Ficlet: Drawn and Quartered [Bandom, MCR]
Title: Drawn and Quartered
Fandom: Bandom- My Chemical Romance
Character/s: Gerard Way, Frank Iero
Disclaimer: While I'm writing about actual people, this isn't true.
A/N: Written for the Music is my Boyfriend meme. greedy_dancer gave me the prompt Killjoys, itunes gave me the following:
Song: Funeral Service - The Ghost Who Walks
Additional lyrics: American Waste - Black Flag
And it became a story about ghosts.
~~~
Bad news from the zones, tumbleweeds.
It looks like Jet Star and the Kobra Kid had a clap with an exterminator that went all Costa Rica and, uh, got themselves ghosted. Dusted out on route guano.
So it's time to hit the red line and upthrust the volume out there.
Keep your boots tight, keep your gun close and die with your mask on if you've got to.
-Jet Star and the Kobra Kid/Traffic Report
~~~
The fire's built up a bed of coals, hunkering down into the perpetual conversation between ash and flame, when the first wisps appear at road’s edge. It's still too early, of course. Gerard doesn't care. Worry's been gnawing at him with rat-teeth since they'd gotten word. The first thing nibbled away had been his patience.
The moonshine smells more like paint thinner than booze. He wrinkles his nose at the fumes and pours. His hands shake - they always do - so Gerard pours slowly, mindful of spills. Ray’s mug first, then Mikey’s chipped enamelware cup. He sets them down, twisting the handles once to steady them in the sand, next to the two filled plates.
A coyote yips in the distance and his fingers slide automatically towards his holster. Flash of movement across the fire mirrors the gesture. Gerard meets Frank’s eye and matches his smirk with one of his own. They’d left the guns in the car. They always do. It probably isn’t necessary, but neither of them are willing to tempt fate with a full holster. Not out here.
Fucking ray guns.
Bli didn't do enough experiments before releasing their tech into the field. Gerard’s read the reports that Mikey flushed out from hacked lines, has gotten additional confirmed intel from the defector’s grapevine. Bli had celebrated clean weaponry, overly focused on hyping their ‘batteries, not bullets’ line of defense. Batteries not bullets, burns not bleeding... sizzle slicing away pieces so cleanly, sometimes you didn’t even know what you’d lost, the cauterization was so thorough.
The consequences of that cauterization surprised them all.
The moon hangs, half ripe and orange, on the horizon. Shadows of brush and cactus are sharp, their darkness deep. He's learned to not look directly there. Among the needled-spines the ghosts are older and unfamiliar, made of sooty wool and silver tarnish. They are, however, unified in their hunger. Gerard has no interest in feeding them.
There are ways to find your way. Frank always laughs after he says that. They've learned to ignore the edge of hysteria that still underlies the pun.
There are ways.
Old ways are best.
Spirits to wake spirits. A fire to call them home.
Family to leave you an empty place at the table.
Family by blood, family found, it doesn't matter. It's a question of re-assembling, of who has enough of you in memory to match up your scars and seam them back together.
The trick - for them at least - is to blaze bright and be unforgettable. Dr. Death Defying helps with this, writing them large on the airwaves. Enough people listen to keep the four of them pinned in place. The Killjoys are vivid in the collective memory - rumors hissed in Battery City, names whispered in the zones. Their pictures are everywhere. Korse is livid, furious over their infamy, but it's his own damn fault for making their extermination his crusade.
They won't get lost anytime soon. Gerard knows this 100% percent.
He also believes that this is something else, something more, a mystery that he can’t grasp. Gerard likes to think that it’s the world protesting, kicking back against hubris.
Damn, he hates waiting.
He hates Route Guano more. It's a cracked artery in the ghost roads, two major crossroads linking it to the highways, spilling endless spirits between the white lines. Overused, it's easy to get lost when in the slipstream. Gerard doesn't remember much from his own travels on that road, but he holds onto the feeling of being alone and yearning. He clings harder to the memory of deep relief in his brother's eyes when he’d broken free.
Mikey is an absence, gaping empty in his chest.
Frank has Ray's guitar, is muttering lyrics in low accompaniment to his playing.
Leaning back on his heels Gerard breathes, listening as the chords speed up behind him and settle into a song he knows. It's Black Flag, of course. They all have added to this routine, personal acts solidifying into a beacon and an anchor. Gerard sings along, adding strength to a few lines.
I know what I see what I want
The doors are closed in this maze
A woman walks past, carrying colorless groceries in a string bag. She doesn't even look in Gerard’s direction, just swings her bag and strides towards the city. A translucent hot rod races up the pavement, drives through her and away, its engine shifting gears with a wail. In the car's wake the woman re-forms, shakes her fist at the fading foxfire of taillights and keeps walking.
Wind whistles, swirling fog and sand down the highway. It rattles the sagebrush, clacking branches together. Gerard strains his eyes and catches a glimpse, an after-image at the point where the road curves away to the west. He can’t decide if that faint, slender figure is familiar or not before the mist eddies concealment in once more.
Tension winds itself tighter in his shoulders.
Frank stops strumming, mid-chord.
In the silence, Gerard can hear boots on the pavement.
He lights a cigarette and waits for his brother to come back to him.
Fandom: Bandom- My Chemical Romance
Character/s: Gerard Way, Frank Iero
Disclaimer: While I'm writing about actual people, this isn't true.
A/N: Written for the Music is my Boyfriend meme. greedy_dancer gave me the prompt Killjoys, itunes gave me the following:
Song: Funeral Service - The Ghost Who Walks
Additional lyrics: American Waste - Black Flag
And it became a story about ghosts.
~~~
Bad news from the zones, tumbleweeds.
It looks like Jet Star and the Kobra Kid had a clap with an exterminator that went all Costa Rica and, uh, got themselves ghosted. Dusted out on route guano.
So it's time to hit the red line and upthrust the volume out there.
Keep your boots tight, keep your gun close and die with your mask on if you've got to.
-Jet Star and the Kobra Kid/Traffic Report
~~~
The fire's built up a bed of coals, hunkering down into the perpetual conversation between ash and flame, when the first wisps appear at road’s edge. It's still too early, of course. Gerard doesn't care. Worry's been gnawing at him with rat-teeth since they'd gotten word. The first thing nibbled away had been his patience.
The moonshine smells more like paint thinner than booze. He wrinkles his nose at the fumes and pours. His hands shake - they always do - so Gerard pours slowly, mindful of spills. Ray’s mug first, then Mikey’s chipped enamelware cup. He sets them down, twisting the handles once to steady them in the sand, next to the two filled plates.
A coyote yips in the distance and his fingers slide automatically towards his holster. Flash of movement across the fire mirrors the gesture. Gerard meets Frank’s eye and matches his smirk with one of his own. They’d left the guns in the car. They always do. It probably isn’t necessary, but neither of them are willing to tempt fate with a full holster. Not out here.
Fucking ray guns.
Bli didn't do enough experiments before releasing their tech into the field. Gerard’s read the reports that Mikey flushed out from hacked lines, has gotten additional confirmed intel from the defector’s grapevine. Bli had celebrated clean weaponry, overly focused on hyping their ‘batteries, not bullets’ line of defense. Batteries not bullets, burns not bleeding... sizzle slicing away pieces so cleanly, sometimes you didn’t even know what you’d lost, the cauterization was so thorough.
The consequences of that cauterization surprised them all.
The moon hangs, half ripe and orange, on the horizon. Shadows of brush and cactus are sharp, their darkness deep. He's learned to not look directly there. Among the needled-spines the ghosts are older and unfamiliar, made of sooty wool and silver tarnish. They are, however, unified in their hunger. Gerard has no interest in feeding them.
There are ways to find your way. Frank always laughs after he says that. They've learned to ignore the edge of hysteria that still underlies the pun.
There are ways.
Old ways are best.
Spirits to wake spirits. A fire to call them home.
Family to leave you an empty place at the table.
Family by blood, family found, it doesn't matter. It's a question of re-assembling, of who has enough of you in memory to match up your scars and seam them back together.
The trick - for them at least - is to blaze bright and be unforgettable. Dr. Death Defying helps with this, writing them large on the airwaves. Enough people listen to keep the four of them pinned in place. The Killjoys are vivid in the collective memory - rumors hissed in Battery City, names whispered in the zones. Their pictures are everywhere. Korse is livid, furious over their infamy, but it's his own damn fault for making their extermination his crusade.
They won't get lost anytime soon. Gerard knows this 100% percent.
He also believes that this is something else, something more, a mystery that he can’t grasp. Gerard likes to think that it’s the world protesting, kicking back against hubris.
Damn, he hates waiting.
He hates Route Guano more. It's a cracked artery in the ghost roads, two major crossroads linking it to the highways, spilling endless spirits between the white lines. Overused, it's easy to get lost when in the slipstream. Gerard doesn't remember much from his own travels on that road, but he holds onto the feeling of being alone and yearning. He clings harder to the memory of deep relief in his brother's eyes when he’d broken free.
Mikey is an absence, gaping empty in his chest.
Frank has Ray's guitar, is muttering lyrics in low accompaniment to his playing.
Leaning back on his heels Gerard breathes, listening as the chords speed up behind him and settle into a song he knows. It's Black Flag, of course. They all have added to this routine, personal acts solidifying into a beacon and an anchor. Gerard sings along, adding strength to a few lines.
I know what I see what I want
The doors are closed in this maze
A woman walks past, carrying colorless groceries in a string bag. She doesn't even look in Gerard’s direction, just swings her bag and strides towards the city. A translucent hot rod races up the pavement, drives through her and away, its engine shifting gears with a wail. In the car's wake the woman re-forms, shakes her fist at the fading foxfire of taillights and keeps walking.
Wind whistles, swirling fog and sand down the highway. It rattles the sagebrush, clacking branches together. Gerard strains his eyes and catches a glimpse, an after-image at the point where the road curves away to the west. He can’t decide if that faint, slender figure is familiar or not before the mist eddies concealment in once more.
Tension winds itself tighter in his shoulders.
Frank stops strumming, mid-chord.
In the silence, Gerard can hear boots on the pavement.
He lights a cigarette and waits for his brother to come back to him.