn't write hir any other way!
+ The bandombigbang mods for their hard work.
+ Everyone in-person and on my flist/rlist/Twitter who's put up with me while I angsted or forgiven my absences and poor commenting over the past couple months. I've learned my lesson about writing and editing so much at once with such a tight deadline. (...I hope.)


Giving Up the Ghost

Prologue

Bob lies twitching on his stomach in the sand. Blood's caked on his face in a jagged line - he can tell by the iron in the air, the way his forehead won't move right - and his gun's out of reach, on the other side of a black boot that won't move for anything.

He tries crawling for it anyway.

It's so goddamn stupid. He'd heard the report, knew Route Guano was crawling with Dracs, but no, he'd had to be the big fucking hero and take the shot anyway. Better than Gerard, who'd heard the report just like Bob and insisted they try.

They've never left the vaccines so exposed, he'd said, with that angelic look on his face, and the colony needs them.

Gerard wasn't wrong, but it was such an obvious trap that Frank and Ray had held him back when he'd gone for his car keys. It gave Bob the chance to sneak out when no one was looking. Better someone else spring the trap. Better anyone but Gerard.

Fucking. Stupid.

Korse raises his gun, and Bob exhales a shuddering sigh. If he's honest with himself - and if there's any time to do it, it's now - he's not just relieved Gerard won't be the one face down in the sand this time. He's tired of the late-night attacks, tired of eating dog food with dirt coating the can, tired of listening to Dr. Death Defying like he'll announce the end of it. Like it's fucking possible for it to end.

He waits for the blast, and for darkness.

He gets it.



Part One

Life in the zones is lived in the moment. There's no vague awareness of the past, nothing beyond orders burned into the brain and fingers twitching next to belted holsters and the light filtered through the masks.

Until the mask is yanked away.

-

"I told you. He's ghosted."

"Was."

"Is. You see anything going on in there?"

"Red Mary figured—"

"What's she know?"

He stares at the wall. He wasn't told to look away. Fingers hover over his face and snap. He keeps staring at the wall.

"He's alive. Maybe it's just a matter of time."

"How much time do you think we got?"

"As much time as we ever—shit, Doc."

"Bob?"

Curls bounce into the bottom edge of his vision. They're brown. And they're attached to a face, which he looks at and sees round with shock.

"Did you see his eyes?"

"Shh."

A hand reaches up. He hears loud scuffles, but he doesn't react. Not until fingertips brush his cheek, and a smile spreads on the face in front of him.

"You don't have your beard," she says. "Or your ring."

He opens his mouth.

"Baby," he says.

Motorbaby hugs him. Hugs Bob.

-

The first step is names.

Motorbaby doesn't leave Bob alone. She hugs him even as shadows hover behind, and when the sun sets, she dozes on his chest. He doesn't fall asleep, but he can't really move, either. One shadow leaves halfway into the night, and as light peeks through boarded windows, returns to replace the other.

Show Pony, Bob remembers, as ze returns with bleary eyes.

He remembers Grace when Motorbaby makes a noise in her sleep. He remembers Dr. Death Defying when Show Pony sits, pink gun pulled, in front of a radio setup.

And then.

"Gerard," Bob whispers into Grace's hair.

Show Pony blinks from the corner.

-

The next step is movement.

Grace wakes several hours past sunrise and hugs Bob again. She climbs off his lap and looks at Show Pony. Ze shakes hir head once to an unspoken question, and her shoulders sag, but the smile she gives Bob before she turns and runs out of the room again is no less bright.

"So, crash queen," Show Pony says. "You staying on that slab forever?"

Bob's eyes trail down. His head doesn't move, but he sees a hint of tarnished metal at the corner of his eye.

"Can't," he says. "You have to."

"Have to what?"

Bob's tongue moves without sound as his brain remembers the words. Finally, "Tell me."

Show Pony snorts quietly. "Move."

"No," Bob says. "Tell me what."

"Fine. Your big toe."

His toe moves and hits the inside of his shoes. The boots are solid, but they give a little.

"Did it work?" Show Pony asks.

"Yes."

"Dandy. Move all your fingers."

Bob scrunches his fingers.

They move through the body, piece by piece. He gets control in most places after one pass. His hands need two. His legs take an hour as Show Pony's voice grows hoarse.

"Ankles, knees, hips," ze says. "No ring to it."

But ze smiles as Bob stands from the gurney and walks back and forth in the room. Bob stares at his boots the entire time.

-

Bob chokes down a can of pup in the front of the garage before the sun sets. The smell of gasoline lingers in the air, and the food in his mouth tastes sweeter somehow.

The setting sun spills through the tilted board they use as a door. Grace stands in front of mounds of dirt in the back, her robot in her arms. Dr. Death Defying sits in his chair, and Pony stands in hir skates and leather jacket, tapping the edge of hir pink laser on the counter.

"What do you remember?" Dr. D asks when Bob's pushed his tin away.

"Not much," Bob says. He drinks from a water bottle. There's a stale taste to it, but it's cool and wet. "Everything past the last couple of days is gone."

Pony tilts hir head. The visor of hir helmet shifts. "But you said..."

"Gerard," Bob finishes. He closes his eyes.

     red hair, the edges whipping in the wind, knotted in a mask. A yellow gun raises in the air, and the car

"Still with us?"

He opens his eyes. There's no definition to the room at first, but as his sight adjusts to the golden light, lines and edges and shadows reappear.

"Yeah," Bob says. "I just...need time."

Dr. D nods. "We can fill you in, but we're not sure how this works."

"This?"

Grace squeals outside, and Dr. D cracks a smile. "I'll check on the little one."

He stretches his leg and grabs his crutch. Show Pony watches him make his way out.

     Bob puts the bandolier on the ground, and his yellow jacket, and dusts them all off with a hand. The clouds make the light a sickly yellow. Gerard lifts a mask, the smell of acrylics

"You're our guinea pig, Spit Fire," ze says, a little distantly. "Don't wanna scramble your brains more than we already have. Or they have."

     close and circles his arms around Bob's waist. He doesn't say a word. Doesn't have to.

Bob raises a hand to his head. It aches like it's full.

"Good idea," he says.

-

"Spit Fire. Finally."

Korse's goons stand behind him, Drac masks hiding their ugly faces. Right after the war, they were glorified frat boys, running with BL/ind to get kicks the new laws wouldn't give them. But that was a long time ago. Not one of them moves as Bob watches.

Normally, he'd give them the finger, but his hands are tied down. He doesn't have feeling in them at all. Fuck.

"That's it," Korse says. Bob can see the rings under his eyes way too well. "I'm sure you're feeling better already."

"Go to hell." Was that his voice? It's choked and raw - no shock there - but the words have no punch to them.

Korse walks up to an IV pole. Bob's heart beats faster for a second, but as he watches liquid drip from the bag into the tube, it slows to an even rhythm.

"Five minutes," he says, "and you'll tell me all I need to know."

Bob shakes his head. He doesn't trust his voice.

But Korse grins and tells him every time thirty seconds passes. The edge of Bob's panic wears away and his face relaxes. By the time Korse calls five minutes, he stares at the ceiling and doesn't look away even when Korse leans into his vision.

"Now. Where are your friends?"

Bob tells him.

-

"Bob?"

Someone gasps, jagged and desperate. A hand shakes his arm, and he can't move, he's trapped, he can't—

"Bob, Bob, c'mon, wake up."

He opens his eyes.

The room's dark, but not completely: someone has a flashlight, and a patch of light flickers on the walls, pushing the shadows around it. It stops in the corner, and dust motes swirl in the air.

Bob sees curls again.

"Grace," he says. It's the spoken version of the gasp, barely a word at all. His hands shake as he pushes himself into sitting.

"You scared me." Before, she would've sounded scared. Vulnerable. And maybe there's a bit of a nervous edge, but the words are solid. "Did you have a bad dream?"

Bob nods. "Sorry."

"'S okay," she says. She grabs the flashlight, and the light twists around the room again as she slips back in her dusty sleeping bag. "I have them, too."

She clicks the light off and breathes deep again within minutes. Bob stares at the slivers of moonlight he can see through the boarded windows until he can unclench his fists.

-

The best part about Dr. D's hole is the running water. It isn't drinkable, but Bob can shower in it, get the grime from under his fingernails and the layer of dust off his face.

He doesn't have a gun yet, but he leaves his clothes on the sink next to the tub, just a hand's reach away. They have to be Dr. D's clothes; they're close to Bob's size, but just a little wrong. But they're dark - minus the faded Electrokat symbol on the shirt - and as clean as anything out in the zones.

After the first rush, Bob doesn't feel the water. He knows it's lukewarm. But he also knows he's taken better showers, and worse. He's taken showers where hands not his cleaned him off, tracing around his wounds, touching his hair. He's taken showers in long lines, a five-second hose down that was nothing more than functional.

He chases the first memory. But he gets nothing, and the second crowds in: bodies packed together, all passively staring at the walls, waiting.

"Spit Fire!"

He hits the emergency water stop on the shower and grabs his clothes. Even now, he's dressed in under a minute.

"BP's got a fix on your boy," a voice says as Bob comes out. "I had ten vans on my ass all the way out."

He rounds the corner, and Show Pony and someone else wait for him. Bob squints, and it comes to him. "Decay Dance?"

Decay Dance - Pete - grins a toothy smile and adjusts the fabric wolf ears on his head. "Hear you got ghosted."

"Save it," Pony says. Hir roller skates are on. "Time to motor."

They run outside, Pony gliding over the pavement, Pete with a red-and-white gun hoisted. Pete dashes toward a tank of a car: black, with a rumbling engine and random splashes of paint on the sides. Bob sees others in the car, but there's no time to remember them.

He follows Pony to a van. The big door's open, and Grace waves him in, her robot and boom box tucked beside her. Bob barely has time to climb in the back before they gas the engine; he closes the door as they fall in behind Pete's car.

"Am I tagged?" Bob asks as they bounce down the road. He doesn't bother sitting; instead, he crouches, holding the seats around him for balance.

Dr. D shakes his head. "Pulled that shit the minute we grabbed you."

The safe house is still visible behind them when Pete's car screeches to a halt, throwing a cloud of dust up. Dr. D stomps the brake seconds later. If Bob hadn't been holding on tight, he would've been thrown forward. But he and Grace - who's wearing a seatbelt - rock forward. Grace's helmet cushions her head as it bounces against the seat behind her.

"Back!" Pony says.

Dr. D doesn't waste any time; he pulls the handle on the steering wheel, and the van shoots in reverse.

Bob only has a second to see what's in front of them, after the dust settles and before laser bolts fill the air. He mostly sees white vans spread in a wide line across the road, complete with matching Dracs waiting in front. But he also sees four pillars of black, rigid, almost like they grew up from the road.

And then he hears the sound of fire. He pushes Grace down and doesn't see anything else.

-

Bob sits in the corner with Grace as Dr. D and Show Pony clear the new safe house, a dingy shack with only two rooms.

There are ghosts in Bob's mind, silhouettes miming the scene in front of him. They pull tarps, kick junk out of the way, scramble for medical supplies. And he's with them, but only in his head. He won't touch a thing until anyone says he can.

Probably, he'd hide in the back if Grace's fingers weren't digging into the bottom of his shirt. She watches everything with hollow eyes, but alert ones: Bob has no doubt she could do the same if pressed.

The door bursts open, and a woman helps Pete inside.

"I can walk, Bebe," he says, even as he leans on her. "It's just a burn."

"Shut up and go," she says. She looks over at Bob and slips a hand to the holster at her hip.

Pete gets on the table Pony dusted off seconds before, and Dr. D pokes at his forearm. Pete's right; it doesn't look bad. But it disrupts the lines of ink on his skin, and judging by the injured sigh Pete gives, he knows it.

Bebe turns to Pony. "So he's up and around?"

"He's golden," Dr. D says in a rumble. "Good as new."

Pony nods. "Spit Fire, meet Red Mary."

Bob bobs his head back at her. But he looks at Pete. "What happened to Spotlight?"

"On his own," Pete says, hissing a little as Dr. D puts salve on his arm. Bebe grabs the med bag and starts rummaging. "He needed a break from the city runs."

Bob takes Grace's hand off him gently and jerks his head at Show Pony. They slip into the back room and close the door, muffling Pete's noises of pain and most of the light. Pony takes off hir helmet, and Bob can see a little of hir hair, sweaty and sticking up.

"I can't remember them all," Bob says, voice low. "But we had a crew. Me and Motorbaby."

Show Pony nods and licks hir chapped lips.

"But you and Dr. D have her."

Pony nods a second time.

Bob breathes once, and again. "How bad was it?"

Pony laughs. The thick air eats the edges of the sound, but it's answer enough.

-

Dr. D tells Bob to case the roof.

"We're finding all kinds of surprises," he says as he wipes his hands. Pete bounced the second Dr. D and Bebe let him. "I'd like warning this time."

There's no ladder, but Bob uses ledges and windows like he walks on the ground. He doesn't sweat as he reaches the ceiling, stomping a couple times to make sure it'll hold, but the sun clings to his dark clothes. It's only a matter of time.

The roof's mostly trashed. The shingles stick to Bob's boots with half-melted tar. He pushes around garbage and through ooze and grit to make sure no bombs or cameras snuck in.

One piece of paper, only partially glued down, tears in his hand. He registers it's a picture of a face

     grinning as Bob throws him off his back. He watches Frank take a cigarette

and doesn't let it slip out of his fingers as the breeze tries to snatch it away. He sees a corner, a hint of what looks like blond hair

     falling into Mikey's face as he takes aim and squeezes the trigger. The Trans Am veers

at the edge. The bottom has a partial forehead

     lined with worry as Ray bandages Bob's leg. Bob stares at the shadow

underneath slicked hair.

There's no sign of the final part of the poster. But as Bob swallows, he knows exactly what should be there.

-

Dr. D spots the paper crumpled in Bob's hand and turns the chair away from his desk. Bob can't see his eyes through his sunglasses, but he knows they're narrow.

"I remember them," Bob says.

He does. Frank and his smartass mouth, Mikey's easy aloofness, Ray's eager confidence. Their codenames dance in his head like a poem (funghoulkobrakidjetstar).

"Do you now," Dr. D says. His hand's on his holster again.

Bob nods and sits. The chair's metal and warm through his jeans, but it holds his weight.

"How'd you bring me back?" Bob asks.

"Drugs." Dr. D's lip curls. "Fight fire with fire. Flush the shit out and let the rest flood back in."

The mounds of dirt at Dr. D's. Bob wasn't alone when he got grabbed. "You dusted them? The other Dracs?"

"Only after the drugs stopped their hearts."

Bob relaxes his hands. Frank's face is faded and creased, but as he smooths out the edges of the paper, he still looks defiant. Ready to take anything thrown at him.

"Why bother?" he asks.

The wall behind the doc is almost empty. There's no flag, no Mad Gear fliers, no milk crates with vinyl, nothing to broadcast with. All Bob spots is the old headphones Dr. D had around his neck when they showed up, and a WKIL 109 FM sticker.

Dr. D smooths his mustache. His other hand's on his knee, away from his gun.

"Because the party ain't over 'til we say it's over," he says. "Not them."

-

He drags in body after body. It doesn't tire him.

Holes in the white suits stain black at the edges, and holes in the skin ooze red. All of them lie on polished steel, more mirror than silver, filling the room with twice the corpses. The ones underneath distort and hide under the solid on top.

Korse wanders the lines, touching foreheads and moving limbs. With most, he points to a door, and they're wheeled away. Only two are left when he's done.

He turns to Bob.

"Dust them," he says with a snarl, and opens the door to the furnace.

-

Once everyone's eaten their morning dog food and vitamins, Show Pony wipes hir mouth and slides hir helmet over hir head.

"We're making a run today," ze tells Bob. "Feel like coming?"

"Where?" Bob asks.

"Back to the station," Dr. D says. "Gotta spin the tunes somehow."

"And there's other things. Clothes, food."

Dr. D grins. "Makeup."

Pony waves hir hands. "The essentials."

Bass thumps from the jukebox. Pony kicks hir feet to the beat, hands balanced on the bar beside hir.

Gerard laughs and pulls the tube of lipstick back. "Hold still!"

"You're an artist. Doesn't that mean you can do anything?"

"I don't usually draw on things that move." He drags lipstick over Pony's lips and blots the edges with a piece of paper. "There. What do you think, Bob?"

"Spit Fire?"

Bob holds his head in his hands. His fingertips twitch against his forehead. He takes a couple breaths before straightening again. "Go without me."

Grace crosses her arms over her vest. "Then I'm staying, too."

"Baby," Pony says.

"I'll watch him," Grace says. "Promise."

Dr. D grabs his crutch and gets to his feet. "We're past Zone 6. No one knows this place."

"We don't have an extra car," Pony says.

Dr. D's gun drops into Bob's line of vision. It's dark purple, less streaked with smoke residue than most zonerunning guns. Twisted, bubbled letters spell "Slaughtermatic" in green.

Bob doesn't take it.

Finally, a small hand wraps around the butt. Not as small as it used to be, but not adult-sized, either.

"I can shoot," Grace says.

Pony sighs. "You'll hide if you hear anything?"

Bob nods. He scoped spots from the roof the day before.

Pony slides hir jacket over her shoulders and skates out the front. Dr. D kisses Grace on the top of the head and follows, letting the front door stay ajar on his way out. The van peels away, and Bob watches the antenna on top until heat makes it formless.

"Wanna go for a walk?" Grace asks.

"It's hot," Bob says.

She shrugs. "So?"

This far out of the zones, the damage from the war is easier to find. Buildings fragments jut out of the sand, none taller than Grace, all of the edges bleached and rounded. Barbed wire sticks out the plants, and bones, and metal. Grace dodges it all without a second glance, climbing the hill like she's done it a million times before.

"They told me I'm not supposed to talk to you much," Grace says, matter-of fact. "You're not offended, right?"

Bob shakes his head.

Once they reach the top of the hill, he shields his eyes and turns. There's a field right in front of them and a field across the street from the shack. Besides the roads, there's nothing to break up the yellow and brown. Desert layered upon desert.

Grace takes out Dr. D's gun from her belt and points it away from the shack. She makes explosion noises. Her finger goes nowhere near the trigger.

She's loud enough that Bob almost misses a whirring sound. It takes him a second to figure out it isn't coming from her, but from the two white bikes tearing up the pavement.

"Down," he says quickly.

Grace gets on her stomach right away, gun still in hand. Bob's only seconds behind. He flinches away when the barrel points at him.

"Sorry," she says. She aims the gun at the bikes, closing one eye.

"Don't."

"I can dust 'em," Grace says.

The bikes slow. Grace's finger slips over the trigger.

Bob grabs the gun and yanks it out of her hand. "They don't know we're here."

"But they..." Her face crumples a little.

"Just wait."

Bob's heart beats three times. The bikes pick up speed.

Grace waits for the bikes to disappear before asking, "Can I have the gun back?"

Bob tucks it into his pants and shakes his head. She sighs, but she runs off in the field, arms out to her sides.

-

109 FM starts playing Mad Gear at noon. The van rumbles back at four with new blast streaks over the danger stripes.

"Had to take the long way back," Pony says. Hir gun's dirty enough that it's almost not pink anymore. "The roads are crawling."

"Here too!" Grace frowns. "Bob wouldn't let me shoot them."

Bob spins Dr. D's gun and hands it back. Dr. D runs a hand over it.

"You didn't fire," he says.

Bob shakes his head.

"Let's move," Dr. D says. "Rather be broadcasting if we have Dracs on our asses everywhere."

They tear down Route Guano as the sun sinks down the edge of the far hills, Dr. D playing a T-Rex tape quietly in the front. Grace falls asleep in Bob's lap while he smooths her hair.

"The doc said you were asking questions," Pony says next to Bob. Hir arms are sprawled over the back of the bench seat. "How much are you ready for?"

Bob shrugs. "How much do I need to know?"

"All of it." Pony bites hir lip. "But I'll get you started."

As ze tells the story, Bob stops hearing the words and sees still images, like Pony wired a camera to his brain.

His body, lying in a motel room for Gerard to find, tiger mask matted with blood.

Korse crushing Gerard's head, like his grief can be taken through touch. Gerard crumpled on the floor while Dracs take Bob out on a stretcher.

The Trans Am weaving through the desert. Explosions as Grace fires a bazooka and Frank detonates his bombs.

The surviving four camping in Zone Six, reading the maps like they can find the vaccines Bob died to protect. Gerard's face, blank in the flickering firelight.

"That's when they got Motorbaby," Pony says. "They left her behind for safekeeping, but Korse found her. And took her into the city."

Ze falls silent as they pass a road marker. The miles to Battery City wore off long ago.

"The four of them went in," ze finally says. "She was the only one to come out. We picked her up."

Bob's eyes itch. He rubs with the back of his hand, but it doesn't help.

"Ready for a gas stop?" Dr. D asks. A station sits up the road, glowing with an orange light.

Pony draws hir gun.

They pull up to pumps, cleaner than those deeper in the zones. Pony shifts up front, and as Bob slides Grace over to hir empty spot, ze rolls down the window. When ze fires, a silver ball next to a trash can explodes with a quiet pop. A cloud of smoke hangs in the air as they climb out of the van.

"The baby gave me a loaner," Pony says. Ze lifts the Vend-A-Hack and gestures toward a white vending machine. "Fancy a new gun?"

Bob smiles.

-

Bob's new gun, orange with a yellow stripe, rests in a holster on his thigh as he checks Dr. D's backup rig with Grace's flashlight at his side.

Before, he read the wires like words, knowing their story with just glances and the barest touches of his fingertips. But Bob sees nothing in the tangled wires here, and he doesn't think it's just because the best equipment's at the safe house they left behind.

Nothing's changed when Pony pokes hir head in. "You hydrate lately?"

Bob shakes his head and drops the cords he's holding. At least the thump they make is familiar.

Pony holds out a bottle of water, and Bob takes it. "Not even the good Doc'll touch this shit, you know."

"That's what he said." Bob swigs his water.

"How about sleep?"

Bob checks the clock overhead. It's sunrise again. Eight hours under the table, and nothing.

"They haven't knocked the old setup down yet," Pony says. "You can catch a couple hours."

"Rather not." Bob sets the bottle on the ground and picks up the wires again.

"Pony! Fire!"

Bob shoves to his feet and undoes the strap of his holster.

"Shit," Pony hisses as they run to the front room. Ze goes immediately to a crack in the boarded windows, scans the world outside. "They found us again."

"Parade's on the march." Dr. D's on his feet, leaning on his cane. "Let's motor."

"I'll take the back. Get ready." Pony pulls away from the window.

While Pony checks on the van, and Dr. D bends to wake up Grace in her sleeping bag, Bob leans where ze'd left behind. There's not much light coming in, but what does warms Bob's skin even before he plugs the hole with his face. He feels his pupil contract as light overwhelms it, but it takes only two heartbeats for the world to focus again.

It's mostly Drac bikes kicking up sand. The Dracs form a line, and a black car slips behind them.

"Spit Fire! Come on!"

Pony's hand wraps around his arm, fingers long and cold. Pony's gaze lingers on his face. Bob looks back.

"Your gun," Pony says after a moment. Ze looks away. "We'll need it."

It draws smooth from Bob's holster. His arm is stiff, rigid, but he'd fired a few test shots into the sand a couple hours before. He hit what he aimed for.

The other three are half out the door by the time Bob joins them.

Not many Dracs have made it out back yet. Pony nails a couple before the group leaves the shelter of the building, and one crouched to the side gets Dr. D's crutch to the jaw. It's the one by the van that's the real problem, using the vehicle as cover and firing with perfect precision. Bob takes a bolt to the shoulder and hits the sand hard, hands out.

"Fine," he grits out immediately, before he even looks to see if people stop. It's only a stunner: enough to make his non-shooting arm go numb, but nothing more.

He raises his gun at the same time as his head and aims for the tufts of hair on the Drac mask. His hand shakes as he lowers the gun. He squeezes the trigger.

The Drac goes down.

By the time Bob pushes to his feet, everyone else is in the van in their usual spots: Pony behind the wheel, Dr. D shotgun, Grace in the back. Bob holds up his gun and ignores the way his left arm flaps as he jogs.

Grace hides behind her boom box, and Bob slows, just for a second. It's only when Pony sticks hir arm out the window and yells "Behind you!" that he thinks of a possible reason.

He isn't close enough to the van. He won't make it. He tightens his hand on the grip of his gun as something hits his back hard.

-

The safe house is an old one, more safe because of its distance from Battery City than anything else. The insides don't read safe, don't have the splashes of color and tags that mark the zonerunners that have come before.

Like so much else in the world, there's nothing but black and dust.

Gerard sticks his finger in a pile and pulls it out, rubbing black between his fingers. Like charcoal, he says, showing teeth too bright to belong. He pulls out a page and smears his hand across it.

Like so much else he touches, shapes form, and Bob knows them for the Killjoys. But there's no color here, and so there's no color in the picture, no color in their uniforms or hair—

-

Bob looks up into a face.

It has the features of Gerard. The head is even held like Gerard would hold it: ducked a little, like he's always ashamed.

But the smile. The smile and the rings around the eyes are Korse.

Shadows push in around his head, but Bob's eyelids droop, and he can't force them open.

-

—nothing but five people and decaying buildings behind.

Gerard smears words across the top with a flourish.

Welcome to the black parade, they read.

Part Two

Bob's head smacks something hard.

"Sorry." A small hand holds the back of his head up and pulls the hard thing from underneath. Seat belt buckle, if the square shape's any way to tell.

When Bob's eyes flutter open, he sees van interior. He frowns and sits up.

The van bounces through dirt and sagebrush, throwing around everyone inside. Bob feels the ache in his back and groans.

"My gun." It's not in the holster or in either hand. He pats the seats. Nothing.

It isn't until he sits up that he sees Grace clutching it, the boom box discarded by her feet. She doesn't hug it like she hugged the boom box; her muscles are lax, and her free hand traces over the barrel, following the char marks left behind with her fingers.

"It was on stun," she says. Like she's trying to convince herself.

-

Their new safe house is Pete's old club.

"Hasn't gotten much use these days," he says, kicking the cellar door open. "Everyone from the colony's spooked."

He shoots a look at Bob. "Wait here. I need to clean up."

Pony shakes hir head. "No need. Bob got face-to-face time."

Pete bites his lip, but he waves them in without missing a beat. The lights, yellow with dust, flicker to life as Bob climbs down.

Angels and Kings isn't the same without bodies shoved against bodies. The floor is still warped, stained with layers of bootleg, but decay hangs in the air, the smell of rotting wood and dust. The walls throw the echoes of their boots back in their direction, and even that doesn't fill the space.

Bob doesn't realize Pony's got his arm until it's gone and he's slumped in a chair by the door. He stares at the floor as Grace pushes past him to the bathroom. There's colored paper at the edges. Old confetti.

"You knew," Bob says.

Pony nods. "Everyone does."

Bob rubs his eyes with the tips of his fingers. "You were right."

"About what?"

"Not to say anything."

When he opens his eyes again, Pony's leaning hir arms against the bar, eyes fixed on the Board. Bob stands carefully and goes in next to hir.

"What'll you have?"

Bob answers for Gerard. "Water. For both of us."

Show Pony grabs two dripping bottles from under the bar. Hir eye makeup is perfect. When Bob reaches to get money, ze waves him away. "Not for you crash queens."

Gerard raises his bottle with a grin and cracks the seal on top.

Bob looks at the Alert Board. Four posters hang at skewed angles on the edges: all the Killjoys, minus him, lacking any color except lurid red x's over their faces.

"Jealous?" Gerard asks.

Bob snorts. But he's missed the last couple runs because Dr. D's rig was trashed in a dust storm, and it sucks, watching the clock, waiting for noise on the feed.

It doesn't fool Gerard. He rubs a hand over Bob's buzzed hair and lays his mouth gently over Bob's lip ring.

"Don't worry," he says. "Next time."

Bob's never seen the new pictures on the Board. And they are new; they aren't coated with dust or as beat-up as anything else in the club. They're glossy, barely crinkled. Life-like.

It's the first look Bob's gotten at the Killjoys in a long time.

A stranger could compare these with the old posters and see little difference. Sure, they'd spot the cosmetic differences - all of them with black hair except Ray, the paler skin, the missing tattoos - but they wouldn't see the hollow looks in their eyes, the fake expressions. Mikey even has a bit of a smile on his lips, which is the weirdest fucking thing in the world.

Pete had called them BP. Dr. D had used the word parade.

"The Black Parade," Bob says to himself.

Pony nods. "They're not Dracs. Some of the runners heard them talking to each other."

"But they're not their fabulous selves, either," Pete says.

"That's how they know," Bob says. "All the safe houses. Fuck."

Pete slides around the bar. He kisses the tips of his fingers and lays them on each of the faces in turn. Mikey doesn't get a longer caress, but Pete's hand drops to his Good Luck helmet, sitting next to the top-shelf booze. It stays there. "We had to move New Chicago a couple times, but they haven't been bothered."

Bob raises an eyebrow. "New Chicago?"

"What? It's better than 'the colony'."

Dr. D comes out of the back room in a motorized wheelchair. He takes a second to stare at the pictures, and his gaze shifts to Bob.

Then Pony's does. Then Pete's.

"What?" Bob asks.

"How stable's your brainpan?" Dr. D asks.

Bob shrugs.

"How much do you remember?" Pony asks.

Bob glances back over his shoulder. Gerard stares back.

"Markers," Gerard says on an exhale, gripping the pens tight in his hand. "And they aren't dry."

That's obvious: Gerard's paint graffiti's covered with papers of black figures. Some of them are his usual subjects - pale zombies, bloodless vampires - but Bob spots a couple of himself in what looks like a dark marching band uniform, portrait-style. He's also in the pictures of the five of them in a line, looking like some kind of high school nightmare. It's kind of cool.

When Gerard sees where Bob's looking, he says, "They're death. Black to go against the all the fucking white."

Bob holds up the collar of his yellow jacket. "Because this doesn't?"

He won't say it, but he misses white and black. He misses color not having any meaning, clothes not having to make a fucking statement all the time.

Maybe something in his face says it. Gerard goes back to scribbling, his own face tense with something unknown.

"Enough," Bob says. He rubs his temples. "And I'm getting more."

Pete grins. "Great. Let's go after the motherfuckers."

"Go after?"

Pony and Dr. D exchange a look. Pony breaks from it and says, "They're hitting us hard. We've lost more zonerunners in the last month than in the last year."

"Number one killers," Pete says around a sigh. "Just like they used to be."

The bathroom door creaks open. Grace walks out, still holding his gun. She looks at it and back at Bob. When he nods, she goes in the storage room and closes the door.

"You mean...dusting them."

Dr. D shakes his head. "We've tried. But we've never walked away."

"We can't ghost people," Pony says. "They can."

Through the haze of heat, colors waver, first distant, then closer. Bolts fly through the air, and bodies fall, hitting the sand hard.

Bob hits the sand just as hard as the rest.

As he dies again, he's enough himself to grab at nothing while another masked Drac grabs him by the shoulders and drags him away.

"They're using us," Bob says, suppressing a wince. Pain starts to shoot in his eyes.

"They're winning," Pete says.

"And you're pretty much the only chance we've got," Dr. D says.

Bob frowns.

Pony hands him a bottle of water. "Drink and listen."

Bob has the taste of Battery City in his mouth as they talk: acidic, sterile. He sees the way they stiffen as they tell him of all the safe houses that have been wiped out, how fighting back kills their number and boosts the Dracs, and he hears the real message.

They're desperate.

"We figured you might be lurking in Battery City," Dr. D said. "The only guy left who knew anything about the Black Parade."

Bob knows what the answer'll be, but he says it anyway. "So Schechter, Pelliser, Pedicone, Dewees..."

Pony shakes hir head at every name.

"What would you have done?" Bob asks. "If I hadn't come back?"

"Pulled up roots, probably." Pete's face is grim. "It's ugly back East, but there's other pockets to hide."

Pony gives him a level look. "Not all of us."

Dr. D pulls his cane off the side of the chair. "That ain't no kind of option, Pony."

Bob raises an eyebrow. Pony grins. "Frank left his bombs with me. I don't know much, but I could blow a big hole in BL Headquarters."

"And leave nothing behind." Bob doesn't say it like he disagrees. Which leaves the room divided, judging from the murderous look Pete shoots his way.

"But you don't have to," Dr. D says. "The cure works."

"It worked. On a Drac." Pete holds up a hand. "Sorry, former Drac. They're not Dracs. And they're not Bob. You saw what happened to Smoke and Eyepatch."

The cellar door clanks open. Bob reaches for his gun, but his holster's empty. No one else draws; they don't even look over as Bebe walks down the stairs, brushing dust from her jeans.

"Where are they?" Pete asks her.

"Fueling up," Bebe says. "What are we talking about?"

"I was about to say what a miracle worker you are," Pony says. "But your boss doubts us."

Bebe tilts her head forward. "Just because you don't understand doesn't mean you have to trash it, old man."

Before Pete says whatever makes him curl his lip, Bob steps in. "You came up with the Drac cure?"

"Yep," Bebe said. She bites her lower lip. "I wanted to do different tests first. But someone had to rush me."

"And if they're fueling, we need to rush again," Pete says, shifting his holster on his hips. "So tell me, Bob Bryar. If you could collect any Killjoy, which one would you pick?"

-

Bob makes a decision, and they hash out a plan. But really, there's no good answer.

The first to be taken's like Bob: a guinea pig. Which means he can't take Gerard. Or won't. And Mikey's out for almost the exact same reasons.

It leaves Ray or Frank. Bob goes back and forth on both as the others talk logistics and what teams of runners to take. But he knows, he just knows what it would mean to Frank. Any of them would thank Bob. But Frank would thank the fuck out of him. And he wouldn't waste any time helping out after.

If he survives. Like Pete said, he isn't a Drac.

Before Bob leaves with Pete and Bebe, Pony pulls him aside.

"One of the boxes I took from the doc's has some of your old gear," ze says. "Another jacket, clothes. You should have time to suit up."

Gerard's picture watches Bob as he shakes his head. "Later."

-

The car slows at the top of a hill, and Bebe hands him binoculars. "Take a look."

Bob points the binoculars at a shining object. His hands twist over the dials, and the viewer zooms in to show Dracs around a van, and what might be a hint of the Trans Am.

Black. He hadn't even thought about it, but they probably put the car in one of their facilities, cleaned and sprayed by robot. Probably sterilized it every time it came in from the zones, too. There probably weren't blood stains on the upholstery anymore, or the sticker that mirrored Gerard's old helmet slapped on the side. The spider and the words were definitely gone.

His hands tighten on the binoculars. They'd paint it again. All of them.

-

They don't grab Frank while the cars are parked. They can't; the backup Pete and Bebe called in shows up at their tail just as the black-and-white convoy pulls away. Bob counts six cars and four bikes.

"Who are these guys?" he asks.

"New ones," Pete says tightly. His fingers wrap around the steering wheel as half the other cars pass them, and then they ease down the old road, bouncing over potholes and gravel.

Bob touches his gun, newly replaced in its holster. If they hadn't needed every gun, he would've left it with Grace.

Pete raises his radio to his mouth. "Just try to cut BP off. Over."

The radio crackles with answers, voices Bob wouldn't know even if they were familiar.

They all gun faster, pulling in front of the cars and bikes before the road merges. The cars ahead draw the extra Dracs away. They don't seem inclined to come back, and it doesn't make Bob's jaw unclench. S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W obviously thinks the Black Parade can handle themselves.

Pete times his own entrance to get just behind the Trans Am, not slowing as they hit the bump between roads. Bob's head slams against the side window. He probably doesn't have a concussion - he isn't dizzy, even as Pete weaves as he gets control - but he'll have a pretty good lump, like the one between his shoulder blades.

Bebe slips out the passenger's side window and shoots. She aims low, so Bob figures she's aiming for the tires. But it either doesn't work or it doesn't stop them because the Trans Am brakes only enough to hit their bumper hard, nearly tossing Bebe out of the car completely. Bob grabs her leg before she can fall.

"Thanks," she yells at him.

The cars collide again; this time, they hit the corner of Pete's bumper, and the car weaves even more than it did before. Pete holds the steering wheel tight and nudges the car even again.

Bebe slides back down. "I can't get a shot."

"Here." Bob hands her the binoculars again and pulls out his gun. He climbs forward through Bebe's window.

A laser bolt grazes his hair. Another goes by his ear before he can get his bearings. He grabs for the car just in time to keep from falling. His hands shake, and he knows he can't keep himself propped up enough to get a clear shot. He ducks down without ever looking further up the Trans Am than the taillights.

"I can't," he tells Bebe. It's all he can say. But judging by the way Bebe pats his shoulder quickly and stands back up, she gets it.

"Make it fast," Pete shouts up to her.

She squeezes off three quick rounds. There's a loud pop, and Bebe makes a noise of triumph as she sits back in her seat. Pete draws back and brakes until they're both stopped in the middle of the highway, several hundred feet apart.

"Ready?" Pete asks.

Bob nods.

As Pete and Bebe shove open the doors, four figures in black are stationed behind the Trans Am, exchanging fire with whoever followed their car. A red motorcycle pulls up next to Pete's side as Bebe slides over, and another car on the right as Bob takes her place. The biker gets off, and Pete and Bebe climb on.

It should be Bob on the bike. But no one asked him to do it.

Pete revs the bike, and a runner pops out of the top of the car with a bazooka. She brushes blonde hair out of her face and hands it to Bob when he gestures for it. He rests it on the top of the car door.

"You're actually letting Gerard use that thing?"

Frank positions Gerard's hands and steps back. "What? I use it all the time."

And Bob knows what a bad idea that is. "He's the driver."

"Shut up," Gerard says. "And cover your ears."

He fires, and the rocket goes wide. It explodes in a Joshua tree, which burns and flares. Frank, of course, cackles and grabs another rocket.

Gerard laughs, shaky. "Okay, maybe you're right."

"It's an art form!" Frank looks back at Bob. "Your turn, Spit Fire."

"No way."

"Come on, expand your horizons." He lets Gerard hold onto it long enough to slide another rocket in before carrying it over. "Unless you think it's too hard."

Bob sighs, but he hefts it up and asks, "What are we aiming for?"

"The sign. And remember, it kicks like a fucking mule," Frank says. He kicks at Bob's feet until his stance goes wider. "There. Give it a shot."

Bob pulls the trigger.

The rocket goes exactly where he aimed: a chunk in the middle of the road, several feet in front of the Trans Am, and several feet to the right of Pete's motorcycle. They dip to the side, but it doesn't stop Bebe from firing. There's too much smoke to see who's where.

Bob draws his gun again.

A gust of wind blows the smoke out of the way. Two of the Black Parade are down: Mikey and Frank, if Bob's seeing right. But Mikey's getting to his feet again, and Gerard's aiming straight for Bebe.

Bob's fingers twitch on the trigger before he can aim.

His shot misses, but Gerard turns for him, grinning ghastly. He shoots at Bob's head without any hesitation. Bob ducks behind the window, and two more bolts from Ray follow.

He almost shot Gerard.

Bob climbs back into the car, breathing hard. The runners in the car next to them fire; one of them falls out the top and hits the road with a loud crack. He climbs into the driver's seat and pulls the door shut. There's no sign of Pete and Bebe. There's no plan if they're dusted. There's nothing.

But the motorcycle leaps forward, and Frank sits slumped against Pete's back. The runners behind Pete's car lay down cover fire.

Bob turns the car as best he can. He bumps the runners next to him because his twitching fingers won't stop, but he clenches his hands and makes sure the driver's side faces the Trans Am. The motorcycle passes behind him and around as someone in the convoy screams.

Frank's unconscious and pale. He doesn't move as Bebe and Pete shove him in the back of the car, or when Bebe climbs in next to him. Pete kicks the door closed and zooms away on the bike.

"Can you drive?" Bebe asks in a yell.

Bob swallows and nods before throwing the car into gear.

He can drive. It's not the best ever - he hits one of the side mirrors on what looks like an old Charger - but they're on the road and getting away from the Trans Am.

"They'll buy us time," Bebe says, looking over her shoulder. She presses her fingers to Frank's throat.

"I almost shot Gerard."

Bebe looks at him in the rearview mirror and blinks a couple times. "You didn't?"

Bob shakes his head. His fingers aren't twitching, but his hands ache.

"He shot you first." Bebe pulls her bag of medical supplies from under the passenger's seat. "Which I should look at when we get back, by the way."

They pass over a hill, and the battle behind disappears completely.

-

Bob lies on his side in the front room of Angels and Kings.

He volunteered for guard duty, but Bebe told him his bruised back would keep him from being much use. "And you were fighting today. Pony wasn't. So take a cot and get some sleep."

The number of cots they have is limited. Grace is on one in the supply room - she'll share it with Pony, since Pony's on a nocturnal schedule - and Dr. D has another. The third is Frank's; Bob helped Bebe put him on it earlier, in Pete's office. He watched as she set up IVs and a catheter, watched her pull bottles of pills from a box labeled "good", and watched as Pete helped her force the pills into Frank's mouth. He was awake by that point and tied to his cot, but he jerked under their hands.

Bob left before they finished.

A couple hours before, while Bob was setting up blankets and jackets in a corner of the front room, Bebe came out.

"The first batch didn't work," she'd said, speaking loudly to be heard over the rock coming from the supply closet. "I'll have to try another cocktail."

Bob hadn't known what to say. But Dr. D came out from the back, and Bob didn't listen as they talked more. When they'd finished, Dr. D went in the closet, and the music got louder. Not loud enough to drown out the shouts.

There's nothing but silence now. When the screams stopped about an hour before, the music and the lights went down. Pony's sounds and the clanking generator outside are muffled by wind-proofing on the door. Bob's only companion is the green glow of the security monitors behind the bar, flickering only when they switch cameras.

"You're not supposed to relieve me," Bob says.

Gerard steps outside as Bob pushes away from the gas tanks.

"Couldn't sleep," he says, running his hand through his hair. Dye smears over his hands. "I thought I'd let Mikey get a couple extra hours."

They touch foreheads.

"I'm coming on the next one," Bob whispers. "No matter what that fucking rig does next."

Gerard doesn't bother answering. Instead, he touches his lips to Bob's, still hesitant. Bob lets him take his lip ring gently in his mouth, lets him move his hands to circle Bob's shoulders.

Most nights, they'd be fucking up against the wall, Bob's hand tangled in Gerard's hair. Or he'd be on his knees outside the car with Gerard sitting in the front seat, gripping the frame as Bob's mouth slid over his cock. But there's the barest hint of chill in the air, and they hold each other up until false dawn brightens the sky.

"Bob."

He sits up quickly, a throb in his back. Pony sits in front of the monitors, feet kicked up on the bar. And Bebe stands in the door to the office, her smile tired but very much there.

"He wants to see you," she says.

There's a question in her voice. Bob nods once, and she backs away from the door.

Frank looks worse than he did before, pale and shaking. He even coughs a little, but it's dry, nothing like the sounds he makes with his yearly lung sickness. He raises his head a little when he spots Bob, and, out of nowhere, grins.

"Knew you were too fucking hard to kill, Bryar," Frank says quietly.

He holds out a hand. Bob kneels and takes it, but he doesn't squeeze back when Frank tightens his grip.

"What?" Frank asks. "Not even a smile?"

Bob pats his hand. "Don't push it."

"Now there's the asshole I remember." Frank lets his head drop. "Grace?"

"She's..." Maybe not fine. "Here."

"Good. Now—"

He gags a little. Bob reaches for a dingy bucket next to the cot and holds it up. It's just in time. Frank vomits into the bucket, but he doesn't let go of Bob's hand. It's all Bob can do to balance the bucket with one arm.

Bob waits until Frank's stopped heaving, then says, "Finished?"

"Hope so." He shivers and lies back down. "That's supposed to happen for a while."

Bob grunts a little and puts the bucket on the ground. "You should sleep."

"Yes, Dad." But Frank squeezes his hand one more time before letting it go. "Thanks."

"For what?"

Frank yawns. "Saving me."

Before Bob can say anything back, he's snoring quietly.

-

Chairs line in front of a screen. Bob stares because he can't do anything else. A projector whirs to life, throwing white light ahead.

"Congratulations, and welcome to Better Living Industries," an announcer says as the BL/ind logo appears in black. "You have been selected for the elite Draculoid squad, a subsidiary of S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W Unit, as part of your zonerunning rehabilitation. This video is to help you prepare for your transition."

A black stick figure replaces the logo.

"There are three stage in rehabilitation, all of which are overseen by Better Living's well-trained medical staff. The first is emotional stability."

An IV appears as the stick figure smiles.

"Our doctors make sure any dangerous urge to venture into irradiated zones goes away with a regimen carefully prepared to suit you."

The IV disappears, and the stick figure sits in a chair in front of a projector.

"You are currently in the second stage: memory stability. A firsthand demonstration will result after the video finishes."

Memory, Bob thinks. A memory wipe?

"Finally, you get to enjoy stage three: productivity. A new pill regimen will ensure you're ready to work and be a helpful member of Battery City's society."

Bob should want his memories. Bob should be able to move. But he sits, motionless, as the logo appears on the screen again.

"This concludes our video. From Better Living Industries, building a better you."

Gerard, Bob thinks.

A swirl appears on the screen, and he remembers nothing else.

-

"My fucking tattoos! Goddamn it!"

Bob opens his eyes.

Pete leans in the bathroom door, the florescent lights leeching his skin of color. A hand waves by his face, and Pete hands him something. Bob climbs to his feet.

When he walks over, Pete nods in hello, and a buzz fills the air. "He said he wanted to look less like a fucking spook."

Bob leans in. Frank's running an electric razor over his hair, and the locks fall in the sink and the floor around his feet.

"Yeah," Bob says, raising his voice so Frank can hear. "Because shaving your head'll get that done."

Frank stops long enough to give him the finger, and Bob hears giggling. He leans further and sees Grace leaning against a stall. She's holding her boom box again.

"Tell me someone still has my shit," Frank says. "That mask wasn't easy to get."

"Pony's got everything," Pete says.

"Good." He cuts the last of his hair off. "Now tell me we have some food. And cigarettes. God, I need to smoke."

-

It only takes Frank a couple hours before he's dressed and looking like an almost-bald version of himself. He's thinner than before, but only enough to make the bones in his face stick out. It's not enough to make his clothes fit wrong.

"You sure he's okay?" Bob asks Bebe as Frank tears his Black Parade poster from the Board, a cigarette dangling from his lip. Grace cheers as he stomps on it a couple times.

"No," Bebe says, but she's smiling. "I'm more sure than I was with you, if that makes you feel better."

Bob's fingers twitch, but he ignores them.

They spend the rest of the day watching Grace tell Frank about her favorite Bowie albums. Dr. D managed to get most of Ziggy Stardust out on the waves before the station went dead, but Grace's boom box stays on static. The doc spends his time in the supply closet, using pieces Pete had lying around to make another rig.

He doesn't ask Bob to help set up. Bob doesn't offer.

-

The elevator fills with Dracs until Korse steps in the front, every step mechanical. Bob stares at the back of his head as they drop.

The doors open just as four people pass by. Korse walks out, and the others fall in line behind him.

The sound of vomiting wakes up Bob.

Again, the front room's empty; everyone's in the back, and Bebe's on guard duty. Bob checks the clock on the security monitors. He has a couple hours before his turn.

The retching in the bathroom stops. Bob gets up gingerly - his back's mostly healed, but it's still a little sore - and grabs a water bottle on his way to the bathroom.

He isn't surprised to see Frank half sticking out of a stall, pounding a fist on the tile as he dry heaves. It takes Frank a minute to stop, but when he does, he says, "Enjoying the show?"

Bob rounds the stall and hands Frank the bottle of water. He gulps down half the bottle, spilling it down the front of his yellow shirt. And then he pants for a minute.

"We didn't know," Frank croaks out.

Bob frowns.

"That you were still alive."

"I wasn't." Bob crosses his arms. "White isn't my color."

"Shit." Frank rubs at his bloodshot eyes. "Black isn't mine."

He stares at Bob like he's expecting something. When he doesn't get it, his face screws up, and for a second, it looks like he's about to cry. But he coughs a little and says, "We can't pull the divide-and-conquer trick again. They'll expect it."

"You got something else in mind?"

Frank grins. With his skin as pale as it is, it makes him look like a skeleton.

-

Unsurprisingly, Frank's method involves a lot of explosions.

They rig up an old safe house in Zone 1, just a couple miles outside the city. It's already falling down after multiple S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W hits, but Bob asks if they can really waste the rockets and bombs Frank sets inside the floors and walls. Frank simply grins and says, "They're past their expiration date." It sounds like complete bullshit, but Bob has no idea if it is. He doesn't push.

When they climb a low hill several hundred feet back and blow the place, Bob stares at the shadow of the city in the distance and not the red fire dancing in front of the night sky.

He's ready for the cars pulling up when Pete goes on his speaker, crackling. "Korse. Time to bail."

"Fuck that," Frank says. Bob unhooks his holster.

"That's an order, Ghoul."

Bob clenches the gun and lets his fingers twitch. Korse has a new car: still black, same model as the one Pete stole. It'd be easy to aim for his head, watch his blood spray on his window. But he feels Frank's hand over his.

"We've gotta get them back," he says. The fire lights up his eyes. "That's all we can worry about."

The only reason Bob retreats back to the bikes is the look on Frank's face. He means every word.

-

They see the bodies outside Angels and Kings first. They're all Dracs, white suits stained with burns and blood stains. Frank doesn't bother propping up his bike; he barely turns it off before he's running for the front door. Bob pushes his kickstand up, but he's not far behind.

A couple of the zonerunners who stayed behind with Pony and Dr. D lie dead on the inside of the club. Probably because it looks like the Dracs blew the door open; their limbs sprawl at angles they shouldn't, and the wrecked metal blocks the way into the bathroom. Bob stares at the pools of blood and waits for the familiar sting in his throat, but it doesn't come. Neither does a racing heartbeat, sweaty hands, anything to indicate nerves.

It doesn't make him feel any better that Frank looks just as distant as he feels.

Pete runs past them and to the door. Frank shakes his head and comes up next to him as Pete tries to turn the handle. Frank kicks at it without any luck until a barrel slips out from under.

"Hey!" Pete yells. "It's us!"

The door pops open, and Pony sticks hir head out. Hir hair's all over the place. "Took you long enough."

Ze lets Pete and Bebe in, but holds out a hand to hold back Bob and Frank. "We need to catch you up first," Pony says. "You don't—"

A scream tears through the air, and Bob chokes.

"Fuck," Frank says. "Fucking...is he..."

"Took a bolt to the shoulder," Pony says. "Those uniforms hide in the dark. We didn't know to stun him."

The scream muffles, like the mouth making it has a gag, but it doesn't stop. At least, Bob doesn't think it stops. His ears ring with it.

"But it's. It's Mikey."

Pony nods at Bob. "Yeah. You wanna see him?"

Frank's pushing around Pony before he's even finished the question, but Bob stares blankly. He hears the words, but he can't make them form into shapes in his head, can't give them weight.

He only comes back to himself when Pony nudges his arm. "I'll come get you if anything changes."

Mikey screams, unmuffled, as Pony shuts the door again.

-

Bob's lugged all the bodies up the stairs when Frank comes back out.

"They can't move him." Frank's talking to the ground, kicking dust up as he paces. "He's lost too much blood, and he needs...the stitches'll open if they do. But Dr. D got Grace out. They're okay."

"Yeah," Bob says. He doesn't know why he says it, beyond needing to say something. Frank stares at him for a second, but he shakes his head and pulls his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

There's sixteen dead: fourteen Dracs and the two zonerunners Bob didn't know. Bob doesn't pull the masks off the Dracs.

The procedure's straightforward in cases like this. Burn the bones, bury them, update the memorial in the colony. But they're at a compromised safe house in the middle of the night, and they can't risk fire. They might have to leave before they can dust them. They might have to leave before they can let Mikey's shoulder close up.

"He's still..." Bob can't finish the sentence.

Frank nods.

Bob goes for the entrance, hands jammed in his pockets.

"You don't wanna see him," Frank calls.

Bob pauses. He drags his teeth over his lip for a second, like he used to when his lip was still pierced.

He climbs down the stairs.

The Good Luck helmet's missing from the top of the liquor shelves. Someone's washing up in the bathroom, and Pete's mopping the dirt and blood from the floor. He gives Bob a tired smile. "You okay?"

Bob shrugs. "You?"

Pete shrugs back, then starts mopping again.

The first thing Bob sees in the back is the Good Luck helmet, sitting next to the cot. Mikey's eyes are closed, and he's still wearing the Black Parade uniform, dusty and stained with blood.

Mikey's eyes flutter open when Bob shuffles forward. He turns just his head, but his arms flex oddly, and it takes Bob a minute to see why; his wrists and ankles are held down by black straps the same color as his outfit.

"You can talk," Bob says. "Can't you?"

Mikey stares for a moment before closing his eyes. Everything about his posture's perfect, even with the restraints. Bob wonders if he'd still be pigeon-toed if he stood on the floor.

His breathing deepens after a minute. His face relaxes, and he almost looks like his normal self. If Gerard were here, he'd be smoothing Mikey's hair, whispering comforting words. Bob isn't Gerard. But he takes the chair by the bed and watches Mikey sleep.

-

Pony's the one with the plan the next day.

"There's a lot that Mikey needs that we don't have, not even in the colony," ze says, spinning the wheels on hir roller skates with hir finger.

"New Chicago," Pete says.

Frank snorts from the corner. "Don't tell me that's official."

"Look at the plaque the next time you're there," Pete says smugly.

"So," Pony says, like no one spoke, "we get inside the city limits and hit the first ambulance we see. When we run, that should be enough to draw someone out."

"You really think we can pull two jobs at once?" Frank asks. "And in the city?"

Pete nods. "They tried it last night: defend and capture. And they didn't have half the power we'll take."

"But meds?" Bob asks. "I didn't get the vaccines, and that was in Zone 6."

Frank pats his hand. "Obvious trap, dude."

"It should work if it's spontaneous," Pete says.

"But even so," Frank says, "this is a terrible fucking idea."

"Yeah," Bob agrees.

Frank grins. "Awesome."

-

When they cross under the shield in Battery City, the sunlight turns blue, and dust blows off the car. In the zones, they move New Chicago to avoid radiation clouds and acid rain. Battery City stays a mild temperature and cycles between sunlight and normal rain.

Next to Bob, Frank taps his left hand to the beat of Astro Zombies on the radio. "At least the doc's back. I don't like going in without him."

Bebe's driving the car this time. On the way up, Pete mentioned she knew the city better than most. When Bob asked how, she said, "Grew up there. I just left last year, so most of my ins and outs aren't even on their radar yet."

Their entrance is right off the sewers; even with the scent neutralizers, Bob still smells shit and waste. But it disappears as they turn off into perfectly stacked suburbs, quiet in the work and school hours.

"Maybe we should draw them out," Bob says. It doesn't seem likely that anyone'll be around. "Fake call?"

Pete points. "No, check it out. There's one."

Ambulances are hard to tell apart from other BL equipment; boxy and white was their preferred look. But when Bob follows Pete's gesture, he spots the colored lights on the top of the truck and watches as a man in white wheels a hand truck inside a pharmacy.

"Only one guard," Frank says, rubbing his hands. "We can boost the whole thing."

"But what if there isn't enough gas?"

Frank unbuckles as Pete pulls the car to a stop. "Then we take what we need and ditch the car."

He's running and firing in seconds, and Bob, with a sigh, follows.

"It's a stick!" he says over the stunned body. He fires into the pharmacy, and another paramedic falls. "You're driving!"

"Great," Bob mutters, but he takes the keys Frank fished out of the paramedic's pocket and climbs in the driver's seat.

He hasn't driven a BL vehicle since before, and he's forgotten what it's like to have a nearly full tank of gas and not have to fight a sand-clogged engine. He'd thought Pete's car ran smooth; this was more like gliding. Especially because his hands did exactly what he wanted them to.

Or it is until Frank flips the sirens on and claps with delight. "I've always wanted to do that!"

Bob rolls his eyes as he pushes the clutch and shifts up.

He spots Dracs on bikes behind Pete a block away from their exit. Just Dracs. They're weaving, like they're trying to see all the cars in the convoy, but Bob turns sharply onto a lawn and bumps into the entrance.

They tear out of Battery City, siren wailing.

Frank pulls up the radio receiver and tunes to Pete's frequency. "They still on your ass?"

Static, then, "Yeah. But less of them."

"Just Dracs?"

"So far."

"Fuck," Frank mutters.

But seconds later, a black Trans Am merges onto the road, not a hundred feet in front of Bob. He has to hit the breaks hard to keep from ramming into the back. Which turns out to be the least of their problems after he hears a hiss from Frank's side of the car.

"They cut us off," Frank says. But there's a little bit of awe in his voice. "They're pulling the same shit you did."

"No backup?" Bob asks as he goes for his door handle.

"Not right away." Frank snorts. "Great. And I just stopped puking everywhere."

Bob and Frank jump out.

Firing behind the doors doesn't work as well as it did with Korse's old car; the ambulance doors end several inches off the ground, and Bob has to jump to keep his toes from getting melted. Rolling down the window and firing from the step gives a little more cover, but the door starts to dent within seconds. It won't hold long.

"Got any ideas?" he yells at Frank.

Frank's half-crouched in the ambulance. Probably because his door's bent in two. "Only something really stupid!"

"Do it!"

Frank shakes his head, but he jumps out of the ambulance and says, "Hold it! We need to talk!"

Bob's about ready to shout back at him - there's stupid, and then there's really fucking stupid - but the laser bolts from the Trans Am stop. Bob can still hear Dracs shooting at Pete in the back, but they're far enough away that they probably won't get any ricochets or missed bolts to the back.

"Mikey's hurt!" Frank yells. His hand's on the mangled door. "We're taking this shit so we can save his life. We don't need this fight."

There's no way they'll fall for it. They can't.

Except Ray rounds the Trans Am. His face looks as emotionless as Mikey's.

Bob's starting to look at Frank, to see what the next phase of his plan is, when Frank says, "Cover me," and gets Ray right in the chest.

When Ray falls, three Dracs come around the other side of the car. Bob fires on them without thinking, and he takes them out like they're in a shooting gallery. No one else fires, and Bob wouldn't be able to get them even if there were. His fingers twitch too much.

"Help me!" Frank's already by Ray's side.

Bob jogs over. "Where's Gerard?"

"I don't know," Frank says. "Let's just get him inside and get out of here."

Bob picks up Ray's legs. He cranes his neck all the way back to the ambulance, but no one else appears.

-

They make it back to Angels and Kings in a three-piece convoy: Frank driving the Trans Am, Bob driving the ambulance with the screwed-up doors, and Pete and Bebe in the back. Pete's arm's bleeding, but thanks to the supplies in the back of the ambulance, Bebe patches him up the second they park.

Bob takes Ray inside and puts him on a cot next to Mikey, who's still sleeping. They're out of restraints, so Bob finds a box of bandannas and does his best.

Pony skates in, leaning on hir toe brake when ze sees Ray. "You got the ambulance?"

"Yeah," Bob says.

"But not..." Pony's eyes flicker over Ray, and Mikey.

Bob shakes his head. Pony puts a hand on Bob's arm, and Bob frowns at it.

Bebe saves him after a minute, her arms full of white boxes. Pete follows behind her. He sits in the chair Bob slept in the night before and doodling on his new bandage with a black pen.

"There's saline, and IV poles," she says brightly. "I should be able to flush Ray in a couple hours. And there's drugs to keep him under, so he won't feel it."

She drops the boxes next to Mikey, who twitches, but doesn't wake up. When she runs back out, Bob turns to Pete.

"She learned all this in the city?" he asks.

Pete nods. "Yeah, we keep it close to the chest. Patrick found her in a recruitment run a few years back, and she went to school to learn as much as possible before she left."

"Huh," Bob says.

"Right?" Pete says. When he pulls the pen away, Bob can see a crude sketch of the tattoo underneath the bandage.

-

Ray wakes up from the sedation a little over three hours later.

He looks more tired than Frank did, if less drawn. His eyes search, and when they fall on Bob, they widen. He starts to sit up, then falls back when it turns out to be too much effort.

"Don't push it," Bob says, pulling his chair closer.

Ray shakes his head hard, his curls bouncing around his face. "Gerard."

"He's not here."

"I know." Ray's voice is hoarse. "Korse wanted you to grab me. So I could tell you."

Bob's mouth goes dry. "Tell me what?"

"He has Gerard. And he's gonna kill him."

-

"It's bullshit," Frank says.

Angels and Kings is starting to feel full. Dr. D came back with Grace when they heard about Ray, mostly because she tried to steal his van, and with Pony, Bebe, Frank, and the still-healing Mikey in the back, they have to meet in the front room for space.

"I'm with Frank on this one," Pony says. Ze hoists hirself up on the bar and crosses hir legs. "Huge trap."

Pete taps his hand on the bar next to Pony. "Why? If they'd sent Gerard and another Drac unit, they could've taken us out. No problem."

"Lure us away from New Chicago," Bob says. It's the only thing that makes sense.

Pete barks a laugh. "They're trying that again?"

"We got trashed after the run for Grace," Dr. D says to Bob. He's in a regular chair with his crutch next to him. "But that was just safe houses. Maybe they have solid coordinates this time."

"Have you checked the feeds?"

Everyone turns to look at Ray. He's sitting just outside the bathroom with Grace resting against him. He hasn't done the vomit purge yet, but his information's the most current.

Bob, who sits next to the mostly broken security monitors, flicks a switch on one of the working ones. The BL/ind logo comes up, flickering green thanks to the color capacity of the monitor. He flips around for a minute until they get the news feed. The countdown clock in the corner says they'll have an updated broadcast in three minutes.

"We're not gonna get anything useful from this," Bebe says. She stands. "But tell me if you do. I need to change Mikey's bandage."

Bob stares at the office door after she closes it. If they do go in to get Gerard - and it's a pretty big if at this point - it might not be in time to get Mikey back to normal. If Gerard saw Mikey like this...

"Good evening, Battery City. It's 6:05, and this is your hourly update."

As the broadcaster talks about a visiting Better Living executive from Japan, the others in the room crowd around Bob. He's more than willing to move back and give them a better view, but no one lets him out.

"—welcome her to the city. In other news, a successful raid was conducted in Zone 2 earlier today, with several arrests made. The offenders have been brought into the city, and officials are hopeful—"

"Stop him!" Bebe yells. She's standing in the doorway of the back room.

Bob hasn't managed to turn his chair before there's scuffling and yelling, and all the people behind him have moved back. By the time he gets up, Frank has Pete pinned to the floor, and Pony holds his thrashing legs.

"Let me up, motherfuckers! Goddamn it!"

"You can't!" Bebe yells. "It's too risky!"

"He knows where New Chicago is!"

That quiets the entire room. "What the fuck?" Bob asks into the silence.

"That was Patrick's bike on the news," Bebe says. She sucks in a breath. "And a bunch of runners are doing an orphanage grab tonight."

Dr. D's on his feet, making his way to the stairs. "We'll get the colony moving. Maybe we can stop them on the way. Show Pony?"

"Yeah, just let me unlace these." Ze's untying hir skates as fast as ze can. "Stay here, Dance. We'll figure something out once the colony's safe, but you have to keep your ears open."

Frank's still leaning on Pete's chest. Without Pony helping on his legs, he could probably get up easily, but he's banging the back of his head on the floor.

"Damn it, Trick," Pete says, sniffling.

Frank eases up just as Bob sees Ray run for the bathroom.

-

Pete spends the rest of the night fixing the entrance to the basement. Bob sweeps up the dirt once it's in place. There's too many people to sleep in the back room, so most everyone moves sleeping bags and blankets out to the front with Bob: Grace, Ray, Frank, Pete, and Bebe, when she's not checking on Mikey's stats.

Right before lights out, Bob hears Bebe telling Pete, "I have to try flushing Mikey tomorrow. He's doing better, and he'll start withdrawal symptoms if I don't."

Bob eases away before he can hear more, but it's obvious what she's doing: trying to get Pete to stick around a little longer. But Bob knows it won't work. He'd know even if he didn't know Pete.

Frank volunteers for first watch, and everyone else climbs into their blankets and sleeping bags.

It takes Pete almost an exact hour after they turn the lights down to sneak out. He knows the place well enough to be really quiet about it. If Bob had gone to sleep, he wouldn't have heard a thing. But Pete doesn't watch behind him when Bob follows him up the stairs; he's too busy watching outside for Frank.

Which is why he jumps about a mile in the air when Bob says, just outside the front door, "Going somewhere?"

"Fuck, Bryar." Pete's whisper is so quiet, Bob can barely make out the individual words. "Don't get in my way."

"I'm not. I'm coming with you."

"Fine. Just shut up."

Bob isn't surprised when they sneak around the rocks where the cars are stashed, and they find Frank leaning on Pete's car. Pete stops dead in his tracks.

"Bebe figured you'd try to sneak out," Frank says, waggling his fingers.

Bob keeps walking. "You're coming, right?"

"Of course. And if I'm not wrong...yep, there he is."

Even with Frank's warning, Bob's hand flies to his gun at the sound of crunching sand. It's only when he makes out Ray in the near darkness that he lets go.

"You okay for this?" Bob asks.

Ray's face is impossible to see. "Does it matter?"

"Let's go," Pete says, jogging for the driver's seat.

They climb in the car without another word.

-

They make it to Battery City in two hours, gunning it on Route Guano the entire way. But instead of breaking through the main tunnel like Bob expects, Pete veers off a long-abandoned exit about a mile out and drives carefully on the old freeway wrecks.

"We're not doing this your way," Pete says. "The back way's better."

As they pass by rotted skyscrapers, Bob turns in the seat to look at Frank and Ray. "Your way?"

"When we got Grace, we weren't exactly subtle," Ray says.

Frank snorts. "We went in the front, killed everyone on our way in, and got jumped on the way out."

"Like I said. Not subtle."

"Whatever," Frank says. "It would've worked if Korse hadn't been there."

Bob raises an eyebrow. "You didn't do recon?"

Ray shakes his head. He's gripping an eye patch, of all things. "There wasn't time. We couldn't leave her."

The car slows as they reach a pile of rubble. There's a gap between it and the tunnel wall, but it doesn't look nearly big enough to fit the car. Still, Pete eases in, and the mirrors don't even scrape. There's more of an impact when they cross the shield line; they shake like they're bouncing on potholes, and the quality of the light changes again.

Pete guns the car.

No one asks where he's going as they drive through the empty, post-curfew streets. There's only a handful of places Patrick could be, and checking the Processing Center first is as standard as Battery City runs get.

What Bob does ask is, "What's your plan?"

"Camouflage," Pete says. He eyes Bob. "You should stay with the car."

"I don't..."

Bob trails off as they park across the street from the Processing Center. There's a line of Dracs outside, standing at varying degrees of attention. Some of them even look like volunteers, if the way they shift their feet's any clue.

Camouflage. Wearing the Drac suits. It's a classic.

Ray puts a hand on Bob's shoulder. "Hey. You okay?"

He hears someone choking quietly, like they have something in their throat. Then Bob realizes he's breathing shallow and fast, and the noise is coming from him.

Bob nods because he can't speak.

"You'll stay?" Pete asks. There's only impatience in his voice, which is why Bob nods. No time for pity.

Frank and Ray squeeze out from behind him. Frank gives him a smile, and for the first time, Bob notices how forced it looks. "I'll kill one of those suckers for you."

And with that, they run.

Bob slides into the driver's seat. He curls his hands around the steering wheel, checks to make sure the keys are in the ignition. He looks at the streetlight just a few feet in front of the front of the car.

"Masks on!"

The already cramped car gets tighter when everyone puts their headgear in place. Frank's is the easiest: a Frankenstein mask, with a couple quick adjustments to his bandanna. Gerard's Mousekat helmet is probably the biggest, but he's shotgun, so it isn't bad. Neither is Mikey's. But Ray has to turn nearly sideways to get his helmet on, and Bob's squished himself against his side as much as he can to get the tiger on his head.

"Ready?" Gerard asks. His voice is muffled, but it's hard to miss the giddy tone.

"If I ghost," Frank says, "I'm blaming you."

Bob wipes sweat away from his face as his breathing evens out. He always sweat too much and breathed weird in his mask, too. The last time he wore it, he was choking on his own blood. Korse probably had it burned.

He stares at the Dracs, still lined up a block away. He can't see the others, which is a good thing. If they get lucky, they might be able to get to Patrick all the way before any alarms tip off.

A quiet vibration fills the air. It's familiar, somehow...

"Spit Fire!"

He blinks.

Vans are lined up where the Dracs were standing. A couple of bikes are trashed completely, flaming and sending black smoke into the sky. Three of the Dracs are coming toward the car, and Bob presses back against the seat, scrambling for his gun...

...until he sees Patrick pressed against the back of the tallest one.

He turns the key, and the engine roars to life.

"Fuck, that felt good!" Frank's got his mask off, and his smile's tired, but very much there. "You sure know a good time, Spotlight."

Patrick rolls his eyes, which is a good sign. But Ray and Pete have to help him carefully into the backseat. As carefully as they can with lasers flying everywhere, anyway. Frank shoots Dracs until the others are in the car.

"Get in," Bob shouts.

Frank dives in the front seat, and Bob drives away.

"Gerard?" he asks as he watches the headlights in the rearview mirror.

"Not there," Ray says. "He's probably in Headquarters."

Bob nods curtly and looks for a cross street he recognizes. If he can just get to Main—

"We're not hunting Gerard," Pete says. Patrick's slumped against his shoulder, eyelids drooping. "Patrick needs help."

Bob brakes the car. They screech to a halt.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Pete asks. "They're behind us!"

Bob opens the door. "Getting out."

"Me too," Frank says, climbing out his window.

Cars whisk by on the main street. It doesn't sound like they're turning back, but it's only a matter of time.

"That's suicide!"

Ray grins and pushes the front seat forward. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Patrick mutters something, and Pete bends to hear. "God, not you too."

"What?" Bob asks.

Ray, who's still half in the car, points across the street. "Motorcycles."

Bob turns. It's a store of them, shining and white in the display lights.

"Great," he says.

"Wait, wait. Give me a hand with Patrick."

"Huh?" Frank asks, as Ray helps Patrick back out of the car.

"Patrick insists he can hold on if we take a bike," Pete says. He doesn't sound like he believes him. "If you get Gerard, he'll either be unconscious or ready to take your fucking heads off. You'll need the car more than we do."

Frank hugs Pete. "You're a great man, Decay Dance."

"Yeah, yeah." But Pete looks pleased. "Just get the car back to me. I fucking hate bikes."

It takes less than a minute for Ray and Frank to break the window of the shop, and only a couple minutes more for Frank to hot-wire the first bike he touches. Bob gets back in the car and checks the streets for Dracs. Luckily, Pete and Patrick are on their way without any trouble.

"Let's hope our luck holds," Ray says.

Bob knows better than to bet on it.

-

The thing about Better Living Industries Headquarters, Battery City edition, is that every way inside is just as dangerous as the front door.

As Bob circles, keeping out of the main loop of their cameras, he gets why Gerard picked the front entrance when they got Grace. The bridges are the straightest, and it's the closest to an exit out of the city. It's the Route Guano entrance, sure, but it's wide enough to let a lot of cars through. Harder to get pinned.

"It'd be easier if we knew where he was," Frank says.

"Or if he's even here," Ray says. He found aviators in the back, and he looks a little more at-ease with them on. Even if he's still in the white Drac suit.

Bob brakes the car not far from the front. "Where'd they keep Grace?"

"S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W office." Frank taps the dashboard.

Bob looks up at the windows, evenly lit. They give no hints. "We won't find anything in here."

He parks on a side street.

"How long were you guys in Processing?" he asks. "I didn't check the clock."

Frank shrugs as he unbuckles. "Half hour, maybe?"

Bob nods slowly.

"Why?" Ray asks.

Because he didn't remember any of it. He remembered the masks, and...the noise...

"Bob?" Frank's hand shakes his shoulder.

"Nothing," Bob says gruffly. "Let's go."

Frank and Ray look at each other, but they climb out of the car.

Bob checks around. He doesn't see any cameras, and even with Pete's paint splashes, the car doesn't stick out much. If they can get out before dawn, it might still be waiting.

The three of them, on the other hand, couldn't blend in if they tried. Ray's in white, his hair a mess around him. Frank's in white pants and his usual shirt and vest, and for the first time, Bob notices a crappy scorpion drawn on his neck, like he's trying to replace the tattoos BL wiped away. Only Bob sort of fits in, a dark shadow slipping between the lights. But his clothes are full of holes and covered in suspicious stains. He's no Black Parade soldier.

Except. As they approach a side entrance, Bob holds a murder weapon, and he'll take down targets inside. Maybe he is death, true death, the Black Parade as Gerard always meant. Not sterilized and twisted, but ugly. Final.

Real.

They press into an alcove. Both Frank and Ray are shaking: Frank, with unsuppressed energy, and Ray, with quiet trembles that look more like Bob's hand twitches.

"Let's find a computer," Bob says in an undertone. "Go from there."

They nod.

The door's thick and shut with a digital lock. When Ray goes up to it, it unlocks with a hiss. Frank makes some crack about magical Drac clothes that Bob barely hears, and they ease inside.

There's a computer right by the door. A Drac sits behind it, staring at the security monitors like it can see through them. It isn't hard for Ray to crouch and stun him, and Bob takes his old seat. It's still warm. Probably the only place in the city that is.

Of course, the controls are simple; most Dracs don't have the brain power to flip through complex commands. Bob ends up doing nothing more than pressing a buttons to change cameras, and Frank and Ray hover by his shoulder.

It's Ray who sees it first. "There. Go back to the big office."

Bob does his best. There's only one camera from the office that displays for whatever reason, even though Bob can see reflections of other lenses in the light. It's a wide shot in a big room, but Bob sees three people, black and gray in the middle of glass.

"Damn," Frank says. "They want us to go in."

Everyone looks at each other, waiting for a plan or a decision. No one in the group's a leader.

It's Bob who finally says, "Let's go." But Ray sees the small elevator in a broom closet down the hall. There's no signs marking it, no lights or bells to announce the car's arrival, just elevator doors behind a row of metal shelves.

"I found schematics before we got Grace," Ray says. "These weren't on it. But I think they use it as a secret exit."

"You sure this goes to the office?" Bob asks.

"As sure as I can be." Which means he isn't. But it's good enough for Bob.

The doors slide open when they press a painted-over button in the wall. The elevator's small, but it'll probably fit the three of them. Bob steps inside.

No one follows.

"I don't know about this," Ray says. He swallows. "It's a trap."

"Yeah," Bob says, frowning. "So?"

Frank coughs. "So they probably won't kill him?"

Ray bobs his head in agreement.

"We don't know that," Bob says. He shivers. "Would you want to be left here?"

Ray shakes his head. "If it meant getting you killed...what would Gerard do?"

"Don't say that," Frank groans.

"I meant, what'll he do if Bob dies doing this?"

"He'll live," Bob says. "We don't have all night."

"Whoa, hold on," Frank says. "He'll live?"

"He will, won't he?"

"Jesus Christ, Bryar."

"Are you..." Ray straightens his shoulders. "Maybe you should go back to the car."

"No."

Frank waves a hand. "See? Right there?"

"What?" Bob asks.

"He's been acting like this since he grabbed me," Frank tells Ray. "He hasn't told me to fuck off once."

Ray opens his mouth, but Bob speaks first. "I'm going."

He presses the button.

"Shit," Frank says. He jumps inside the elevator. Ray follows seconds later, just before the doors close. "You and Gee really are perfect for each other."

Bob raises an eyebrow.

"You both have a fucking death wish."

-

Within seconds, the doors slide open again.

The office looks even bigger than it did on the cameras, if that's possible. It's almost nothing besides a desk and windows, but with Battery City partially illuminated beneath them, glowing in the blue haze of the shield, there's almost too much to see.

Korse spots them. He points a white gun to Gerard's head. It's not as creepy as the pale fingers curled around Gerard's throat, or the thumb rubbing Gerard's skin. Or, worst of all, the smile on Gerard's face as he sits passively.

Bob, Frank, and Ray raise their guns as one.

A woman in a gray suit by the window speaks Japanese, low and quiet. Frank aims for her back, and Ray bounces between her and Korse for a minute before settling on her head. She smiles at Korse, and it looks genuine, if a little too perfect. She ignores the guns and nods when Korse answers in fluent Japanese.

The woman walks to the door. Frank and Ray keep their guns trained on her, but no one fires.

She opens the door and looks at Bob. "Party's over," she says without an accent.

When she walks out, lines of Dracs walk in. A sound follows them in...low and humming...

"Spit Fire!"

Bob sways. He lets himself be dragged behind a bit of jutting wall, and the sounds of the room come back with a crash. Glass shatters, laser bolts fly, and Ray screams with every Drac he takes down.

"...okay? Bob? Bob! Tell me..."

Frank's voice goes in and out. Bob's fingers twitch, and he drops his gun.

In the main part of the office, most of the Dracs are down. The desk is overturned, and even though the surface is clear, it bounces bolts off whenever Ray fires at Korse. Korse laughs and fires back, and Gerard sits by him, grinning.

He meets Bob's eyes.

Bob wrenches free from Frank's arm and runs. The noise gets louder, and Bob winces, forcing his legs to move. He can't avoid the bolts that come from both sides, though. One makes his arm numb; another burns his leg.

But he vaults over the desk and tackles Korse. Korse shoves his gun against Bob's chest, hard enough to hurt.

Bob's going to die. Again.

This time, Gerard's hand sits at the corner of his vision. He reaches for it, and his throat thickens.

Korse fires.



Part Three

Bob came from the East after the last suburbs around Chicago fell completely under BL/ind control. The desert was hot and too bright, and he could feel his skin sizzle with first exposure the second he stepped out of the transport van. Bert told him he'd fry, thanks to the extra radiation and sun. He hadn't cared. Still didn't.

The colony outside Battery City wasn't much: some old RVs, a couple more permanent houses that Bob recognized as converted BL tents. But Bob had found a guide the second he'd said "Chicago" in the form of a little ball of energy who went by Decay Dance.

"We all have code names out here," Decay Dance says, grinning. "We'll come up with something for you before long."

Bob got to see where the different zonerunning crews met up, trading supplies and running member recruitment. Most of them had booths, like it was some kind of fair. There was even a scrap salesman, loud-mouthed and pushy. But Decay Dance doesn't so much as pause until they come across an ugly orange tent with a strong musty smell. He shouts, "You in there, Kid? I've got some new blood."

The tent unzips, and a blond head pops out. "You know tech?"

Bob nods.

"So you're Bert's guy."

Bob nods again.

"Sweet." The head disappears again, and Bob hears, "Gee! He's here!"

There's rustling, and another head pops out, this one with blue hair. It matches a blue jacket. The face is oddly similar to the one that went under the bleached hair, but instead of a neutral expression, there's a wide smile.

Love at first sight is bullshit. But if it did exist, well. Maybe Bob knew what it felt like.

-

"—him down."

"I'm trying, just...shit."

"Put him under again, or—"

-

The lobby is nothing but glass walls and flying laser bolts. Bob stands in the corner and fires. His shots miss every time.

He sees Korse pin red hair in the corner, and with a flash, it slumps to the ground.

One target down. Three more to go.

Bob sights blond hair down the barrel of his gun, and—

-

The light's too bright. The air's too cold. A dripping rag feels hot on Bob's skin.

A hand touches his cheek. It burns.

"Not much longer," someone whispers.

-

Gerard doesn't make the first move. Officially.

Unofficially, he's the biggest fucking flirt in the zones. Bob had seen him pull his half-shy, half-siren act on other zonerunners, but when Bob gets the shy looks and the lip bites and the hip wriggles, it feels a little like being shoved outside in the middle of a dust storm. Only good.

Bob finds himself smiling back. It's a big step for him.

He expects nothing to happen. At least for a while. He can't imagine saying something without adrenaline pumping through his veins or beer in his stomach.

But one day, they're sitting together while Ray changes the oil in the Trans Am, and Bob brushes Gerard's hand. They look at each other, and when Gerard tilts his head questioningly, Bob nods with a smile.

After that, they're almost never apart again.

-

Bob opens his eyes.

The ceiling above him is gray, stained brown with some kind of water leak. Not that water leaks from it now. Bob's mouth wouldn't feel like the desert if it did.

He reaches to the side of the bed automatically, and sure enough, a bottle sits. It's warm, but the cap's loose, and the water tastes perfect. He slops half of it on himself, but his skin feels tight and sticky on its own. The water helps.

After he finishes the bottle, he glances around the room. He can't see well, but there's something about the way cardboard boxes sit around that's familiar. Maybe it's the smell to the room, a sharp scent that could almost be paint.

Someone snorts. Bob twitches.

Mikey sits on the other side of the room, dozing in a chair. His hair's bleached again, too short and not styled enough. But everything else is right: the red jacket, the boots, the gun that Pete had been using.

Bob rolls his aching shoulder and shifts, sitting up carefully.

"Mikeyway," Bob says. It sounds like someone shoved sandpaper down his throat.

Mikey opens his eyes and yawns. "Bob Bryar."

"Gerard?"

Mikey jerks his head toward a door. "I'll get him."

"No," Bob says. He rests back on the pillow. "Catch me up first."

Mikey stands and drags the chair closer. Like the others, his skin is pale. Maybe a little paler than the rest, with all the blood loss he'd had. "Not much to say."

For Mikey, there never is. "How are you?"

Mikey blinks. "Me?"

"You were in bad shape the last time I saw you."

"Right. You visited me."

"Yeah."

Mikey nods slowly. He stares at a patch of wall on the other side of Bob's hand. "I'm alive."

"Me too," Bob says. He doesn't know how. He rubs at his chest, feels how sore and tender it is, but the skin looks smooth, unscarred. He wants to ask about it, but Mikey's staring at Bob's chest with the look he just gave the wall. "Where are we?"

Mikey's eyes focus again, and he gives a lopsided smile. "The diner."

"Seriously?" But Bob can see it now. They're in what was a locker room before they tore out the lockers. The spray-painted mannequins and road signs are scattered around in the usual places. "It isn't safe."

Mikey huffs. It's his way of saying nowhere is.

The door cracks open. Mikey's hand jumps to his gun, but he relaxes when Frank slips in and closes the door quietly.

"Fuck me," Frank says. "When'll you stop doing stupid shit?"

"When you stop doing stupid shit," Bob says.

Frank laughs and scratches at his hair. It's a little longer than the last time Bob saw him, but barely. "You have great timing. Gerard just fell asleep."

"Let him sleep," Bob says. His eyes droop. "And tell him I said it."

"Please. I can handle him."

But Frank's smile fades. Bob sits up a little. "What's wrong? Is he..."

Mikey glares at Frank.

"Fine," Frank says. "He'll talk your ear off in the morning."

Mikey shakes his head. "Afternoon. No way he's getting up before one."

There's no clock in the room. The calendar on the wall's the same one it's always been: a defaced pin-up they took from the garage that has the days for November 1982. For all Bob knows, it could be days since he was last awake. Weeks.

Frank slips his sleeves up a little higher. Maybe because his skin's still empty. "One? That early?"

"I'll have him wake you up," Mikey says.

"You think he'll actually do it?" Frank asks.

"Or I'll wake you up."

They keep talking as Bob closes his eyes. When he isn't trying to listen, it's more like a quiet hum than words. Almost musical.

-

The van pulls away without stopping.

Four bodies line the lobby, blood streaking the marble. Four body bags are brought to store them.

When the zippers are pulled into place, everything's black and white again.

-

"Bob?"

He jerks. His head hits the wall, and something behind his ear pulls, stings. When he touches it, he feels a line of stitches, thread bumping against the tips of his fingers.

"Hey." Lips brush his forehead, and a palm drags over his hair. "You're okay."

"Gerard," Bob says, and opens his eyes.

It is Gerard. And not just any Gerard, but the Gerard he left behind: red dye in his hair, black smudges on his hands, blue jacket.

"Bob," Gerard says, hushed.

The longer Bob stares, the closer Gerard leans. Finally, Gerard wraps his arms around Bob carefully. Every muscle holding Bob up aches, but he curls his fingers into Gerard's jacket and doesn't let go.

"Gerard," Bob says into his shoulder. He knows other words. But nothing else wants to come out.

"God, I missed you." Gerard pulls back, wipes a tear from his face with his thumb. And then his face tightens. "You stupid motherfucker."

Bob blinks. "What?"

"The fuck is your problem?" Gerard's eyes are earnestly wide. "The vaccines? That you ran out for by yourself?"

"The colony—"

"Could have gotten it a better way. Or at all. The Dracs took them when they grabbed Grace, did anyone tell you that?"

Bob stares up at the stain on the ceiling. "Does it matter?"

"Yeah, it fucking does."

All this time, and Gerard wants to fight. "Gee—"

"And then you did it again. Right in front of me. Why?"

"I..." Bob touches his chest. The Electrokat shirt has a jagged hole in the center. He can't see any of the logo. "I was dead."

"Why?" Gerard says again. His voice cracks.

"The noise." Funny. Bob can still remember it, but it doesn't pull on him. Not like it did in Battery City. "I heard a noise."

Gerard brushes the stitches behind Bob's ear. "Ray thinks it's a transmitter."

"Thinks?"

"He's not exactly our tech expert."

No, that's Bob. Or it was. "Is that how you did it? How you found us?"

"You mean all the safe houses?"

Bob nods.

"No," Gerard says. He stares down at his hands. "We knew it. We told them."

"You mean you told them."

Gerard's head rises. "Maybe."

Bob licks his lips. It's warm enough that the spit he works up dries before it can make them less stiff.

"So it was the noise?" Gerard asks. He slumps in the chair. "You didn't?"

"I did," Bob says. "I think."

"You think?"

Bob sighs. "I lost time. I didn't know what they were doing."

"And you couldn't wait to find out?"

"No. Not with you there."

Gerard laughs without humor. "Frank told me what you said. Before you went up."

"Which thing?"

"Something like 'he'll live'. Sound familiar?"

Bob shrugs.

"What if Korse had shot me in the head? And you'd been there, right next to me, and couldn't do a thing about it?"

"I..." Bob freezes. He sits up on his elbows without thinking about it and winces, but says, "What did you do?"

"Huh?"

"I was dead. Korse shot me in the chest."

"Yeah. Wasn't I just saying—"

"What," Bob says, teeth clenched, "did you do?"

"Hold him down."

Bob convulses, gasping as they pull the tube out of his throat. His back arches painfully.

"I'm trying, just...shit."

He leans over the bed and throws up. It hits someone's shoes with a splatter. Hands push him back on the bed as he shakes.

"Put him under again, or—"

Gerard swallows hard. "We had to be sure I really did know how to do it."

How to do it.

How to ghost.

Bob gets to his feet. He sways and falls against the wall, and Gerard stands, alarmed, but Bob shoves his hands away.

"Just listen," Gerard says. "I can—"

"No."

"I know I fucked up, but—"

Bob sits back on the bed hard enough to make the metal springs creak. "Get out."

He reaches under his pillow. It's almost too much to hope his gun'll be there, but it is. He curls his fingers around it. If he waits long enough, his fingers'll stop twitching.

Gerard doesn't close the door behind him.

-

Their first dance is in Angels and Kings, along to some old disco record that Bob threatens to dust if Pete doesn't take it off the speakers.

Their first kiss is on top of the diner at sunset, after they eat dinner. Gerard's mouth tastes like cigarettes.

Their first time is in the back of an old ambulance in the colony, Gerard moving carefully on top of Bob to keep from bumping his stitches.

They shouldn't be so happy. But for a short time, the crap Bob's always surrounded by doesn't touch him. So he doesn't care.

-

The Trans Am's engine shakes the building and Bob's bed. It grows fainter and fainter until there's nothing.

Ray's the only one in the front room when Bob makes his way out. Ray sits on a bar stool and tweaks a monitor with cracked glass, the dust from Angels and Kings still smeared across its case. A creaking fan pushes air through the room.

"You should probably blow the insides out," Bob says.

"Tried that already." Ray doesn't look up, but he's smiling. "Want to give it a look?"

Bob shuffles over. Each move he makes hurts a little more than the one before. But he slings on a bar stool and leans in.

The front door bounces open seconds after the monitor flickers to life. Grace runs in with Frank on her heels.

"Frank's teaching me to shoot!" she says, hugging Bob carefully.

"You already know how to shoot," Bob says.

She rolls up on her toes to get a better look at the monitor. Bob gets off his stool and walks stiffly for the bottles of water in the corner, and she takes his place.

"Where'd she come from?" Bob asks Frank.

Mikey walks in the front door and waves a couple fingers at Bob, his helmet under his arm. Bob waves back.

"The good doc. He's got his hands full."

"With what?"

Before Frank can answer, Ray makes a noise of triumph and waves. "Check it out!"

They crowd around the monitor, leaving enough room for Motorbaby to see from the bar stool.

"—be advised that Third, Fourth, and Fifth streets are still undergoing routine maintenance and will be doing so until further notice." The distortion makes the announcer impossible to see, but the sound's clear. "Thank you for your patience. In other news—"

Ray pumps a fist in the air and clicks the monitor off again.

"Uh," Bob says.

"Uprising in the city," Mikey says. He taps the monitor with a gloved finger. "Pete said it's been going on since you left."

"And how's Pete?" Frank asks, face innocent.

Mikey smiles. "Dr. D's missing his wire cutters. We have extras?"

"He fixing his rig again?" Bob asks.

Ray looks at Mikey, who looks at Frank, but Grace says, "He and Korse are doing something they wouldn't tell me about. Can I have lunch?"

"Sure," Frank says quickly. "Let's go find some cans in the garage."

"What about—"

"Come on, Baby."

He half-drags her out of the room, and the door slams shut behind them.

"Korse," Bob says. The word feels dull in his mouth.

Ray laughs nervously.

"How?"

Mikey pulls off his gloves, staring at the floor. "Pony and the doc didn't stop the orphanage run. Pete ran into them on the way out of the city."

"They came in after..." Ray swallows. "After. It's how we got everyone out."

Everyone. "And what. You flushed him?"

"Bebe did," Mikey says. "He knows things."

"He's been talking?"

Ray nods.

Bob shakes his head at no one. He inches his way back to the locker room.

-

"He won't say anything."

Mikey's got his feet on the table, sprawled in the booth like he's comfortable. He's wearing the Kobra Kid shirt Gerard made for him, and every few minutes, he smooths the hem with his hand.

Bob looks up from his transmitter and soldering gun. "Who?"

"Gee." Mikey tips down his sunglasses. "He doesn't make the first move."

-

The Trans Am's engine rumbles again.

Bob sits up. It doesn't hurt as much as it did. Standing and walking's almost easy.

"—Chow Mein got in my face," Gerard's saying as Bob makes it to the front again. "Got the entire fucking crowd riled. Shit!"

"Sorry." Mikey draws a bloody rag away from his face. "I think Bebe's still out at the club."

"I'm fine."

Gerard does a small double take as he spots Bob. His lip's split, and a red line trickles down his chin. He runs his tongue over it and stares.

Bob stares back.

"I should wash off," Gerard says. He turns toward the bathroom and doesn't look back at Bob.

The pipes creak and Grace shrieks outside, laughing. Bob's fingers twitch.

"We still got the bikes?" he asks Mikey.

Mikey nods, tucking the bloody rag in his pocket.

The garage is the same as it was: cluttered, dusty, thick with hot air. Mikey stands in the corner by one of the painted windows as Bob takes the tarp off the nearest bike and dust clouds the air. Bob coughs for a few minutes, then runs the engine, raising more dust. He turns it off, but the buzzing stays in his ears.

"Helmets?" Bob asks. Their old place, the shelf by the door, is empty.

Mikey nods toward the lockers. Sure enough, there's several helmets inside the first, including Mikey's. Bob takes a mostly black helmet, broken up with fading doodles of bees, and a pair of gloves.

"Might want a jacket," Mikey says, glancing at Bob's shirt.

Bob looks down. He's still wearing the torn Electrokat shirt. "Where?"

"Next to the helmets."

The jacket locker has three things hanging inside: a paint-stained apron Gerard used to use as a smock, a brown leather jacket, and...

"Pony gave it to me," Mikey says quietly. "And some other things."

Bob draws his fingers over the yellow fabric of his old jacket. It's smooth, clean. Then he takes the brown jacket off its hanger and slams the door shut, vibrations shaking through his hand.

"Where'd they move the colony?"

"Old lake bed, past the rocks."

As Bob nods, he slips the gloves on, slides the jacket over his arms. The old lake bed's an hour or two away. He can ride that far.

"You can always come back," Mikey says as Bob slings his leg around the bike.

Bob drops the helmet on his head. "Who said I wasn't?"

Mikey hits the garage door button. It clatters open with a blast of heat, chasing away the gloom. When Bob doesn't drive out right away - the engine's still off - Mikey claps him on the back of his jacket and goes back inside.

Bob flips the helmet's visor down and starts the bike.

-

It's dusk when New Chicago comes over the horizon. The clouds in the sky are too high for moisture. It's lucky; Bob didn't bring anything shielded against acid rain. But the wind's blowing strong, and by the time Bob stops the bike outside the main gate, he's shaking.

Pete wasn't kidding about the plaque. It sits propped against the base of the fence, shiny and gold against metal and barbed wire.

The zonerunner on gate duty checks Bob's gun. Bob stares at the guard's tall and very blue mohawk while he waits. He must've put some major product in his hair; it barely waves, even with the big gusts of wind that nearly knock Bob over.

The guard twists Bob's gun and hands it back. "Nice piece. I could really use a new one."

As Bob walks the bike in, slow steps until he gets his bearings, he sees the colony could use new everything; all the material in view is worn and falling apart. But they're still twice as big as they were the last time he was here. There's less tents and more RVs, more booths and people shuffling in groups.

Pete has the best setup. His RV looks like a one-story house, not too far off from one Bob grew up in. There's shingles on the roof and beam-like panels on the side. The clothing swap tent stands out front, yellow and beaten, hangers swaying in the wind. Patrick nods as Bob walks up.

"Doing okay?" Bob asks.

"Oh yeah," Patrick says, adjusting his belt. His clothes are too big for his frame; he's dropped a few pounds since coming back from Battery City. "How about you? Your clothes have seen better days."

Bob glances in the tent. "I don't have anything to swap."

"Dude. Just take a shirt."

Bob picks out a white shirt near the front: it's closer to his size than the Electrokat shreds, and cooler. It has a colorful elephant on the front and the words Cosmic Thrust, but he doesn't really care about that. He balls up the old shirt.

"Here." Patrick takes it from him and throws it in a bag by his feet. "If you're looking for Pete, he's in a meeting."

Bob nods. He goes back to his bike.

"I didn't say you should leave." Patrick gestures toward the door. "They just got started."

Bob considers while Patrick ties one of the tent flaps tighter. Judging by the ache in his legs, it'll be a couple hours before he can drive anywhere else.

Patrick leans in and drops his voice. "You can leave your bike with me."

"Thanks," Bob says after a heartbeat.

The front door's open, and Pete's voice drifts out as Bob approaches. "—have surefire methods, there's no reason not to."

Bob climbs up the steps.

Pete's beat-up couches are full to the brim: Show Pony, Bebe, Andy, Joe, Vicky-T, and Gabe. They all wear clashing colors and patterns, and none of them coordinate with the orange-and-green sofa fabric. If the walls weren't eggshell white, it'd be too much for anyone to look at.

Gabe spots Bob and gives him a considering smile, patting the arm of the couch next to him. Bob rolls his eyes and leans against the wall by the door.

"We'll need five-finger runs in there, too," Bebe says, "or I won't have enough supplies."

Pete nods. "Patrick's already volunteered."

Bebe smiles. "Good. He's got a level head."

"And I don't?" Pete raises a hand. "Don't answer that."

Andy leans forward. "What happens when they figure us out? They'll tighten their security."

"And hit us hard," Joe adds.

"They can't," Gabe says, sprawling his legs. "They're too busy with everything under the shield to worry about assholes like us."

Pete nods, grinning at Gabe. "And we'll go fast. Low risk, high yield."

"Exactly what I like to hear," Vicky-T says.

"And once our numbers are close to where they should be?" Pete makes a fist and punches his left hand. "Full assault."

"Full..." Joe waves his hand. "You mean, attack Headquarters?"

"Exactly. Clean them out, and take the city."

Bebe's eyes get huge. "You want to run Battery City?"

Pete looks at Bob for the first time. Everyone else's gaze flips over to him after a few seconds. Bebe smiles at him, and Pony waggles hir fingers, but Vicky-T raises an eyebrow, and Joe nudges Andy.

"Other people can do that," Pete says. "But Headquarters would make a nice Angels and Kings location, wouldn't it?"

Gabe snorts. "I wouldn't even piss on their sidewalk."

"You think people'll sit quietly and let us run things?" Pony asks. "Just because they hate BL doesn't mean they like us."

"It won't be pretty," Vicky-T says. She sounds pleased.

"Good," Pete says. "We'll keep it ugly."

It sounds like something Gerard would say.

"I'm in," Bob says.

Gabe looks approvingly at Bob, then says, "You can always count on the Cobras."

Vicky-T leans over and high-fives him.

"I'm medical," Bebe says. "I'll stay neutral on this one."

"Can we get you and the doc in the rear?" Pete asks Pony.

Gabe snickers. Everyone ignores him. The others watch hir closely, Bob included. A switch in power would go a lot easier with Dr. Death Defying talking it up.

Finally, Pony nods. "You'll need what we've got."

There's a little more chatter after that, talk on the couches of what to do next, but Pete comes up to Bob.

"Thanks," he says. "I know the Killjoys aren't in the best shape right now."

"I wasn't speaking for the Killjoys. I..."

You can always come back. Of course Mikey knew.

"I want to ride with you for a while," Bob says.

Pete glances at the couch and lowers his voice. "You missed the first part. We're grabbing Dracs."

"You'll need someone to cover Bebe's spot, won't you? Or Patrick's?"

The others start to filter past Bob and Pete. Pony squeezes Bob's arm on the way out, and Bebe says, "I'll be outside when you're done with Pete. For a checkup."

Bob nods, and she steps outside.

"It's why I brought Joe and Andy," Pete says. "I thought..."

He falls quiet when the door slams shut.

"What?"

"I don't know," Pete says finally.

"I'll be in a tent," Bob says. He didn't bring one, but there's always extras. "Find me if you change your mind."

He steps out into the night air just as the outdoor lights switch on, yellow and flickering, and goes over to Bebe.

-

"A kid?"

Gerard puts a finger to his lips; the kid in question dozes on Frank's lap, clinging to him in her sleep. Bob lets Gerard pull him outside.

"She belongs with the colony!" Bob says. "We're not fucking babysitters."

"She doesn't want to be at the colony."

"Who the fuck does?"

"She knows how to run some of the omni-tools, she knows basic car repair—"

"And she's nine. Nine years old." Bob bends to scratch his leg. Well, the bandages over his burned leg.

Gerard runs a hand through his hair. It's more brown than Bob's seen it in a while. "She won't go on runs with us."

Bob pauses mid-bend. "Don't tell me you brought her here to keep me company."

"I—"

Bob kicks a spent oil can and regrets it; the damaged muscles in his leg locks up. He bites his lip, grunting quietly as he waits for it to loosen.

"Take it easy," Gerard says, reaching for Bob.

Bob steps out of his grip. "Get out of my face before I fucking punch you."

Gerard shrinks back, pale.

"People aren't your fucking playthings," Bob grits out. He kicks at the oil can again even though the pain shooting up his leg makes his eyes water, and he stomps back inside.

-

A zipper pulls, screeching quietly. Bob grabs his gun.

"You awake?" someone whispers. It sounds like Pete.

Bob eases his hand. "Am now."

"Our first Drac run's in two hours. Thought you might need to fuel up first."

Bob rubs a hand over his face. It's chilly enough that his skin's almost numb. The hand feels like someone else's.

"Be right there," he says.

-

They lose two cars to grenades.

They get forty Dracs.

-

Angels and Kings is filled with bodies again. Most of them wear white and lie passively as Bebe runs around. A couple of assistants hover behind her; they look young, probably sixteen at most.

Pony takes guard duty with Bob, even though ze's technically supposed to be at Dr. D's.

"Living with Korse is a fucking nightmare," ze says. "It's a picnic compared to before, don't get me wrong, but he takes all the hot water in the shower."

Gabe's supposed to relieve Bob, but Bebe comes running out after a couple hours.

"Someone's asking for you," she says.

Bob blinks, but he follows her down.

It takes Bob a minute to place the man in the back corner of the front room. He has the standard post-Drac skin color and blankness - most colony rats have some kind of ink - and stitches running up the side of his head. The man waves a couple fingers.

"Schechter?" Bob says.

Brian doesn't say anything. Right.

"You can talk. And walk."

Brian wheezes a breath. "Thanks."

Bob sits on Brian's makeshift blanket bed and leans against the wall behind him.

"Thought you were dead."

"That's my line," Bob says.

Brian touches his mouth and stares at Bob. Bob realizes he's touching his lip in the same spot Bob used to keep his lip ring.

"You too?" Brian asks.

Bob doesn't nod, but his fingers twitch.

Brian doesn't say anything after that. He grabs Bob's jacket when he stands until Bob says he's going to the bathroom, and when Bob comes back, he's asleep.

Bob waits next to him, but he doesn't sleep.

-

Brian moves into Bob's tent the next day. He chokes and cries out in his sleep that night, but Bob only notices when he leaves to take a piss. Once he's asleep, he doesn't wake up.

And he doesn't dream once.

-

Both Brian and Bob sit a bike on the next raid.

Even with the first Drac grab, S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W isn't ready. Their patrol only has one Drac aware enough to give orders, and he's dusted in the first few seconds.

Pete and Gabe rock the BL/ind vans until they tip one over. Vicky-T lights the tires on fire, and black smoke curls up into the sky.

-

Half of the raiding party goes back to New Chicago and hits the bar. The other half, the former Dracs, go back to the growing tent city, Brian included.

"I'm tired," he tells Bob as they cross through the gate. "Did you sleep much? After?"

Bob shrugs. "Not tired now."

Brian rides his bike ahead. Bob turns toward the bar.

It's not much: a couple card tables as far north as the town can go before the fence. A string of lights keeps it lit. Cheers and the smell of rotgut hit like a fist, and Bob parks his bike amongst the rest. He doesn't climb off. Instead, he pulls water out of a small case on the back and leans on the handlebars.

A fight breaks out five minutes later. It looks like dancing at first, or moshing; the crowd clumps and jerks around the same way.

Bob pulls Pete off someone he doesn't recognize. Probably a newcomer; he's pale and filled out, not tan and skinny. Pete sports a gash across his nose, and Bob can't tell where the cut ends through all the blood.

He pushes back the crowds as Patrick and Gabe slip in, dragging Pete out. The other guy lunges, but Bob keeps him back.

Patrick runs past the bikes and weaves his way in the crowd. The man he drags back out isn't Pete. Pete doesn't wear yellow and black.

"Kiss my ass!" Frank yells to the crowd. He holds out the middle finger on both hands as Patrick navigates him forward. Frank stumbles a couple times before pukes on the dirt. Patrick waits as he spits and wipes his mouth and looks over at Bob, jerking his head down.

Bob shakes his head quickly.

"Come on," Patrick says as Frank tries to jerk free of his grip. "Pete has a toilet."

Bob turns his bike on and leaves.

-

A wall of Pete's RV is covered in black scribbles. Bob squints at it until Pete adds the figures from the last raid.

"This is it," he says. "Four raids, five-hundred bodies. They've got next to nothing."

Pony's tights have a run. Ze slides a finger over hir skin as ze says, "They'll pull from the people in the city."

"Did Korse tell you that?" Brian asks.

"Burn off, Rocket," Pete says, scowling at Brian. "We need him."

"Like we need a hole to the head," Andy mutters.

"We need a plan," Bob says.

"Or a couple days off." Bebe covers her mouth as she yawns. "Sorry."

Pete shakes his head. "It's now. We can't give them time to bounce back."

"Spotlight needs time to get supplies."

Patrick nods. "We might need to go in the city. If there's anything left."

"What about your dermal regenerator?"

"Only works one person at a time," Bebe says. "I can't heal injuries if people die. And I can't ghost if I don't have the shit for it."

Bob's stomach turns.

"You okay?" Brian whispers as Pete and Bebe go back and forth.

"Fine."

"—taking a couple days off now!" Pete crosses his arms.

"What about Rocket?" Bebe points at Brian. "He's been out every day since we got him back. And he's not the only one."

"They can kick back once we take the city."

"Because that'll be relaxing."

Pete kicks open the front door and storms out. Gabe runs after him.

"Guess this means we get some time off," Patrick says. He stands, adjusting a black jacket with pointy shoulders. "I'll make sure to send someone out to you in a couple days, Red Mary. Spit Fire?"

Bob jerks with surprise. "Yeah?"

"Give me a sec?"

Patrick leads him into the clothing swap tent. A whole rack holds nothing but dirty white suits. Bob keeps his back to them.

"How...how are you doing?"

"Okay," Bob says.

"Ghoul came out looking for you. At the bar."

"Didn't seem like that's what he wanted."

"You know they haven't done any runs?" Patrick shifts his weight between feet. "I went out to get volunteers a couple days ago, and Ray was the only one who'd talk to me."

The people leaving Pete's RV cast shadows on the tent walls. Bob watches in silence until they go.

"Party Poison came from here with a split lip," he says. "And you saw what happened to Ghoul."

"Yeah." Patrick sighs. "Just. If you talk to them."

Bob won't, but he nods.

-

Which means, of course, that Ray runs into town as soon as Bob goes to take guard duty at midnight.

"Where's Bebe?" he asks Bob quickly, eyes wide.

"The club," Bob says. "Did you guys get hit?"

"Is she free?"

"Probably."

Ray runs without another word. Bob looks at Brian in the guard tower. Brian nods once, and Bob's pushing in the dirt, chasing after Ray. He manages to climb in the passenger's seat of the Trans Am and close the door as Ray hits the gas, shooting dust in the air.

"Who's hurt?" Bob asks.

Ray tightens his hands around the steering wheel and doesn't answer.

They make it to Angels and Kings in fifteen minutes. Bob climbs into the back seat as Ray runs inside, and Bebe's behind him with a med case not thirty seconds after that.

"Did you stop the bleeding?" she asks as she takes the front seat.

"I didn't see," Ray says, frustrated. He turns the car. "Gerard told me to get you as fast as I could."

"Did he look conscious?"

"He said something. I didn't catch what."

"Who?" Bob asks.

Ray flips on the headlights as they bounce onto Route Guano.

"Mikey," he says.

-

The first sign of the diner's a flash of lights in the field beside it. As they draw up, Bob sees Grace's face, illuminated by laser bolts as she shoots cans in the darkness.

Ray barely parks before Bebe runs inside. Ray's right behind her. Bob turns off the engine, but he leaves the keys in the ignition and the doors open before he scrambles after.

The single bulb in the bathroom's all that illuminates the front. Frank paces, face shadowy, but Bob can see half-healed bruises. His shirt and vest are covered with dark red patches that still look wet.

Bob stops in front of him. "You okay?"

Frank looks up at Bob, a little distantly, but he nods a couple times. Nodding makes his eyes focus, and he hugs Bob, snuffling quietly against his shoulder.

"—not leaving him!" Gerard's voice gets louder with each word.

"I'm not asking you to," Bebe says firmly. She says something else, but her voice is lower, too low for Bob to hear. Bob looks at the bathroom, but he can't see around Ray in the doorway.

Bob pulls away from Frank carefully. Frank's hands shake.

"When was the last time you ate?" Bob asks.

Frank stares again. "You're kidding."

"No," Bob says. He's spent a lot of time in medical areas lately. "How about the baby?"

"I...I don't..."

Bob nods. He grabs a couple of cans of pup and wrapped crackers - which is a fucking luxury in the colony; he has no idea how they got them - and tosses Frank his brown jacket.

"Zip up," he says, "so she won't see."

Frank nods and pulls the jacket closed.

Once they're outside, Bob calls, "Motorbaby."

She runs up. "Bob!"

She tackles him in a hug, and Bob struggles to keep the cans in his hands. She looks up at his face. "What's going on? No one'll tell me."

"I don't know," Bob says, which is technically true. He doesn't have any kind of actual explanation. "Here. Dinner time."

They sit against the front wall, Grace's flashlight illuminating the area. The gun on her hip's blue like Gerard's, and it's obvious she's grown recently because it takes up less of her leg than Bob expects.

Most of the food's gone by the time Ray pokes his head out. Bob sees a smear of red on his neck, which is probably why he isn't stepping outside.

"Bob?"

Bob wipes crumbs off his hands and stands up.

"I don't know," Ray starts to say, and he shakes his head. "He won't talk, probably. But Gerard could really use you."

Bob looks down at Frank. "You two okay out here?"

Frank has more color in his cheeks than earlier. "Please. Motorbaby can take care of anyone."

She nods enthusiastically. "Absolutely."

The bathroom light's off when they go inside. A softer golden light comes from the locker room, which is where Ray goes. Bob stops long enough to inhale and exhale before letting himself in.

Mikey's on the bed Bob slept in, a saline bag slung on a hook by his head. His eyes are closed, and his arms have white gauze wrapped around them, stained with red. Bebe's setting up a bag of blood to go with the saline, and Gerard—

Bob stops in place. He takes a shuddering breath.

He can't see anything. His vision's blurry, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. He blinks, and they trail down his face. He wipes his nose; it's running a little.

Gerard comes into view again. He looks exactly like Bob would expect: more covered in blood than Frank, pale, shaking. His lips move with unspoken words, quiet mutters that Bob doesn't need to hear to know they're Mikey's name, or some kind of plea.

Ray nudges Bob and points at the chair next to Gerard.

Bob sits down. Gerard's hand's covered in blood, and his own hand's covered in tears and snot, but he grabs Gerard anyway.

Gerard doesn't look at Bob, but he raises their hands to face level and squeezes.

-

Bebe doesn't leave until dawn.

"I'll come back later tonight," she tells Gerard. "We can move him to the club if he hasn't improved."

Gerard hugs her. He doesn't let go of Bob's hand; he hasn't all night. He says a string of words that sounds like "thank you" over and over, but Bob isn't sure.

Ray left earlier on a bike and came back with Pete's car. He, Bebe, and Grace all leave; the kid's going to stay at the club for a while. Bob's chest aches a little at the thought.

Frank's sleeping in a booth. He barely stirs when Bob and Gerard walk back in. He's changed his shirt; there's only a couple of smears of blood on his face from where he hasn't washed.

Bebe insisted they move another cot into the locker room if Gerard wouldn't leave Mikey to sleep. Gerard does lie down, but not like he's going to sleep; he doesn't take his eyes off Mikey. There isn't much room, but Bob lies behind him, balancing on the edge.

"He's been different," Gerard says. He hugs Bob's arm. "I thought he just needed space."

Like Bob needed space. God. Gerard didn't even have Mikey. "Different how?"

"He wasn't laughing at anything. And he wasn't sleeping. I'd get up, and he'd be on the roof or in the front." Gerard says the last words in a whisper. "I think I saw him crying once."

Bob's never seen Mikey cry.

"I should've..."

"Done something?" Bob asks. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Talked to him? Asked him if everything was okay?"

And probably gotten nothing back. But it's not what Gerard wants to hear, so Bob slides in closer and lets his eyes close.

-

Gerard finally drifts off in the early afternoon. Mikey's still asleep; the painkillers Bebe gave him knocked him out cold. Frank pops in at one point and gives Bob water, but mostly, Bob waits. He isn't tired enough to sleep much.

When late afternoon warms the room to a stifling level, Mikey's eyes open. He looks over at Bob when Bob sits up.

"Hi," he whispers.

Bob waves his free hand.

"Is he..."

"Fine," Bob says quietly. He shakes Gerard's shoulder until Gerard groans and opens his eyes. Then he leaves the room, and the diner completely when he sees no one's in the front room.

Frank's smoking up against the building. Ray's back, too; he's leaning against a gas pump, staring at nothing.

"Mikey's awake," Bob says.

"Thank fuck," Frank says. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and exhales a long trail of smoke.

Ray stands. "He and Gerard are talking?"

Bob nods. "Thanks for bringing me out here last night."

"I was looking for Bebe."

"Yeah. But thanks anyway."

Ray smiles, tired. "You need a ride back out?"

Bob shakes his head. "You guys need the car here. In case of an emergency."

"Right," Frank says, drawing the word out. "Emergency."

He kicks at Bob a little, but his foot doesn't come anywhere close to landing.

"Patrick said you guys haven't been on any runs."

"Not you too," Frank says. He drops his cigarette and crushes it.

"Bob's gone on all of them," Ray says. "Or that's what Patrick told me."

"Me and Rocket," Bob says. "Well. After the first one."

Frank laughs. "Shit, Schechter's alive? I didn't see him out there."

Ray blinks. "You went to the colony? When?"

"A couple days ago," Bob says.

Frank freezes. He lowers his arms slowly. "You were there?"

Bob crosses his arms. "The raid just ended."

Crack. Bob's vision goes white, and he bites his tongue hard. When his eyes clear, he's on his knees, spitting blood.

"Fucking robot!"

Ray's got Frank by the shoulders, holding him back. "Bob, are you..."

"I'm fine," Bob says, rubbing his cheek. "Let him go."

That turns out to be a mistake; Frank immediately lunges in and starts yelling in Bob's face. "We didn't know where the fuck you were, you could've been dead, you could've been—"

"Mikey knew," Bob yells over him.

Frank cuts off. "He did?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"No," Ray says quietly. "He didn't tell us a lot, I guess."

Bob winces and spits again. He looks up at Ray. "Give us a second."

He nods and turns as the wind picks up. Bob shields his face, but it's not in time to keep grit from spraying his skin. When it dies down, and he brushes sand off, Ray's rounding the corner by the garage.

Frank kicks the Trans Am. Bob didn't notice the night before, but it's a lighter color again, even if it doesn't have its usual accents. Frank's foot dents the door, and he stares at it.

"Gerard's gonna kill me," he says.

Bob shrugs. "I'll tell him Ray hit a rock on the way back from the club."

"If he saw me punch..." Frank sniffles a little, pushing at his nose with his sleeve. "He doesn't need this right now."

"He'll be inside for a while."

Frank steps up and offers Bob his hand. "Don't go running off again, Bryar. You got it?"

Bob takes Frank's hand and gets to his feet.

-

Gerard stumbles in the tent, blood dripping out one side of his nose. He kicks the main tent pole, which is anchored in a barrel of hardened cement. It stays up, but it's loud, and the others in the sleeping bags jump.

"Who the fuck are they, Bob?" Gerard yells, pointing at the movements. "Why the fuck are they in my tent?"

Bob tries to steer Gerard outside, but it isn't fast enough: Mikey's sitting up. He stares, eyes red and puffy, and even tweaked out of his mind, Gerard can see it. He falls backward, out of the tent.

"He needs me," Gerard says when Bob follows. "But I can't."

Bob props his head up in his hands. Gerard looks straight in his eyes, pupils blown.

"You will," Bob says.

-

Mikey's doing better the next day. Bebe shows up in the ambulance anyway.

"We can heal his wrists," she tells Bob as she climbs out, rubbing her eyes. They're puffy and swollen. "I just can't move the dermal regenerator right now."

"You okay?"

"Pete went on the supply run when he heard about Mikey. I was patching people all night." She scowls. "He took a bolt to the leg. Asshole."

Bob frowns. "He's okay?"

She nods. "Oh yeah. He's just...Pete."

Mikey walks to the ambulance without any problems. Bob and Gerard help him inside the back; his wrists make climbing tough. Gerard stays with him, and Bob climbs in the front, gun in hand.

They wind through the desert lazily, avoiding Route Guano and all the main roads. It's bumpier, and a little longer, but even though Bob doesn't stop scanning the landscape, they run into no one.

Brian waits just inside Angels and Kings. He nods at Bob as he and Gerard follow Mikey down the stairs, and Bob lets them follow Bebe into the back.

"You took off in a hurry," Brian says.

"Good reason," Bob says. "You miss me?"

"Nah." The word comes out flat, bland. Bob claps him on the shoulder anyway.

The main room isn't as full as Bob's seen it, but it still hums with activity. No one's in a white suit, but half of the people still lie flat on their backs, staring at the ceiling. It's neatly divided: the other half of the room curses under their breaths and looks over their injuries. Most of them have tattoos and piercings of some kind. The other side doesn't.

Bob's fingers twitch once. Then again. And again.

"I'll be outside," he tells Brian. The words come out a little tight. Brian frowns at him, but he doesn't say anything.

Bob stumbles up the stairs.

It's easier to breathe in the open air. Angels and Kings is one of the cooler hideouts - its fans are powered by solar, one of the few places they've risked any kind of array - but it's still a hole in the ground, and there's a lot more room for the air to move outside.

Bob watches his fingers twitch. It takes an hour for them to stop.

-

Ray and Frank pull up in the Trans Am just as Gerard starts shouting.

"The fuck?" Frank asks as he comes into hearing range.

Bob shrugs. He hasn't gone back inside.

The other two climb down; the stomping boots drown out the yelling for a second, and when it comes back, it's coming from Mikey. He still can't make out the words.

It cuts off abruptly, and the stairs rattle again. Gerard emerges, face red, and walks past Bob like he doesn't see him.

"Gerard?" Bob says softly.

Gerard freezes.

"Is...is Mikey..."

"Fine," Gerard says quickly. "He's healed."

Something in Bob's chest loosens. He wipes sweat from his forehead and exhales.

"It's Red Mary," Gerard says. "She said Mikey's..."

"What?"

"He tried to kill himself." The words come out tight. "Because he's depressed."

Bob waits.

"And he needs pills. Medication."

Bob's gut tightens painfully.

"Mikey fucking agreed with her." Gerard rubs his hands over his face. "He already took some. From a pill bottle."

"Shit," Bob says. "Was it..."

"White? Yeah. The logo was scrubbed off, but I could tell."

Bob nods. "Wait here."

He climbs down the stairs. He very carefully doesn't look at the main room until he's in the supply closet with the group.

"—not uncommon," Bebe says as Bob closes the door behind him. "It looks different for everyone, and you guys in particular, but I've been treating a lot of the former Dracs."

"Why will it look different?" Ray asks.

"Lots of reasons. Individual chemistry, the drugs they used, the experiences."

"But pills?" Frank's staring at Bebe's hands like she's got a live bomb, and when Bob looks down, he sees why: she's holding a pill bottle. "Don't we have therapists or something?"

"It's just for now," Mikey says. His wrists are back to normal. "Until things settle."

Frank snorts and walks out the door.

"You're sure?" Ray says.

Mikey nods.

"Works for me." He hugs Mikey and follows Frank.

Bob sits on the bed next to Mikey. Bebe extends the pill bottle. Bob flinches.

"I need someone staying with them to keep an eye on these," she says.

"Ask Ray," Bob says.

"He told me to ask you."

Bob shivers. "I can't."

She goes out front with a sigh, and Mikey leans against his shoulder.

"It was just too much," he whispers. "It felt like everything was loose in my head."

"You're not the only one," Bob says.

"Does he hate me?"

Bob blinks. "Gerard?"

"Yeah."

"Trust me," Bob says. "He'll never hate you."

-

The backseat of the Trans Am is cramped. Mikey's the thinnest, but he gets the front seat. Frank takes the middle and wriggles most of the time, but shoving at him only makes it worse.

When they make it back to the diner, Mikey asks, "Can I borrow the car?"

Gerard looks at him, alarmed. Mikey rolls his eyes.

"Bob'll drive," he says.

Bob frowns, but when Gerard looks at him, he says, "Yeah. No problem."

They shuffle around, and when it's just Bob and Mikey, Bob drives out of the diner's parking area slowly. Gerard stands at the front, getting smaller as the car pulls away.

"Where are we going, exactly?" Bob asks.

"The colony." When Bob raises an eyebrow, Mikey scratches at the healed part of his arm and says, "Pete's out there."

"Really?"

"Bebe said he was probably trashing the place." Mikey sighs as they pull onto Route Guano.

"I should get my stuff anyway," Bob says.

Mikey tilts his head. "So you're coming back."

"Someone needs to keep an eye on Frank," Bob says. "Did you see the bruise he gave me?"

"That was Frank?"

"He called me a robot."

Mikey pulls the sleeves of his jacket to his wrists. "What was it like?"

"It?"

Mikey pushes his sunglasses up on his nose. "Being a Drac."

Bob runs his thumb over the steering wheel. "I haven't really thought about it."

"Really."

"Not like..." Bob sighs. "They blasted my head clean of pretty much everything. I'm still getting it back."

Mikey nods like Bob said something profound. "Everything?"

"Yeah. Memories. Emotions. You name it."

"Emotions," Mikey says, and he sounds a little surprised. "You didn't feel anything?"

"Uh."

Mikey shakes his head. "After. When Bebe flushed you."

"Sure I..."

But he trails off. Aside from a couple dreams and the last couple days, he didn't. Not really.

"What changed?"

"Huh?"

Mikey points to his hands on the steering wheel. Bob's white-knuckling it. He tries to relax.

"I guess I should ask when it changed." Mikey leans back in the seat. "It wasn't when you left, was it?"

Bob shakes his head.

"Nothing," Mikey murmurs. He touches his wrist again.

"So you..."

"All of it. Right away."

Bob's breath goes a little faster. He pulls to the side of the road and slows.

     What if Korse had shot me in the head?

    He'll live.

   I almost shot Gerard.

  The four of them went in. She was the only one to come out.

He gets other flashes. Frank's fists. Brian's flat words. Four body bags in the lobby.

Bob's head's against the steering wheel, digging in. Mikey rubs his hand in circles on Bob's back.

"Mikey," Bob says. His voice wavers, but he sits up.

Mikey smiles reassuringly. "Pete can wait."

-

The orange tent's on the roof, braced behind the DIE sign. Mikey squeezes Bob's arm and walks back inside.

Bob climbs up the side of the building to the roof easily, even though the wind's blowing in his direction. He nearly gets smacked in the face with a tent flap when he's up there. He catches a piece of rope and ties it to the side.

"Who's there?"

Bob's shadow casts a perfect silhouette. Gerard knows who it is. "A zombie."

Gerard's face appears, squinting in the sunlight. "You don't look like you're rotting."

"I stitched up," Bob says. "You letting me in or not?"

Gerard moves back, and Bob slips inside.

The tent's not too stifling yet. It will be soon - Bob feels the temperature rise as his body heat adds to it - but the sign blocks some of the sunlight. Gerard sprawls in the corner, using his jacket as a cushion. He shifts to make room when Bob moves next to him.

"Where'd Mikey want to go?" he asks.

"New Chicago," Bob says. The corners of his mouth quirk up. Only Pete.

"You didn't make it?"

"We decided to go later."

Gerard hums in acknowledgment. He barely looks at Bob when he says, "Are you staying there for good?"

"I thought I was," Bob replies.

"Not now?"

Bob reaches for Gerard. He doesn't realize he's doing it until Gerard cringes away, and Bob lets his hand drop.

"I'm not pissed at you," Bob says.

Gerard barks a laugh. "That's one of us."

Bob takes a second to breathe.

"I couldn't be mad at all," he says. "Physically. I'm only just starting to get it back. But I knew I should be pissed."

Gerard nods, but he looks a little confused.

"The memories are coming back. But some of them have almost always been there."

Bob's fingers twitch. He flexes his fingers, and when it doesn't stop them, he starts to hide them behind his back. But Gerard grabs his hand and interlaces his fingers. He doesn't move away when Bob's fingers keep twitching.

"Go on," Gerard says quietly.

Bob's mouth goes dry. He works saliva until he can talk again.

"If someone can't feel," he says, voice hoarse, "and they only remember what it's like to kill, it's not the sort of person you want around."

There's more he should say. But even though he moves his mouth, he can't make the words come.

"You don't have to," Gerard says.

He does. He really, really does.

"One of the memories I got back. From the lobby." His lower lip quivers. "With Grace."

The sound of Gerard's hitched breath is almost eaten by the wind outside. Bob turns away, chest tight. But when he tries to get his hand out, Gerard won't let go. It's gentle - no crushing involved - but firm.

"I was a mess when they brought me back," Gerard says quietly. "Then they told me you were dead, and I just...checked out."

When Bob looks back, Gerard's looking at him, eyes soft. His hand eases around Bob's, giving Bob an out. When Bob doesn't let go, he puts his other hand on top.

"Pony talked me out of it."

"How?" Bob asks.

"It was one of the first things you said. One of the first words, after you came back."

Bob blinks. "Gerard."

"Gerard," Gerard agrees. "See? You've always remembered more."

He leans forward and closes his eyes. Most people would see it and think Gerard wants to be kissed, and they're probably not wrong. But Bob leans his forehead against Gerard and sighs. Gerard shifts until their legs are pressed against each other.

"Bebe knows how to ghost," Bob says. "You showed her."

Gerard stiffens. "Yeah."

Bob slips his hand across Gerard's cheek, and he relaxes. "Let me stay dead next time."

Gerard squeezes his eyes tight and says nothing. Bob doesn't expect it.

He touches their lips together.

They kiss quietly for a moment, nothing extreme, just basic contact. After a moment, Gerard groans and sits in his lap, pushes Bob down until Gerard's lying on top of him, warm and heavy.

He whispers words in Bob's ears as he touches him, desperate and low. He moans as Bob pushes away his dirty clothes and draws his tongue and teeth over the sensitive skin on Bob's chest. He unzips Bob's jeans and pulls them off, dragging denim on Bob's newly unscarred legs.

Gerard's mouth, moist and warm, slips over his cock. Bob digs his fingers into the floor of the tent and works to hold himself back. It should be harder. He should be overwhelmed, and he is a little. But the thought of it ending keeps him back, the feel of Gerard's hair laced in his fingers, the dye trickling across the back of his hand.

When Gerard pulls back and sucks his fingers in his mouth, Bob pulls his legs up and shivers. They're both covered in sweat, but the light behind Gerard makes him glow gently. Bob's chest tightens, and for an instant, he sees Gerard with blue hair, back when the tent was in the colony. Another memory.

And then Gerard's fingers slip inside him, and as Bob arches, Gerard's never been more real.

It's good, it's amazing, it's fucking unreal, and it gets better when Bob's open and slick enough to take Gerard. They press together, rock in a gentle rhythm that grows less controlled, feel each other inside and out. Gerard knows just how to thrust, knows just where the spot that'll send Bob over is, and he teases, bumping and drawing back, until he's shaking with the need to let go.

"Do it," Bob says. His voice rumbles against Gerard's chest.

Gerard does. He pushes hard, slipping Bob's cock between them, and comes inside Bob, hot and wet. Bob reaches down and jerks himself off, coming as Gerard shakes with aftershocks.

They wipe up with Gerard's shirt and lie next to each other, breathing hard without words. Gerard kisses Bob's temple.

Bob lets himself drift off. Gerard'll be there when he wakes up.



Epilogue

Heat blasts through the garage door. Paint fumes blast back out.

Gerard takes his mask off. "Not bad."

It's not the same. The car door reads VAYA again, but in orange and red, and the letters on the tailgate spell "keep running". But the spider's back. Bob runs his fingers over its surface, smearing one of the legs a little.

Not bad at all.

-

The wind and boots crunching on sand are the only sounds in New Chicago.

All the Killjoys, Bob included, wear bandannas over their faces, goggles and sunglasses protecting their eyes from the dust. The streets are almost deserted, but here and there, masked zonerunners watch, expressions covered.

Still, no one else bothers them before they make it to Pete's house. Pete opens the door when Ray knocks.

"Wow."

"Hi to you, too," Mikey says, and Pete grins.

"Missed you guys," he says, and lets them in.

Gerard paces for a second before speaking. "You're doing a final run on the city?"

"That's right." Pete's smile fades. "You got a problem with it?"

"Actually, I had a few ideas."

Pete laughs. "Fuck yes."

-

Bob hands Patrick some of his old clothes: the black vest, the yellow jacket he used to use, the brown leather jacket he's uses now. He even takes the Cosmic Thrust shirt off his back.

"Should probably wash that one," he says, and Gerard laughs.

"I'll keep that in mind," Patrick says, putting his clothes in the new arrivals box. "What's the occasion?"

Bob wanders the racks until orange catches his eye. He stops in front of the jackets.

"Got a party to go to," he says.

-

The Black Parade is dead.

The Trans Am still gets a wide berth when it pulls up in front of the gates of New Chicago, and from the back of his bike, Bob doesn't miss any of the looks they're given when Gerard steps out and the others lean out the windows. But no one says anything or makes a move, so Bob doesn't acknowledge anyone.

Like all the other cars in the lineup, they have extra guns mounted: a bazooka sticking out the top, a machine gun anchored to the top, and something with lasers that Bob and Ray put together using the scraps at the diner. Gerard even added a back shield with five symbols on it: one for each of the Killjoys.

Bob looks up and down the line. He's never seen their numbers this high before. One way or another, they won't be ever again.

Brian pulls up on his bike.

"Rocket Roller," Bob says.

"Spit Fire." Brian looks him up and down. "Nice outfit."

Bob's wearing the orange jacket and a red shirt. The jeans and sneakers are from before, and they fit perfectly. He has his new mask stashed away: a gas mask with flames painted by Gerard.

"Couldn't be underdressed," he says.

Gerard climbs on a makeshift stage. It looks like the tables from the bar tied together, with a couple extra beams for support. Grace stands at the foot, and she hands him a megaphone once he gets to the top. She waves at Bob.

The megaphone crackles to life.

"Good evening, New Chicago!"

Cheers rise to Bob's left. It comes from two cars: Pete's, with Patrick, Andy, and Joe crowded around, and the Cobra car, a red snake painted on the side.

"Would you destroy something perfect in order to make it beautiful?"

More cheers from more cars. Bob claps his hands. He's never been the cheering type.

Gerard continues in that vein for a while. The breeze carries most of his words down the line, but he has a way of working the crowd that doesn't need speech. He always has.

He finishes with a flourish, and everyone shouts and yells. Bob sees Pete put on his fabric ears as Gerard jumps down, and all the cars and bikes roar to life.

Gerard stops in front of the Trans Am with a grin for Bob. "Are you ready?"

Everyone gives their own version of yes back. Bob's heart pounds in his throat as he slaps the visor of his helmet down, and Gerard climbs in the driver's seat.

The second before they pull out, Frank whoops loudly, and Ray claps his hands a couple times. Gerard holds his arm up, holding his bandanna for the world to see.

Bob laughs.

Gerard lets go.

top

Comments

[alasse]

This was so, so, so amazing. I really loved how you worked the story of the Killjoys we know into your own story, with Bob as a fifth Killjoy. I loved the tone of the story, too - just wonderful.

[gorgeousnerd]

Thanks, I really appreciate it!