Trinitite 1/2

[defect_no9]

Title: Trinitite
Author: Defect-no9
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexual situations, language, violence, drug references, and pop rocks.
Summary: “We may not live to see tomorrow,” Frank said around the grin forming on his lips. He stroked down Party’s forearm and pried his hand off his hip. Interlocking their fingers together, he kissed the leather clad knuckles. His breath was short and shallow when it puffed out against the skin of their hands.
    Party visibly swallowed, his jaw shifting back and forth for a second or two.
   “I’ve got a Trans Am.”
Disclaimer: Who thought LARPing in the desert could be so fun?

Now available in one piece at AO3! HERE!


Author notes: The term “Wirehead” is based on an idea found in the short story titled “Death by ecstasy” from Larry Niven.  Dedicated to ladyfoxxx  for being the first to put two and two together, effectively birthing the dust-verse. This is for you. Many thanks to xxbakacoconutxx and solsticezero for Beta-ing, back rubbing, and generally being equal parts cheerleaders and evil dictators. Also for roxy_palace for creating the Dustverse rec board, and popheart  for believing in my smut writing abilities.

The last note faded out into white static as Dr. Deathdefying’s radio show disappeared from the analog waves of Bob’s geezer of a pick-up truck. It was about forty years old, and certainly acted that way. Frank glanced over at Bob as he banged his fist on the console, trying to get a new radio signal. They’d managed to outrun the acid rain, so he couldn’t really complain. They were on their way to meet a camp, hopefully to trade supplies. If they were lucky, they might even get to stay with the caravan for a while. If they could find the fucking meeting place that is.

Bob spent the entire day blazing a path across the endless stretch of zones three and four. After hours of biting dust particles and waving mirages, they finally approached their destination. A caravan of busted up RV’s and SUV’s created a protective ring around the smaller, faster, muscle cars. One car was jacked off to the side alone. Bob parked his pick-up over by the other looming 4x4’s. Frank was anxious to be out and moving after the day long trip through the zones. They took the long way around as to not draw the enemy near. Even now, in the crisp desert air; Frank scanned the horizon looking for latex suits. They tended to crash and recede like some sort of toxic sea foam. Jumping out of the passenger side of Bob’s truck, Frank let himself drop down hard. Pain shot up from his heels, weeding it’s way behind his eyes, as his battered nerves registered the shock. He grinned in spite of himself, proving once again that he was human.

Frank patted the front of his vest for the crushed cardboard box holding his last few cigarettes. Dragging the worn pack from his pocket, he frowned down at how few he really had. Four. Four fucking cigarettes. He jammed his pack back into his vest pocket, and stuffed the tiny stick between his lips in annoyance. His lighter in one hand, his other cupping the flame, he lit up and puffed out. The horizon was a flat, thick line, dividing the inky black sky from the pale, glittering sand of the desert. He was sick and tired of looking at the desert. Sand, sand, bush, sand, tree, sand. It was better than Battery City though.

Battery City was a gleaming bucket of oil and residue rising out of the sands of zone one. Constantly buzzing with electricity in the mind and body, it drugged it’s inhabitants into a stupor. Diesel martinis and burnt out remains of human flesh. Carbo-sluts and Vinyl-whores sold their own skin to become an organic appliance. Robots wearing the elastic skin of the people they once were. If your worked hard, you could stay young forever. If you stayed young, you could work forever. Anything just to stretch the wrinkles a little harder. Parents, teachers, police officers, the god damned president were all just machines working toward a goal that they would never reach.

Eventually they fell into the robotic routines handed to them personally by their beloved data overlord. Get up, go to work, come home, have a can of slop to eat, plug in, go to sleep. Everyone was plugging in, it was almost a given. It was like showering, eating, socializing, and fucking all rolled into one.

“Plugging in was what ended the war,” they said.

They said it because their teeth were rotting out of their skulls. The flesh was busy being replaced by cybernetics, and plugging in was now cordless. Well, some people liked to be corded still; better voltage and all that. Wireheads were dangerous little fucks.

“Plugging in” was literally just that. It was a port directly into your nucleus accumbens. Which is just fancy talk for the pleasure center of the brain. All the addiction of drugs, all reasons to fuck, all the rewards systems that humans built over the years were smashed to the ground by an attractive model advertising big brother’s little wonder. Imagine an endless supply of dopamine and prolactin just oozing out of your brain and into your blood stream.

All paid for and backed by the latex suits on the horizon.

The war ended because people plugged in, and forgot what mattered. Most never pulled the plug back out. Twitching, blood shot eyes flew toward the digital clocks inside steel walls, inside a rotting corpse. Battery City, corroded in it’s own acid, was the last standing humanoid city on the west coast. It was a fucking horrorshow.

Frank jumped out of his thoughts as the burning filter connected with his fingers. Dropping the tiny remains of his cigarette, he sucked his finger into his mouth to hush the screaming nerves. Looking away from the horizon, he started over toward the camp. Bob was already gone. Having no other idea as to what he was supposed to be doing, Frank let himself wander around the caravan. Other members were scattered about; some on broken lawn chairs, others on tattered pieces of cloth, the majority on the desert floor itself. Only a handful were still awake at such a late hour, mostly just those on guard duty. He found himself only a few feet away from the roaring bonfire crackling away in the center of the caravan. There was something soothing about the warmth of the flames, yet at the same time terrifying. The long wisps of smoke told the tale of when the bombs fell.

The crackling fires of L.A. echoed in his ears as he was sent backwards. The pig bombs of 2017 rocketed overhead as Bob pushed his head down into the shelter. Who the fuck used pigs for bombs anyway? The last thing Frank saw was the door slamming above him, shutting out the explosions. In the dark they clung to each other. Frightened, and listening to the sound of the world as they knew it crashing down, Frank thought distantly of his family. He had a wife, he had babies, he had an entire existence back home. As soon as the bombs started to rain down harder, he knew that was the end. Life as he knew it was over.

Fires broke out and rolled across the land for two weeks, as Bob and Frank remained locked in the bomb shelter. Eventually emerging from the small, cramped sanctuary; Frank was greeted by an alien world. The bombs effectively returned the city to the desert. There was nothing left but shattered skeletons of landmarks and scorched remains of humanity. Taking whatever they could find; they loaded supplies and precious fuel into the back of Bob’s truck. His trusty rust-bucket managed to escape the blast by being in a garage on the edge of the city. Frank remembered the way Bob stroked the hood as he fished out his keys. Bob’s last possession in the world was a beat-up truck. At least it got them the hell out of there.

After navigating the smoldering heap of metal that was once L.A., Bob flipped on the radio in the dashboard. Desperate to get a signal, Frank batted his hand out of the way and searched for a station. White noise crackled and popped through the speakers before settling on an emergency broadcast. It was a calm, cool voice, recounting the last two weeks of hell. The pig-bombs were aimed at every major city in the U.S. effectively crippling the entire country. The east coast got it the worst.

In essence, New Jersey had been blasted straight into the Atlantic Ocean. The bombs fell on New York City, Philadelphia, and Washington; virtually severing the state from the landmass. There was nothing left of it, much less survivors. Frank sat in shocked silence as the news sank in. His whole life, everything he’d ever loved and worked for, now lay beneath the crushing depths of the Atlantic. His family, his friends, his fucking sanity---gone.

Upon the end of the program, the broadcaster gained a chipper tone as he chirped out,
   “Have a bright and sunny day!”

Frank punched the radio until his knuckles were broken.

A log fell over and dragged Frank back to the present. It crackled a bit more and sent bright orange sparks soaring upwards. Following the embers toward the sky, Frank noticed another person standing across from him. His pale face and flaming hair gave him an otherworldly feel. His eyes latched onto Frank’s hungrily. Turning away out of nerves, Frank patted around for his pack of cigarettes again. Pulling one out and lighting it, he let the smoke swirl against the sides of his lungs. Glancing back up, he noticed that the boy was still staring at him with great intensity. It was beginning to creep Frank out. At least, that’s what Frank classified this feeling as for now.

The moon was rising behind his head, bathing his frame in cool light. The fire in front of them popped and cracked in happiness, the orange hues licking at the boy’s face. His eyes were too dark to tell what color they were with the firelight, but they were framed by dark lashes and brows that did not match his crimson hair. His lips were thin and set in a small frown. They looked soft, Frank marveled. His own were chapped and full of sand. Frank darted out a tongue to wet them, dragging dirt and grit in between his teeth. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, feet firmly planted on the desert floor. The flames from the fire waved and flickered his image as Frank pulled on his cigarette. He could already feel his blood quickening under the stranger’s heated gaze.

Blowing smoke out through his nose, he furrowed his brow and assessed the boy further. His jeans were filthy and tattered from the desert, and hugged every curve from toe to hip. The boots he was wearing were too close to the fire to tell what they looked like, so Frank let his eyes skate upwards to his jacket. The quilted pattern of the blue leather seemed to tunnel Frank’s vision directly to the red dye marks marring his luminescent neck. Frank’s mouth instinctively watered despite the dry desert air, and the cigarette smoke. He’d never wanted to lick something so bad.

The boy shifted his weight over to one side, jutting out his hip, and pursing his lips together. Frank’s attention drifted lazily back towards his intense gaze. Rubbing the shaved side of his head, he pursed his lips together before walking around the fire. The sound of boots crunching down over flat desert sand echoed loudly in Frank’s ears before stopping suddenly. The last step sounded like it was about three feet away. Sneaking a glance out of the corner of his eye, Frank realized he was a lot closer.

The boy wasn’t a boy at all. If Frank had to guess, he would say that the stranger was about his age. He was even more attractive up close, and without the fire’s waving heat distorting his face. His hair writhed and licked at his porcelain throat with the gentle breeze. How anyone could be that pale in the middle of a fucking desert was way beyond Frank.

He tilted his head a bit as he sort of rocked back and forth. Frank drank in the sight of the scarlet dye decorating his neck. A dye job meant he was the leader of a caravan---but which one? Frank started to rattle off names in his head as the distinct sound of leather against sand ground in his ear. The man was inching closer to Frank, lips twitching into a grin.

“Hey mister,”

Frank continued to search his mind for the correct caravan. Could he be with the Air Junkies? No, he didn’t look like a hippy. Maybe the Sandswimmers? Possibly, though he looked more Analog Hog to Frank. Maybe he was with the Transistor Sisters---

“HEY!”

The man stepped away from Frank’s ear, hands still cupping his mouth. Startled out of his mental journey, Frank took two involuntary steps back. His right hand flew up to his chest as his mouth hung open in shock. Immediately recovering, he snapped it shut, and turned to face the man fully.

“Yeah?”

He rubbed his leather clad palms over the dirty white denim covering his thighs before smacking them together. He gazed at Frank from under the thick darkness of his eyelashes and let his lips slide into a grin. It stretched up the right side of his face, hypnotizing Frank as the muscles rippled and tightened around his eyes. Frank felt the very tip of his tongue poke between his lips.

“Can I get a cigarette?”

Frank concentrated very hard on the way he said the ‘R’ in “Cigarette”. He didn’t think he’d ever hear someone say the word with that much sex in it again. He committed it to memory and patted down the pockets of his vest again.

“Uh, yeah, hold on.”

Finally, producing the battered and crumpled pack once more, Frank shook out another cigarette.  He held the cigarette out and tried not to suck in his breath as the man’s fingers fluttered over his own. He brought it up to his lips and tucked it into the right corner.  Bringing out a crumpled pack of matches, he pursed his lips together around the cigarette. Hunching down a bit, cupping his hand around the flame, he mumbled a low “Thanks.”

Before Frank could stop himself, he shoved his hand out toward the strange man.

“I’m Frank.”

He wished for once, that a Draculoid would show up and blast a hole straight through his head. The man lowered his match slowly, removing his cigarette and tucking it securely behind his ear. Frank tried not to think about how the paper tube dragged along his lips. The man licked his lips and took hold of Frank’s hand.

“Party Poison.”

Frank felt the wheels in his head creaking to life at the introduction. He quirked an eyebrow and couldn’t help the smirk that formed on his lips as he took it all in. It made sense; the name, the dye-job, the bandannas.

“Holy fuck, you’re a Killj-”

His left hand shot out and clapped over Frank’s mouth. The leather was warm, smoky and gritty against  his lips. He darted out his wicked and mischievous tongue against the palm over his mouth. It tasted like sand, finger grease, and pure anarchy. It tasted like flat, sun cracked asphalt and gasoline. It tasted like freedom.

Cautiously, Frank rested his fingertips against the black bandanna tied around the pale wrist in front of him. Asking permission with his eyes, Frank was met with a distant and half-lidded consent. Pushing back the fabric and pulling the leather clad palm from his mouth, Frank turned it upwards to examine it. A black bar code stared back up at him.
   “8975439202-30”

Frank darted his gaze up to Party Poison’s. He was met with pools of liquid hot lust. The flames of the bonfire quietly licked his irises. Frank swallowed hard against the intensity of the stare.

“Tell me what it means, Frank.”

Frank knew what it meant. It meant that Big Brother knew all about him. It’s probably one of the reasons that he was on the run. In a world where humans are slaves, who breed more slaves, who power the mega corporations of the robotic empire; this code would get you killed. If you were lucky enough. It meant he was from Battery City, and that he could never go back. It meant running away forever. It meant fighting tooth and nail for freedom. Frank pulled the bar code closer and dragged his tongue across it. Party’s eyes fluttered shut.

“It’s just fancy talk for homosexual.”

Frank could hear Party’s breath shudder through his nostrils. His jaw was drawn tight, eyes screwed shut. Frank couldn’t tell if he was afraid or getting all polka dottie on him. He vied for the latter and sunk his teeth into the delicate flesh of his wrist. He heard a squeak of what he’d assumed was pleasure, before whispering around the skin in his mouth.

“I’ve got one too, but you’ll never find it.”

Frank smirked into the battered wrist. Lots of tattoos for lots of sins. Each one was deliciously painful and filthy dirty. Just like the man wearing them. Party puffed out a breathy sigh and pushed his hand past Frank’s mouth to lace through his hair. Rubbing gently with his fingertips, and then twisting the dark locks in a white knuckled grip, he yanked Frank’s mouth over to his own. They met in an explosion of semi-moist lips and sun-bleached teeth.

Frank could feel the puffs of air blowing across his cheek as Party’s tongue swirled and licked at the inside of his mouth. Biting down on Party’s lip, Frank gasped into the cavern between them. He could feel Party’s breath stammer and shudder in the night air. Suddenly, Frank’s skin seemed too small for him. His shoulders tensed as he tried to stretch himself out against Party. He wound his way up the back of Party’s neck, feeling the sweat begin to form at the nape. Pushing his fingers through the matted flames of Party’s hair, Frank picked up on the distant cat-calls of the other members of the caravan. Pushing his hips against Party’s, locking eyes at the same time, he smirked and broke off the kiss. Electric pulses carried through his blood stream, saturating his brain with wet, hot, lust.

“Is there somewhere else we could go?” he breathed.

Party looked around him, almost as if he forgot where he was. He scratched the shaved side of his head, finally noticing the whistles from the rest of the camp.

“Are you sure?”

Party dropped his hand from Frank’s face down to his hip. Frank followed it with his eyes. He kept his gaze downwards as he thought about what was to come. Despite his raging hard-on, he was dealing with a potential murderer, definite smuggler, outlaw leader, whose very presence encouraged revolution to the masses.

Frank was in love.

“We may not live to see tomorrow,” Frank said around the grin forming on his lips. He stroked down Party’s forearm and pried his hand off his hip. Interlocking their fingers together, he kissed the leather clad knuckles. His breath was short and shallow when it puffed out against the skin of their hands.

Party visibly swallowed, his jaw shifting back and forth for a second or two.

“I’ve got a Trans Am.”

Frank’s face broke out into a full smile as he darted his eyes back up to meet Party’s. His eyes promised fun, mischief, and red-hot debauchery before spinning on his heel and leading them in the opposite direction. He stalked out toward the car in the horizon, practically dragging Frank along in his haste.

Giggling and tripping over his own shoes as Party dragged him across the desert sands, Frank reveled in how good it felt to laugh again. Laughter quickly turned into hunger as the car came within reach. An upside down flag and a chipped white paint job were the only things covering the outside, while red leather coated the inside. The moonlight shown down from above, bathing the interior with it’s blue tint. Frank pulled back on Party’s hand and spun him around. Gripping him by the waist, Frank hoisted Party up and sat him on the hood of the car. A hand shot out and twined itself in Frank’s hair, as he let himself be dragged down into a searing kiss.

A soft thud echoed in the silence as Party’s ass dented the hood. He was perched up on top of it, feet planted on the hood, knees spread apart inviting Frank in. Their tongues moved wetly despite the dry desert air, each mouth craving the taste of the other. Noses bumped and teeth caught on delicate flesh as Frank pushed Party down onto the hood. Spread across the car, his hair was a tangled mess of smoke and fire as the white highlighted his growing roots.

Frank fisted Party’s hair, causing him to mewl around the tongue already invading his mouth. Delving in and plundering every crevice of his mouth, Frank tried to map out a way down the flat sweaty planes of Party’s chest. He thought he found a pleasure spot when he felt Party suck in his breath and tense up. Pushing himself up with his hands, he smiled down at Party.

Who was not smiling.

A hiss sounded somewhere behind Frank, and he felt his eyes bug out. His mind flashed back to Bob’s truck. Even further inside to the locked toolbox in the truck bed where his laser gun lay. Frank swallowed down hard and focused on Party’s face. His eyes were hard, his brow furrowed in rage, mouth a thin line slashed across his face. He could feel him suck in a sharp breath before everything started to move.

Clapping a hand around the back of Frank’s neck, Party pushed his head down to meet with his chest. His head thudded against the cavity, Party’s heartbeat pounding against his ear. He held on as Party sat straight up and unbuckled his thigh holster. The distant hissing noise seemed like it was right in Frank’s ear, and it sounded like there was more than one. Draculoids never traveled alone. Frank gripped the quilted leather covering Party’s chest as he burrowed his nose against it. There was a helpless feeling screaming at the back of Frank’s mind; his gun was locked in Bob’s truck and there was nothing he could do but hold on.

Party’s arm jolted from the recoil against the side of Frank’s head. He could hear the frightened heartbeat under his ear racing to pump necessary oxygen to adrenaline filled muscles. The wet sound of brains against dry desert ground wormed it’s way into Frank’s memory banks. He heard two more shots go off before Party twisted to the right. Frank felt the slick, disgusting heat of brain matter splat and slide down his neck. Party’s legs were still clamped around Frank, his hand holding his head to his chest. The black goo dripped from Frank’s neck onto Party’s chest. Frank forced his eyes open, even though the only thing to see was the slight movements rippling under Party’s jacket. He just knew he had to keep his head out of the way or risk getting it blown off.

Two more shots zapped out, accompanied by the thudding of lifeless bodies. Party laid back down on the hood, tipping his chin upwards and looking behind him. Frank peeked up from his position. A long, pale, neck seemed to glow in the bright moonlight. The chipped,  red paint on the sides shown in stark contrast, the blue light making them look purple. The hand against Frank’s neck released and gripped the laser gun. Three shots blazed into the night. Two were from Party, dead shots in between the eyes of the last draculoids. One zipped by Frank’s temple. The heat from the shot met with his sweat and fizzed hotly in his ear. Frank sucked in sharply. Eyebrows raised in a dazed sort of confusion, he looked back down at the man under him. Party sat up, effectively pushing Frank off of him and slid down off the hood.

A sideways grin crept up the right side of Party’s face. He wasn’t bothered at all about what just happened. In fact, he looked fresh faced and ready for more. Frank gaped at the look of utter satisfaction on Party’s face. He jerked his chin in the direction of his car whilst sliding the energy panel back, cocking the gun.

“It’s time to scram toots.”

Frank could hear more growling and hissing in the distance. He turned away from Party to scan the horizon. Silver clouds of dust billowed up from the desert as shiny latex suits glimmered in the moonlight. BL/ind was here. Frank’s thoughts turned immediately to the caravan.

“We’ve got to tell the others,” he started, facing back to where Party stood with his hand on his hip. His jaw was set, his eyes glazed over with a look Frank had never seen before.

“Get in the car Frank.”

Frank started to panic. Usually they never got this close to catching them. Bob always got them the hell out of there before the zones got too hot. It was red fucking hot right now.

“What about the caravan? I’ve got to tell Bob---”

Party pushed his arm against Frank’s neck, shoving the muzzle of his laser gun in his face.
Frank widened his eyes at the obvious threat both in front of his face, and the hissing sounds in his ears. Distantly, he could hear the chopping of a helicopter in pursuit. Frank looked down the barrel of the gun into Party’s eyes. They were hard and desperate. Frank gritted his teeth.

“Get in the fucking car Frank.”

Frank closed his eyes and turned sharply to his right. Finding the door handle, he ripped it open and rushed inside. Everything seemed to pick up speed again as he looked out the window at the horizon. The helicopters were quickly approaching, and he noticed that the fire at the center of the camp was extinguished. Clouds of dust swirled up from the caravan, giving plenty of cover to escape. Frank followed Party’s form with his eyes as he bumped and slid across the hood of the car. Ripping his own door open and shoving in the key, he slammed the car into first gear just as flood light turned on behind them.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Get down!”

The car roared to life and took off like a bat out of hell across the desert. Frank stared down at Party’s foot as it floored the accelerator. Laser light burst around them as the armored motorcycle brigade descended on them. Shifting into fifth gear, Party unbuckled his thigh holster again and held his gun out the window. One shot blew the brains out of the cyclist next to him, knocking down the other three behind him. Party twisted his head over to where Frank had his own held between his hands under the dashboard.

“Hey!”

Frank peeked up from under his hands. Party’s hair was flying around in the wind. He looked like some kind of crazy angel with his hair all fucked up like that. Eyebrows furrowed in that same determined stare from before, sly smile erupting over his lips, he looked like just like revolution.

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?”

Frank flashed back to the day Bob and him crawled out of the bomb shelter. Broken green glass littered the desert floor where L.A. once stood. Trinitite made the city glimmer in the sun despite the radioactive quality of the stuff. Scavenging for food and supplies,  they’d found a few discarded weapons in abandoned shops. Laser guns, carbon knives, flash grenades; whatever they could handle with ease they kept. Everything else was just a hindrance. Frank liked to use bombs the most, but using a gun was simple and necessary. They had practiced on empty bottles and dead bodies . Eventually, they were shooting at the real thing. Frank let a jaded grin slide up his face.

“Yeah, I can use a gun.”

Party pointed to the dashboard with his chin. “Go in the glove box and get the gun in there.”

More cyclists could be heard outside of the car. Frank didn’t look as he yanked open the glove box. An assortment of objects spilled onto his lap; A party hat, bouncy balls, a rubber moustache, condoms, confetti, handcuffs, a kaleidoscope, a ragged looking teddy bear, a telescope, and about ten bags of pop rocks.

“What the fuck?”

Despite the sound of motors roaring through the windows, Frank gave himself a second to be surprised. He looked over at Party who was blushing so deep, his hair matched his face. His wide eyes looked so terribly out of place against the laser blasts firing next to him.

“I practically live in here. Dig around a bit, you’ll find it.”

Frank shoved his hand into the miscellaneous objects in his lap. It looked like a stripper’s birthday party in his crotch. Feeling something cool and metal against his thigh, he reached through the mess and gripped the hand gun. It felt smaller than Party’s; maybe the size of  a tin can. Frank brought it closer to his face for inspection. It was hot pink with a lime green lightning bolt down the side. The side of it read ‘For Fuck‘s Sake!’ in bubble letters. Frank screwed up his face at the ludicrous nature of his situation.  Whatever, as long as the fucking thing worked.

Cocking the slider backwards he glanced into the side view mirror. Seven more bikes rode in a straight line behind the Trans Am. Four broke off toward the Party’s side, and three to Frank’s. Their motorcycles ripped over the noise of Party’s engine as they saddled up to Frank’s side. Frank fired five shots. Three missed, but two hit the first biker, knocking down the other two cyclists. Frank’s face broke out into a grin as he felt the adrenaline take over his system. Looking back over at Party’s he smiled his victory. His face dropped as he looked down the barrel of another gun.

Frank’s eyebrows shot up his face as he ducked down in his seat. The plastic contents of his lap crinkled and crunched as he slid down the leather seat. A colorful stream of color passed by his face, just scraping his cheek. It was searingly hot as it whizzed by him, leaving a burn trail under his ear. He could smell burnt hair and fried skin. The gooey sensation of blood trickling down his neck sent an involuntary shudder down his spine. Nothing spells ‘close call’ like your own blood on your favorite shirt. He heard Party fire off another round of shots before dropping down into fourth gear and red lining his way across the desert. The sounds of the motor brigade faded into the inky desert night.

The moon crept back out from behind the dust clouds as the sand settled down on the horizon. Party stared hard into the rearview mirror before finally letting out a sigh of relief. He turned out his headlights so they could ride in stealth. The stars hung hazy and swollen as they approached what looked like zone one. Frank squinted his eyes in confusion.

“Wait a minute, we’re going to Zone One?”

Party pressed his mouth into a flat thin line again, puff of air through his nose.

“As in, Battery City?”

Party looked over to where Frank sat with his lap covered in the contents of his glove box, wearing the silliest expression of confusion he’d ever seen. He could feel adrenaline high of the gun fight and the sexual frustration of not having someone like Frank around more often. It was giving him a domino kind of feeling.

“Yeah, as in Battery City,” he mimicked Frank’s squeak of surprise. “You can’t find a better place to hide than right under their noses. We’re out in the boonies though. The wastelands around the city. It’s relatively free of contamination.”

Frank quirked an eyebrow at being made fun of, directing the subject away from himself.  He squinted out the windshield instead, noticing the heavy fingers of Battery City stretching unevenly into the night sky. Battery City was still belching toxins into the air, supplying Zones Three and Four with another week of acid rain.

“Ahhh, Battery City,” Party chirped with a plastic grin before dropping down into a blank stare. “Ripped my heart clear out of my chest.” Frank settled his eyes on the dim purple lights glowing fuzzily through the smog. The leather of Party’s gloves squeaked against the steering wheel as he gripped it tighter.

“I was a Wirehead before the bombs dropped.” Frank couldn’t help but snap his head to his left. Here was a man equal parts rebel and hero. A man who Frank couldn’t believe let his guard down for a single second.

“It started with my grandma. She was sick, so the government made her as comfortable as she could until it was time. We were grateful, happy that something could ease her pain.” He locked his jaw tight and gritted through his clenched teeth, “We were fucking idiots. She plugged in and they turned her up almost all the way. She died the following week.”

Frank worried his lip ring, rotating it around against the sand embedded in it. It made a crunching sound. He concentrated on the sensation to keep him from opening his big mouth.

“I plugged in two days after the funeral. It was like swallowing a live wire. It was like giving a lap dance to the government. It was fucking the internet. It was having an orgasm with the entire population of Battery City. I was writhing and twitching and coming in my pants for a week straight. My brother found me filthy, dehydrated, and almost dead. I couldn’t give it up. It was absolutely, mind-blowingly, delicious.”

Party licked his lips at the memory, trying to grasp a small tidbit of what it felt like to have wave after wave of electricity licking down his spine. Frank watched his the tip of his tongue dip lazily into the corner of his mouth, and tried very hard not to squirm against the leather seats.

“What made you stop?”

Party’s lust filled gaze dropped back down into a solemn one. Instantly, Frank regretted asking that question.

“The bombs dropped and killed my whole family while I was safe and plugged into the fucking wall. My brother survived. He found me babbling and convulsing on the floor. Lost in lust, it took me a month to gain interest in anything after being disconnected. He gave me my first analog radio and drove us into the desert. We met Dr. Deathdefy. He took the port for the plug out and sewed up the hole. It’s still rooted in my nervous system, but at least I look normal now. The best thing he gave me was a new addiction that I can‘t get enough of.”

Frank released his lip ring from his teeth, raising an eyebrow expectantly. Party let his lopsided smile finally return to his face.

“Freedom.”

Frank let his eyes drift back out over the desert. A small flat rectangle rose out of the horizon, flanked by the Joshua trees Zone One is famous for.

“What’s that?”

Party chuckled lightly to himself as he dropped the car down into second gear.

“Home.”

Home was an abandoned diner Frank observed as Party pulled up to the side of the building between two rusted out cars. Frank looked down at his lap, still covered in Party’s personal affects.

“Umm?”

Party reached behind his seat, bringing out a dirty canvas bag. He roughly shoved the contents of Frank’s lap inside, and reached over to get further into the glove box. Frank sucked in his breath as Party twisted around in his lap. He pressed his lips into a frown, trying to keep himself as far from his current position as possible. It’s hard when there’s flaming red hair tickling your chin and a beautiful boy digging around in his glove box.

“Got it!”

Party sat up quickly, Frank’s breath gushing out from holding it in.

“What?”

Party’s eyes sparkled as a bar of light reflected off his rearview mirror.

“Colored pencils! Real fucking colored pencils!”

Party giggled excitedly, and after all they’d just been through, Frank let himself relax into a soft laugh.

“I went all the way out there looking to trade for these things! Finally, I found a guy who had them on him. Some filthy dirty Air Junkie. I traded an old issue of ‘Hustler’ man, real vintage shit. Mikey is going to kill me, but he’ll understand. Colored pencils, man!”

Frank giggled himself at the sheer absurdity of it all. Party had almost killed them for art supplies. There were about thirty pencils inside the packet, but in a world where they aren’t even manufactured anymore, it’s a treasure trove. Frank slowed down his laughter enough to get his bearings.

“Mikey? Who’s that?”

Party stopped laughing immediately. His eyes grew a little large, before replacing his facial expression with a stoic one.

“Oh? I didn’t mean him, I meant Kobra.”

Frank turned in his seat to fully face Party. His lip quivered a bit in the moonlight, but kept his stoic face on. Frank had never heard so much bullshit in his whole life. It was dark inside the car except for the blue bar falling across Party’s darting eyes. He was lying; Frank could practically smell it in the air. There was no such person as Kobra. Either that or they were the same person. Which meant that Party wasn’t who he said he was.

“There’s no way your name is actually Party Poison.”

This guy might have just saved his life, but Frank was never one for bullshit.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?“ he spat. “You had no problem with that when you were all glossed out on the hood of my car. Did my name mean anything then? Would it made a difference as long as I gave you something to scream when you came?” He turned back around in his seat, glaring out the window. The leather in his jacket squeaked against the seat as he drew his knees up.

Frank was taken aback by the sudden outburst from the man next to him. He must’ve hit a raw nerve or something. An identity crisis?  A super-hero complex? Frank wasn’t sure, and now he’s just pissed off his only ride out of Zone One. He reached out a tentative hand to scratch his fingers over the pill symbol on Party’s jacket.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Party shrunk under his touch a fraction before unfolding his limbs from himself.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m just wound up is all. Knowing a Killjoy is like a death sentence. I was trying to protect you Frank. What the hell else have I been doing for the last two hours?”

Frank nodded, moving his hand down to scratch at Party’s thigh as he faced the steering wheel again.

“Kid Kobra is my little brother; another Killjoy. I gave him that name after his favorite killing technique. Do you see what kind of people we are Frank? We are rebels, joyriders, and murderers. We are Big Brother’s worst nightmare, and one day we’re all going to get killed.”

“We’ll all be dead one day anyway,” Frank felt the words tumble from his lips before they even formed properly in his head.

Party snapped his head to the right, drinking in the sight of Frank. His eyes were focused, brow furrowed, and he could feel the hum of determination in his fingertips as he stroked them against his thigh. He looked away again into the darkness of the night.

“You’re okay with all that?”

Frank pulled his lips up it a smile. As sun burnt and tight as it felt, he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m more than okay. In fact, that’s the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“I think the sun has fried all your brain cells.”

“I think it did that a long time ago.”

“We could be dead before you even wake up tomorrow morning.”

“Then you’d better make this night count.”

Party looked back at Frank again. It was a look of apprehension, and appraisal. Frank had never felt so naked in his whole life. It felt like the entire weight of his character was being measured out in the long strokes of Party’s eyes.

“My name is Gerard.”

‘Gerard, Gerard, Gerard,’ Frank’s mind ground up the name and spread it around in his head before it disintegrated and reformed on his lips.

“Gerard, nice to meet you.”

Gerard smiled a toothy and open smile. Frank could feel the electricity rolling off of him.
The temperature inside the car suddenly went up and Frank could feel sweat beading on the back of his neck. Gerard was radiating heat and lust in in heavy waves. Frank wasn’t sure about what he should be doing at this point and opted to press his back against the passenger door.

Gerard ripped off his seatbelt, and practically lunged into Frank’s lap. A crinkling noise sounded as his knees crunched down on something on the leather seat. His mouth has quick and hot as I collided with Frank’s. Teeth clicking against one another’s, Gerard swirled his tongue along the roof of Frank’s mouth. Gerard was in an awkward position, craning his head down a bit to avoid the cloth fabric of his car roof. His hair was making little crackling sounds as the static clung to it.

Frank rolled his hips up into Gerard’s earning a low groan from above. He snaked his hand back through the red strands of Gerard’s hair. Twisting and tugging at the ends made his breath suck in sharply and grind harder into the bulge in Frank’s jeans. Wet mouths and small friction isn’t what Frank was looking for though, even if it was pleasurable. There was too little space and he could feel his claustrophobia rear it’s stupid fucking head.  He broke the kiss off with a smacking sound. Gerard sat back on his lap and licked his lips. Suddenly, Frank felt very warm.

“Do you think we could go inside? There isn’t very much I can do here.”

Gerard considered his request, noting that the Trans Am was kind of small, and so far he was the only one doing any real work.

“Yeah, hurry up.”

Gerard leaned over Frank, kissing him quickly while grabbing his canvas bag. He opened the door and used the roof as to pull himself off of Frank. Frank sighed, annoyed at the loss of contact.

“C’mon you slow mother fucker! It‘s already tomorrow in Australia!”

Frank snapped to attention, gripping the door frame as he peeled himself from the leather seat. A crinkle noise sounded as he knocked something to the ground. He shut the door and turned to pick it up. A black and neon pink pack shown back at him in the moonlight.

“Pop Rocks: Watermelon flavored ” was printed across the front in worn out bubble lettering. Frank grinned, shoving it into his back pocket. He bet that Gerard would be pretty surprised to see his own candy being used against him in such a way. He hurried to follow the voice calling from the entrance to the diner.

The metal handle on the glass door was surprisingly cool in the desert night air as Frank yanked it open after Gerard. He was a tri-colored smear against the chalk white interior of the diner. Dirty, cracked walls surrounded them on four sides, sandblasted and worn from the sun. The windows were blasted out on three sides. The fluorescent lights hummed a sweet welcome, flickering to life once again. Gerard turned around and smiled.

“We’re home!”

The word ‘home’ echoed through Frank’s head. Home was New Jersey, sunken and alone at the bottom of the ocean. Home was bombed, burned, and sent to a watery grave. This was Gerard’s home---not his. He was a fool to believe otherwise. He turned his eyes downward to the scuffed up linoleum tiles.

Gerard’s smile faded at the edges a bit, softening the manic glee in the air that encapsulated them since the bonfire. He jammed his hands in his pockets and covered the space between them in two fluid movements, standing toe to toe with Frank. Frank forced himself to look back up, into Gerard’s eyes. His skin prickled with the sudden invasion of his personal space. Soft eyelashes swept upward to undyed eyebrows. Frank felt his own eyes widen at the shimmering color of them. The bonfire earlier had licked and darkened them, making it nearly impossible to decipher their shade. Frank had to suck his entire bottom lip in to keep it from quivering.

In Gerard’s eyes Frank saw the clear hazel of the Atlantic ocean. His eyes were shore lines and seagulls. They were salt air and polluted skies. They were November days where it looked like morning all the time. He saw half empty tea cups and ashtrays full of cigarette butts. Gerard blinked and he saw his daughters, his mother, his wife, his father. There were leaves changing color before drifting down to fresh black asphalt. He saw his bedroom in his mother’s house, the window next to his bed half open to the oncoming Autumn.

In the rolling moss green and caffeinated brown, Frank found something he’d been searching for all these years.

As Frank drew Gerard’s lips down to meet his, he swore he smelled pumpkins and nicotine on Gerard’s skin. He could taste punk rock on Gerard’s breath. Frank sucked it in as Gerard released a shuddering sigh, sealing their lips together.

There was a new kind of electricity that surged between them. Wet velvet curled and slid against the ridges of Frank’s mouth and teeth. Gerard tasted like downed power lines and watermelon Halloween candy. He smelled of damp basements despite years of baking in the sun. Frank clawed his dull fingernails over Gerard’s neck, feeling chipping paint and Drac brains scraping under his nails. He ran his thumbs over Gerard’s eyebrows before gently fisting the open collar of his leather jacket.

“I’m home,” Frank mouthed against Gerard’s lips.



PART TWO