And the Embers Never Fade 1/5

[turps33]

Mikey knows he’s going down, and going down hard.

The front wheel of the bike slices through sand as he fights for control, throwing his weight to the side in a desperate battle to remain upright: but it’s too late. The ground is too unstable, the bank too steep. All Mikey’s thankful for is that he’s left the Dracs behind before spinning out of control. At least this way, if he does go out it’ll be in an explosion and not as some kind of Drac statistic.

Not that Mikey wants to go out at all, and he keeps trying to remain upright, cursing as the bike squeals, smoke pouring from the engine as it tips to one side.

Mikey tries to relax, knowing the impact won’t be pretty.

It isn’t.

~*~*~*~

Bob sees the bike first. Or else, he sees the bike’s parts first. They’re strewn over the sand, metal twisted and glinting under the midday sun. His attention caught, Bob slows and then pulls his Jeep to a stop at the side of the barely there track.

Wary, he takes out his gun. While Bob lives off the grid he knows of S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W’s colors, and this bike screams official. Gun raised, Bob steps from hard packed dirt to sand, his feet sinking as he makes for what looks like a bent exhaust. It’s half buried in sand, but on first look seems usable, and Bob can’t help grinning. It’s getting increasingly difficult to score parts and finding something like this is milkshake. All he needs to do is get the bike stowed on his Jeep and get away before the owner comes back. That is, if they’re not dead already.

Bob hopes that they are. He’s got no love for authority, especially not the kind that rules through oppression and fear. It’s why, when he first sees the body thrown some distance from the bike, Bob’s tempted to ignore it. Which would be stupid, and probably result in Bob taking a blast to the back.

Safety released on his gun, Bob approaches the body, and frowns when he gets closer. He’s expecting some S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W drone, but it isn’t at all. Not unless they’ve started to wear leather jackets and actual colors.

Bob circles the body, stepping over patches of blood-stained sand. Then kneels, staring at the yellow crash helmet complete with smiley face, spits out, “Fuck.”

While they run the same circles, Bob’s never met any of the Killjoys, but he knows what they look like. Or else, he’s seen the wanted posters and read their descriptions, including Kobra Kid’s distinctive crash helmet. Which this definitely is.

Hoping that he’s found some kind of copy cat, Bob pulls up the visor and immediately wants to stand and run. Because, despite the blood that’s dried on his face, it’s Kobra Kid for sure, and Bob’s just been landed with a problem he never wanted.

The sensible thing would be to run. Just stand up and go without checking to see if Kobra Kid’s even alive. But Bob can’t do that. While he seeks out solitude and prefers to live off the grid, that doesn’t mean he can ignore someone so obviously injured. Reaching out, he presses his fingers against Kobra Kid’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

There’s one there, faint but steady, and Bob makes a decision. Sliding his arms under Kobra Kid’s body, Bob lifts him up, cradling him against his chest. Which medically is probably a disaster but so’s staying here, when S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W or the dracs could arrive at any time.

“Sorry, kid,” Bob says, thankful for his years of hauling around heavy engines as he manhandles Kobra Kid up the bank and into the back of the Jeep. Kobra Kid doesn’t reply, or make any noise in response, and Bob’s sure he’s going to end up with a corpse on his hands, and probably a price on his head from when the Killjoys inevitably find out. Which fine, what’s one more to add to the collection?

Hand shading his eyes, Bob looks along the track, checking for dust clouds signaling anyone approaching. When he’s sure they’re clear, he leans into his Jeep, looking down at the back seat.

“You’d better keep breathing,” Bob threatens, taking in how Kobra Kid’s pants are shredded and the material blood stained. “I mean it, die in my Jeep and I’ll kill you.”

Another lack of response and Bob straightens, and takes a chain out of the open back of the Jeep. Draping it over his shoulder, he glances in at Kobra Kid. “I’m going to get your bike, I won’t be long.”

It’s not a kindness to Kobra Kid, it’s Bob taking advantage of a situation that that’s to be exploited and he quickly loops the chain around the bike. Running back to his Jeep he attaches the other end of the chain to the hoist and sets it running, wincing at the grind of metal as the bike is hauled close.

Once it’s on the track Bob stops the hoist, the bike pulled up on one wheel. The best thing to do would be to get it hitched up completely, but Bob hasn’t the time, and he takes a moment to gather up scattered and battered parts, his palms burning as he holds sun-hot metal.

When he’s sure he’s found them all, Bob stands still a moment, chest heaving and sweat trickling down his face. Impatiently wiping it away he grabs the water bag from the passenger seat and takes a long drink. Then looks at Kobra Kid, debating if he should try and give him water.

The indecision is frustrating, Bob can repair the most intricate of engines without trouble, but he’s no doctor. Or freedom fighter, and he looks across the desert, locked in an internal debate about what the fuck he’s actually doing.

“You’d better be still alive,” Bob says, turning back to the Jeep. He gets inside and starts the engine, pulling his bandanna up over his mouth as he looks over his shoulder. “I mean it, if I get back and you’re dead I’m throwing you in the nearest gully.”

Kobra Kid says nothing. Bob puts his foot down and goes.

~*~*~*~

“Are you fucking insane?”

To say Patrick’s angry is an understatement. Hat pulled down low and scarf wrapped around his face, his eyes are narrowed and his shoulders tight as he glares at Bob. “Do you know who that is?”

“Of course I know who it is,” Bob snaps, because he’s not stupid and he’s not blind and now he’s got a wanted zone runner potentially dying in the back of his Jeep and Bob knows that it’s all his own fault. “What was I supposed to do, leave him there?”

“That’s exactly what you should have done,” Patrick yells, and then takes a deep breath as he stares into the Jeep. “Is he even alive?”

“He was when I put him there,” Bob says, moving to stand at Patrick’s side. “I couldn’t leave him, Patrick.”

“I know,” Patrick says, and then softer, the anger draining from him in an abrupt rush. “I know, but if he dies on our watch we’re fucked.”

“So we’ll make sure he doesn’t.” The blunt edge of the Jeep side digs into Bob’s stomach as he leans in and rests his hand over Kobra Kid’s chest, relieved when he feels it move. “Help me get him inside.”

Patrick gives Bob an unimpressed look but throws open the Jeep door and gets inside, knee on the seat and leaning into the back. “You’re looking after him. I’m here for tech not bodies.”

“Think about him as some kind of robot,” Bob says and takes hold of Kobra Kid’s upper body, letting Patrick take his feet. “One that needs rebooting.”

“Right,” Patrick says, scorn laced heavily through the response.

Bob doesn’t reply. He’d tried at least.

~*~*~*~

The first thing Mikey’s aware of is he’s lying on something soft.

No, strike that. The first thing he’s aware of is he hurts. Everywhere. From the tips of his toes to the top of his head and he keeps his eyes closed, breathing through the urge to curl up and whimper. Which isn’t going to happen. Even if all Mikey wants is his brother, his friends, anyone that actually knows him, for all he knows he’s lying in some S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W cell, and Killjoys don’t whimper in the face of authority.

They do, however, do so internally as Mikey grits his teeth and forces open his eyes, hating how they feel so gummy, like he’s having to peel them apart. Which is a disgusting thought, and if he had the strength he’d check for goo on his lids, but right now that’s beyond him, and Mikey lies still, moving only his eyes as he looks around.

He’s not in a cell. Not unless S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W have moved into ramshackle, shack chic for their holding facilities. Which Mikey doesn’t think that they have. Especially when he’s lying on a comfortable bed without restraints, and more tellingly, can see a pile of colored clothes on a shelf and a selection of posters tacked to the wall.

Mikey looks at each one of the posters, and then steels himself for actual movement.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Mikey jumps and automatically goes for his gun, biting back a curse at the resulting surge of pain and the realization that under the blanket he’s completely naked. Tense, and preparing himself to attack if needed, he watches as a man walks into the room. It’s immediately apparent he’s not part of S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W, he’s too human for that, his clothes dirty and worn through and his hair pulled back under a purple bandanna. He’s also carrying a water bag and a battered metal cup hooked over his fingers.

“Move wrong and you’ll bust all your stitches, and you’ve already lost enough blood.”

Mikey pieces together parts of the puzzle, connecting the throbbing in his knees and legs to the remembered feeling of too hot skin pulled tight and secured with black thread. Lifting the blanket, he looks along his body, but can see nothing, just his own chest, white and mottled with bruises, the rest of his body hidden in shadows.

“Your right knee was fucking shredded. I gave up counting how many stitches you’ve got.” The man sits on the side of the bed and pours out a mug of water which he holds to Mikey’s mouth. “Drink.”

Mikey clenches shut his mouth, wary of anyone giving away something as precious as water. For all he knows it’s drugged and this guy’s planning to skin Mikey alive and make himself a zone runner jacket.

“For fuck’s sake.” Water slops over the mug as the guy jerks back his hand and takes a drink of the water. “It’s not poisoned, and if it was you’d have died days ago.”

That he’s been here days isn’t much of a surprise. Mikey’s been injured enough that he recognizes the fuzzy feeling of coming around after the fact. Plus, he feels wrong in a way that goes beyond any immediate pain, his nerves raw and stomach aching from a withdrawal that he knows will only get worse. He looks levelly at the man and demands, “Who are you and where the fuck am I?”

“Bob, and you’re at my place.” Bob holds out the cup again, pressing the rim gently against Mikey’s mouth. “Drink. You’re too dehydrated already.”

This time Mikey does drink, grateful for the tepid water that helps disguise the foul taste in his mouth. When he’s finished he lies still, watching Bob and trying to access his deal. Especially why he’s apparently been taking care of Mikey, because that just doesn’t happen out here, not between strangers.

Despite the scrutiny, Bob moves around easily, putting the water bag on a shelf next to a row of cans of kibble. One of which is open, and Mikey probes at his teeth with his tongue. “You’ve been feeding me. What are you, some kind of Florence Nightingale running the zones?”

“Do I look like a nurse?” Bob asks, indicating his body with a swipe of his hands.

“Depends what kind,” Mikey says. “If you go by history, no, but who the fuck knows what nurses look like now.”

“Well I’m not,” Bob says shortly.

Mikey tries to think of a new angle, but the only thing that could fit is that Bob actually knows who Mikey is, and if that’s the case, it could create a whole set of new problems. “If you’re hoping for a ransom you’re out of luck. I’m not that important.”

Bob snorts, his arms crossed as he turns and looks at Mikey. “Yeah, right. Your group’s tearing up the zones looking for you.”

The last time Mikey saw the others he was burning up rubber on the stolen bike, Gerard hanging out the Trans Am, his smile feral as he fired at the approaching guards. After that they’d torn out of the city together, and momentarily Mikey’s facade wavers as he imagines how frantic the others must be.

He narrows his eyes and glares at Bob. “Take me back to them. Now.”

“No,” Bob says simply, and starts to head out of the room.

Mikey pushes himself upright, feeling light headed and his arms trembling. “Give me my clothes, I’m leaving.”

“You wouldn’t get two steps,” Bob says. There’s a threadbare red blanket hanging up in the doorway, held in place with three nails hammered above the door. Bob pushes the blanket to one side and looks over at Mikey. “We’ll go tonight, when I’ve got some cover.”

“Good enough,” Mikey says, and manages to stay upright until Bob leaves.

~*~*~*~

Frank throws himself to the side, the can barely missing his head as it impacts against the wall, the contents exploding outwards and splattering onto the floor.

Wiping kibble from his face Frank looks at Gerard and asks evenly, “Feeling better?”

Gerard’s hair is snarled into knots and he drags his fingers through them, anger barely contained as he says, “No.”

Frank never expected he would be, not when Mikey’s still missing. Picking up another can he holds it out to Gerard. “Don’t aim at my head this time.”

Gerard takes the can, but then drops it, the can rolling across the ground and ending up nestled against the leg of the table. Gerard’s watching it roll, his head down and breathing heavy, like he’s fighting for control.

“I need to go out again,” Gerard says, his desperation so present that Frank imagines he’s breathing it in -- thick and heavy and full of despair. “I should be out there looking.”

“You’ve been looking.” And that’s the problem, Gerard has, non-stop for days now and if he doesn’t get some rest they’re going to lose him too. It’s why Frank’s here now, on guard duty as he approaches Gerard, standing close as he says, “We’ll find him.”

“And what if we don’t?”

It’s the first time Gerard’s verbalized that possibility, and Frank’s chest is aching, his every instinct to promise that Mikey will be fine. He doesn’t, just takes a step forward and drops his head so his forehead is against Gerard’s chest, his arms around Gerard’s waist, holding on as they move toward yet another day.

~*~*~*~

Patrick’s hat is hiding his face, his attention solely on the components laid out on the bench when he says, “You’re aware they’ll probably shoot you when you see him with you.”

“Which is why I’m taking him back now,” Bob says, and holds out his raygun, checking all parts are working correctly. When he’s sure that they are, Bob clicks on the safety and tucks the gun in his thigh holster, and looks at Patrick who’s pointedly soldering together two bits of wire. It makes Bob feel guilty that Patrick’s so obviously worried, but even if they need him out of here, Bob’s not about to dump Kobra Kid in the desert. “I’ll take him back and then get out of there before they see me.”

“And what then?” Patrick twists around on his chair, making it squeal on the rusty wheels. “You’ve spent all this time hiding and now you’re about to announce yourself to the fucking Killjoys. Even if you do get away he knows what you look like.”

Bob uses the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his face. Even this late it’s too hot, the workshop’s metal walls retaining the heat despite the main doors being thrown open. Bob feels wrung out and his head aches, and that’s before he has to get Kobra Kid into the Jeep and take him back home.

“I need to get going,” Bob says, and resists the urge to kick the nearest hard surface when Patrick turns his back in reply.

The living areas are built behind the workshop, and Bob walks through the tiny kitchen to his bedroom. Pushing aside the blanket he sees Kobra Kid’s sitting on the bed, both legs straight and outstretched, his back against the wall. He’s still too pale, and dressed in Bob’s too big clothes he looks much younger than he has to be.

Bob reminds himself that even if he does look harmless right now, Kobra Kid’s anything but, especially when he’s got his own shredded clothes bundled beside him, his raygun held on his lap.

Kobra Kid runs his thumb over the barrel of the gun, says, “I could shoot you right now.”

“You could,” Bob agrees, and busies himself putting bottles of water into a bag. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. You’d be dead before I hit the floor.” More importantly, Kobra Kid needs Bob to get him home, because right now, he’s going nowhere without help.

It’s something that neither are stating out loud, but the knowledge is there in the way Kobra Kid’s inching himself forward, mouth a thin line and his hand shaking minutely as he rubs the sweat from his brow.

Bob’s already offered pain pills, and been promptly shot down. He’s not going to offer again, and loops the bag over his shoulder, says, “I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere.”

Kobra Kid glares, and Bob gives him an unimpressed look before going outside. He’s pulled the Jeep as close to the door as possible, and drops the bag in the back before checking inside. Instinct kicking in as he counts ammo supplies and ensures that the spare raygun he keeps hidden in the footwell is still there. When he’s sure everything’s as ready as it ever can be, Bob turns and takes a moment to just stand, enjoying the quiet.

He knows it won’t last. Even if Kobra Kid’s not talking that much his silences are pointed, and all Bob wants is to be back in his workshop. Where he can lose himself in engines and machines, work that’s important and also lets Bob escape from his own head.

Instead he’s heading for the outer zones, a wanted zone runner in his care. Bob kicks at the tire of his Jeep and then goes back inside.

In the time that Bob’s been gone, Kobra Kid’s managed to get to the edge of the bed, and he’s sitting motionless, back straight and legs angled toward the ground. He’s also a shade of deathly white and Bob’s preparing himself for body catching duties in case of a faint.

“You’d better be here to tell me we’re going,” Kobra Kid says, and he’s clutching his raygun, his knuckles white.

“We’re going,” Bob says, and plants himself in the doorway, staring Kobra Kid down. “I’m going to help you stand. If you attack me I’ll end you.”

Kobra Kid stares levelly back. “If you’re afraid of that you shouldn't have given me my gun.”

Bob would laugh, because right now Kobra Kid looks as nonthreatening as a skewered lizard. But one thing Bob’s learned is never to underestimate, and as weak as Kobra Kid appears, Bob’s not about to drop his guard. He steps forward, says, “I’m not afraid of you. I just want you gone.”

Kobra Kid’s hand is a tight fist as he says icily, “You brought me here.”

“I did,” Bob agrees, and cutting through expected protests he hooks his hands under Kobra Kid’s arms and pulls him to his feet. Immediately Kobra Kid gasps and squeezes shut his eyes as he sways. Bob keeps hold, keeping him steady. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Reassessing his plans, Bob ducks and without warning, hefts Kobra Kid onto his shoulder. Which can’t be the most comfortable of positions, and Bob would be sorry, except there’s no way that Kobra Kid’s able to walk.

“It’s the only way,” Bob says, the way Kobra Kid’s body relaxes showing he’s finally passed out. Which is for the best, and, hold secure, Bob heads for the door.

~*~*~*~

Mikey hates coming around after passing out. Each time he’s scrambling to make sense of the situation, adrenalin battling against the need to just sleep. Still, he opens his eyes and tries to access where he is now. Not that it’s easy. His head heavy, Mikey clenches his fists as the world spins around him. He knows he’s not in the bed, and it doesn’t feel like he’s inside either, but after that he’s got nothing.

“You’re in my Jeep.”

Slowly, Mikey turns his head toward the back of Bob’s seat, sees strands of blond hair and the knot of Bob’s bandanna, and then Bob’s face as he turns and looks toward the back.

“You passed out.”

Which means Mikey’s been hauled around bodily once again. Angry and hurting and most of all, fucking frustrated, he sits, blinking away the black spots in his vision until he’s propped up and able to speak. “Where are we?”

“Zone 3,” Bob says, and the light he’s got attached to the dash causes shadows that stretch and flicker. “I’d have woken you up soon. I need to know a destination”

Mikey glares at the back of Bob’s head, says, “Drop me off at the edge of zone 4.”

“Not going to happen.” Bob’s got his elbow resting on the side of the Jeep, the wind catching the sleeve of his t-shirt and making it balloon. He’s driving one-handed, confident as he steers around a boulder and into a dip, the Jeep kicking up sand.

“Yeah, it will happen,” Mikey says, because he’s not about to reveal the diner’s location to a stranger, even if he has been looking after Mikey for the last few days.

“You can’t even walk right now,” Bob says, and doesn’t even bother looking back. “You’d be picked off by Dracs or S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W before sunrise.”

While he recognizes the truth in Bob’s statement, Mikey’s not about to give in. Maybe he can’t walk easily right now, but that doesn’t mean he can’t walk at all. Shoulders tights and spine straight, he says, “I’ll manage.”

Bob brings the Jeep to an abrupt stop and turns in his seat. “For fuck’s sake, are you always so obstinate and stupid?”

The borrowed pants slide down Mikey’s hips as he uses his arms to push himself up, eyeing how to exit the Jeep. While the side is high, Mikey’s determined, and desperate to get home. “I’m out of here.”

Bob slams his hand on the dash, the muscles in his arm bunched. “I didn’t save your ass so you could go off and commit suicide.”

“I didn’t ask you to save it,” Mikey says, almost snarling.

“Maybe you didn’t, but I did anyway, so suck it up already and let me help you.” At the last Bob stops talking, and the sudden silence is ringing. Then he goes on, quieter. “Look, I know you want to get back. I want you to get back, I want you out of my fucking hair. But you can’t do it alone.”

More than anything Mikey wants to disagree. But with ill grace, he admits to himself that Bob’s got a point. “Fine. I’ll tell you, but if you give away the location you’re dead.”

Gears grind as Bob starts to drive. “Who the hell would I tell? It may have escaped your notice but I’m not exactly friends with S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W.”

“You could be,” Mikey spits back, and again irritation flairs, burning hot and beyond his control. “Some kind of undercover operative out in the field. You and your fucking ugly pink Jeep. How the fuck did you get it anyway? Mugging Barbie?”

“I found it,” Bob says shortly, and his expression in the mirror is set, his mouth a tight line. “And considering what you’re wearing you’ve no room to talk about colors.”

Mikey looks down at his t-shirt and jacket. At the leather that’s even more scuffed now and the yellow fabric covered in faint blood stains that haven’t washed away. The bright colors are his own fuck you to the world, a rebellion through yellow and red.

He suspects Bob’s Jeep could serve the same purpose, but Mikey’s in no mood for discussion and he rubs at one of his knees, feeling the bandage that conceals the stitches. His skin feels itchy, sore when he presses his fingers over the raised lines.

“Stop that.”

Mikey looks up and sees that Bob’s using the mirror to watch him. Deliberately rubbing again, Mikey says, “Or what?”

“Or I’ll put mittens on you,” Bob snaps back. “And tape them on.”

Mikey tries not to laugh, but Bob sounds serious and all Mikey can think about is what he’d look like with mittens on his own hands. For the first time in days he smiles, mouth curling up at the corner. “Can you even get mittens any more?”

“I’ll make some,” Bob says, and he’s still watching Mikey in the mirror. “Jesus, you’re hard work.”

“Not the first time I’ve been told that,” Mikey says, trying to get comfortable. Outside, they’ve moved from driving on sand to one of the dirt tracks that criss cross the zones, and Mikey stares into the darkness, trying to get his bearings. Head aching, he knows they’re still a long way from home, and he seeks a distraction. “Why did you take me back anyway?”

“You’re seriously asking that now?” Bob asks, sounding bemused.

“Never had the opportunity before.” Mikey slumps back, head tilted as he looks up to where the stars should be. “And I was unconscious a lot.”

“I liked those times,” Bob says, without a hint of a smile. Then stops speaking and Mikey’s half asleep when Bob finally answers the question. “I’d never leave any human in the desert. Even if they are hostile fuckers with a paranoia complex.”

Mikey’s eyes are heavy and he’s staring blankly at the back of Bob’s neck, thinking of his reason for taking Mikey in. In a way it’s not that different to what the Killjoys believe, saving people but on a much more individual scale. Mikey rests his hand on his knee, palm flat and hoping the scant heat will ease the ache. “I’m not really that hostile.”

“I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve threatened to kill me,” Bob says. “That’s hostile.”

“That’s survival,” Mikey says, and then. “Keep following this track, I’ll tell you when to branch off.”

Bob nods and keeps driving.

~*~*~*~

It’s Ray’s patrol and Frank’s curled up on the floor of the diner, head on his bent knees as he fights to stay awake. He’s exhausted, his whole body aching and his skin tight, dry from spending hours in the sun. He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, listening to Gerard’s footsteps as he walks from one side of the room to the other.

“You need to sleep,” Frank says, already knowing what Gerard will say.

“Can’t.” Gerard starts walking again, retracing his steps to the other side of the room. “We should have heard something by now. He was just in front of us, Frank.”

Frank remembers screeching out of Battery City, Gerard laughing and the zap of laser bolts as Mikey tore past on the stolen bike. The last time Frank saw Mikey’s face he was grinning, and Frank concentrates on that grin. How Mikey was so confident, sure, as he hacked the engine and gave a thumbs up before speeding away.

It’s what Mikey did, does, and Frank sure he’s okay. He has to be, because without Mikey they’ll be done. That’s inevitable.

“I’m going to the city tomorrow,” Gerard says. In the dim light his hair looks more blood red than scarlet, the marks on his neck bruises to match those under his eyes. “Someone will know something, they have to.”

Frank will go with him, even if it’ll be another wasted trip. Because Mikey’s just gone, vanished in a way that shouldn’t be possible with the network of spies and friends that keep them informed. Which leaves Frank thinking the worst, about rumors of creatures that roam the desert, about smashed bodies and gnawed bones.

They’re thoughts that won’t leave him, and he swallows hard, his stomach twisting.

Unexpectedly, the door opens, Ray looking inside. He’s frowning, his raygun drawn. “Head’s up. There’s something coming.”

Frank scrambles to his feet, going for his own gun. While visitors this late aren’t unheard of, usually it means nothing good, and Frank’s heart is racing as he runs for the door. Charging outside, he stands side by side with Gerard, guns drawn as lights appear on the horizon, and the sound of an engine gets louder.

Head tilted to one side, Ray says, “It doesn’t sound like Dracs or S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W, and there’s only one engine.”

Frank takes his word for it, but doesn’t drop his gun. Even if it’s not a raid unexpected visits never seem to end well.

Together they wait, and what starts as two lights forms into a Jeep, old and battered. There’s a man driving, and a shadowy figure behind him. Frank keeps a careful watch, ready for the sudden flash of a drawn gun or explosive devise.

The Jeep pulls to a stop, and then, Gerard’s yelling, “Mikey!”

Already Gerard’s running forward, and more than anything Frank wants to follow. But he remains in place, gun drawn in case this is some kind of trap.

“I’m okay,” Mikey says, allowing Gerard to pull him into a tight hug, but Mikey’s also not moving, and Frank knows that something’s wrong.

Ray steps forward, his gun still trained on the driver of the Jeep. “Who are you?”

The driver holds up his hands, says, “Bob. And all I’m doing is bringing him back.”

Frank’s attention is divided between Bob, and Gerard and Mikey, who’re still clinging together, Gerard on his tip toes and his jacket hitched up as he hangs over the side of the Jeep. “Bringing him back from where?”

“My place,” Bob says, evading any specific details, which Frank would call him on but Mikey’s peering over Gerard’s shoulder, waving his hand toward Bob.

“Don’t shoot him, he’s been looking after me.”

“You needed looking after?” Ray sounds concerned as he heads for the Jeep. “What happened?”

Mikey grabs for Ray, their heads together within the group hug. “I wiped out on the bike.”

Mikey sounds blasé, like the crash was nothing, but his words are contradicted by the way he’s still not moving, and is still clutching Gerard like he’s the only thing that’s keeping Mikey steady. Holstering his raygun, Frank trusts Mikey’s judgment and runs to the Jeep.

Wiggling between Gerard and Ray he grabs hold of Mikey, holding him close and breathing him in. Which is when Frank smells the blood, old but there and he presses a quick kiss against Mikey’s cheek before saying, “How bad is it?”

“He’s fucked up both legs, bones are okay but the skin was shredded.” Bob’s sitting twisted in his seat, looking toward the back and at Mikey’s look says, “You were about to tell them you’re fine, and you’re not fucking fine.”

For a moment Mikey bristles, like he’s about to deny what Bob’s just said, then he relaxes, and leans heavily against Gerard. “I’ve got a few stitches is all.”

“More than a few,” Bob says, and looks away from Mikey to Gerard. “I’ve bandaged his knees but he needs to keep them straight. I suggest tying him to a bed.”

Normally Frank would jump anyone talking to Mikey that way. But there’s no actual heat behind Bob’s words, and Mikey himself seems fine with what he’s saying.

“We need to get you inside.” Gerard’s fussing now, pushing back Mikey’s hair as if it’s concealing some wound, and then frowning when he looks toward Mikey’s legs. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

“They’re my pants,” Bob says, and pointedly turns back around, one hand on the steering wheel. “I need to get back.”

“I’ll be going then,” Mikey says, and starts to push himself up. Only to be gently eased back down by Gerard.

“Let us do the work,” Gerard says, and takes a step back so he’s standing just behind Mikey. “I’ll pull you out.”

Mikey turns and glares, says, “No you won’t. You’re not carrying me.”

Frank’s sympathetic, there’s nothing worse than having to be carried around, especially when you’re not actually unconscious or on the verge of death. But he knows Gerard isn’t going to back down, which will be interesting as it’s obvious Mikey isn’t either.

“How about we help you out but you walk back under your own steam?” Ray asks, but he doesn’t give Mikey any time to reply, just hooks him under the arms and pulls him out of the Jeep. It’s not a particularly smooth move, while the Jeep is open topped the sides are still high and Ray’s pushing himself up on his toes, using brute strength to get Mikey up and then pulled back. Gerard and Frank immediately stepping in to support Mikey’s legs and making sure they don’t scrape over the metal.

“Fuckers,” Mikey says, and he’s got a death grip on Ray’s arm, brows pulled together as Ray keeps hold, so Mikey’s held against his chest. “I said I could do it myself.”

Gerard shifts his grip, holding Mikey’s leg at his thigh and calf. “We know you can. But it’s easier this way.”

“You’d have only fainted again,” Bob says, watching them in the mirror. “Don’t you dare bust those stitches, and drink lots. You left half of your body weight in blood on my floor.”

Letting his head rest against Ray’s shoulder, Mikey looks over at Bob. “I didn’t know that you cared.”

Bob turns away, says, “I don’t.”

“Wait.” Gerard talks over the sound of Bob starting the Jeep’s engine. “He lost that much blood? Is there anything else we should know?”

“That he’s a hostile fucker,” Bob says, putting the Jeep into gear. Then he hesitates, as if debating with himself before adding. “It’s mostly bruising and the stitches. Keep those from getting infected and he’ll be fine.”

Gerard smiles, some of the tension he’s been carrying for days easing. “Thank you. For everything.”

Bob inclines his head toward Mikey. “I’d say it was nice meeting you, but.... you know it wasn’t. See you Kobra Kid.”

Mikey hesitates, then says, “My name’s Mikey.”

Bob nods, then drives away.

~*~*~*~

More than anything Mikey hates being carried. It’s a sign of weakness he doesn’t like to display, but at the same time, he’s thankful that Ray’s taken the initiative. Truth is, Mikey’s feeling so weak that actual walking would have been an issue.

Secure in Ray’s arms, he relaxes, finally allowing his shields to come down now they’re alone. Eyes closing, he’s vaguely aware of going inside, and being taken to their room at the back of the diner. Formally a kitchen the appliances have been stripped away, mattresses and blankets filling the corner furthest away from the door.

Usually those blankets are a tangled mess, but right now they’re neat, pulled smooth and unwrinkled. Mikey looks toward Gerard and states, “You haven’t been sleeping.”

“You were missing,” Gerard says, as if that’s a full answer, and to Mikey it is. Without Bob watching Gerard’s letting his true emotions show through, relief unable to conceal former fear.

Gently lowered to the ground, Mikey settles on the mattress, and takes a deep breath. Of musty covers and dirty material, the grease that always seems to clings no matter how long the kitchen’s been bare. It’s the smell of home, no matter how makeshift.

“We’ve been looking for you.” Gerard settles down next to Mikey, sitting at his side, legs crossed as he starts to ease Mikey’s arm out of his jacket. “We didn’t know where you’d gone.”

Mikey remembers the adrenaline rush of Dracs on his tail, the sound of squealing engines and laser bursts cutting through the air. It was a chase that seemed to last for hours, and he admits. “I didn’t know where I’d gone either. But I wiped out when I got there.”

“No shit,” Frank says, his eyes widening as Gerard takes off Mikey’s jacket, exposing the bruises that run the length of his arms. “What the hell did you do, land against a cliff?”

Mikey shrugs, taking in the bruising. In the last day it’s darkened even further and he bends his arm, making bruises meet at the elbow.

“Stop that.” Gerard rests his hand on Mikey’s arm, stopping him from moving. “Lie down so I can take your pants off.”

“You haven’t even bought me dinner,” Mikey says, and eases himself down.

“We’ll bring you water, that’ll have to do,” Ray says, and he takes Mikey’s jacket from Gerard and drapes it over the back of a chair. “Or something to eat if you’re hungry?”

Mikey shakes his head, the thought of eating making him nauseous. “I’m not hungry.”

Gently, Gerard pushes Mikey back until he’s lying straight, his head on the lumpy pillows. Eyes almost fully closed, he looks at the burn marks on the ceiling and lies lax as Gerard eases off the borrowed pants, and then hisses, says, “Fuck, Mikey.”

Frank kneels on the edge of the mattress, says, “That’s fucking impressive.”

“Fucking painful looking,” Ray says, heading toward the other room.

“It doesn’t hurt that much,” Mikey lies, and forces himself not to flinch at the feel of Gerard carefully touching his knee.

Gerard touches the other knee. “Your skin feels hot. Did Bob say they were hot?”

Mikey lets his eyes close fully. “He said lots of things, but I don’t think he was attracted to my knees.”

“Then he’s blind.”

Ray’s voice, and then the feel of the mattress dipping before someone lifts Mikey’s head and presses the lip of a bottle against his mouth.

“Drink,” Ray says, and Mikey does, swallowing a mouthful of tepid water, and then the pills that someone slips into his mouth.

Mikey’s not sure what they’re for, but that doesn’t matter as he settles back down, a blanket draped over him and Gerard close to his side.

“Sleep,” Gerard says, and Mikey does.

~*~*~*~

Patrick’s sitting outside the workshop, hat pulled down low and a pair of goggles on the top of his head. He’s cradling a tin mug and when Bob gets close says, “You got back alive then.”

Bob slides down to sit next to Patrick, and plucks the mug out of his hands. Taking a long drink he grimaces at the taste of weak instant coffee. “I did.”

“Get your own, ass,” Patrick says, but makes no attempt to take back the mug. Instead he glances at Bob before picking up a transistor radio that’s set by his side, the guts spilling out in a fountain of burnt wires. Delicately, he starts to separate them out. “So, what were they like?”

It takes Bob a moment to realize who Patrick means. He shrugs and takes another drink. Even if the coffee does taste vile at least it’s hot and wet, something Bob needs right now. Fingers curled around the mug he thinks about the Killjoys, who were exactly how he was expecting, but also, not at all. “They threatened to shoot me.”

Patrick’s head jerks up as he looks at Bob. “I knew it.”

“Kobra Kid told them not to,” Bob says, and while he’s not going to forget that initial meeting, the realisation that if he wasn’t friendly they could have blown him away, he’s also remembering their reactions when they saw Kobra Kid, those first few unguarded moments. “They were glad to see him.”

Patrick prises apart a mess of fused wires. “Glad someone was.”

“He wasn’t that bad,” Bob says, surprising himself. “For a hostile, bed ridden zone runner.”

“I guess,” Patrick allows, and then sets the radio to one side. “Having him here was stupid, we could have been raided any moment, and we’ve too much to lose.”

“I know,” Bob says, and he does. They’ve built up this place too carefully to take chances now. But the fact remains, he’d do it again. “But....”

“You couldn’t leave him.” Patrick sighs and slides off both his hat and goggles, and runs his hand over his head. “I know you couldn’t, and I’m glad he’s okay. And that he’s gone.”

Bob drains the last of the coffee and hands the empty mug back to Patrick. “Me too, even if he took my pants with him.”

Patrick climbs to his feet. “Pants for peace of mind. Sounds like a good trade to me.”

All Bob can do is agree.

~*~*~*~

Mikey wakes sandwiched between Gerard and Frank, Ray lying on his side so he can rest his arm over them all. It’s a comfortable position, and Mikey rests his forehead against Gerard’s shoulder, taking a moment to luxuriate in feeling so safe. He’s also feels hot, and sweaty and thirsty.

It’s a combination he’s used to, the same as he’s used to dealing with various aches and pains, but the more he wakes the more his legs are hurting, and Mikey presses his clenched fist against his mouth.

“Mikey?” Gerard eyes are half open, the corner of his mouth wet as he turns so he can look at Mikey. “What’s up?”

Mikey shakes his head, breathing through the pain until he can say, “Nothing. Just forgot how much stitches fucking suck.”

Frank moves, his skin peeling from Mikey’s where their arms are together. “I’ll get you something.”

Gerard pushes back Mikey’s hair and lets his hand linger a moment, his fingers against the side of Mikey’s face. “You should have woken me.”

“Just woke myself,” Mikey says, and steels himself to move and sit up. Which he does, cursing as he settles with his back against the wall.

Gerard’s watching, worry apparent but not vocalized. Propped on one elbow, he gently touches Mikey’s knees. “They’re still hot.”

“I’ll put the word out for antibiotics.” Ray’s voice is rough and his face is hidden behind his hair until he flops onto his back. He’s still wearing all of his clothes and his t-shirt is already damp under his arms. “We’ve guns to trade.”

“We need the guns,” Mikey says, poking at a spot on his right knee, where the end of one stitch is sticking out the side of the bandage.

Gerard slaps at Mikey’s hand. “You need your legs more.”

“You can have them.” It’s a half genuine offer, prompted by frustration and the jolt of pain when Mikey attempts to bend his knee the smallest amount. Hands cupping his knee, he bends forward, all too aware of just how long he’s going to stuck doing nothing.

“Got that out of your system now?” Gerard asks, and sits up himself, so he’s right next to Mikey. “If not I’ll go out and get some boards for your legs.”

Mikey stops touching, and looks down his own legs, examining the lines of stitches. The ones clustered on his knees are hidden by the bandages, but there’s more slashing across his thighs and in tracks down his shins. Cutting in deep and sure to leave scars. “I think you and Bob went to the same nursing school.”

“Bob went to nursing school?” Ray asks, and Mikey shakes his head.

“He threatened to tie me to the bed.” Mikey wiggles his fingers. “And tape on mittens.”

“I could make mittens,” Frank says, coming into the room and throwing himself down next to Ray. He’s holding a water bottle which he hands over to Mikey, along with a handful of pills. Red, white and yellow capsules all grouped together. “Pain pills and your usuals.”

Grateful, Mikey takes the pills and swallows them all in one go, following with a drink of water. “Thanks.”

Frank smiles, and looks thoughtful as he sprawls across Ray. “I could make mittens with added gun grips. That’d be rad.”

Mikey’s sure that he could, but that doesn’t take away from the fact he doesn’t actually want mittens. He looks over at Frank. “Keep them for MotorBaby,” and then, his mind playing catch up he asks. “Where is she, anyway?”

“Dr D and Show Pony took her, they’re scouting a new place for a hide out,” Ray says, his brow creased in a frown. “There’s been more attacks, we figured we’d better get ready to move in a hurry.”

Mikey’s confused, because while they trust Dr Death and Show Pony always, he can’t imagine Gerard not going along on the search. Or at least not sending either Frank or Ray. “I thought you’d go with them?”

“We would have, but some idiot went missing,” Frank says, rolling his eyes. “We wouldn’t have left here when we were looking for you.”

“You’d have had to eventually,” Mikey says. “Especially if this place was compromised.”

Gerard shakes his head, says shortly, “No we wouldn’t.”

It’s not an unexpected response, at least for an immediate reaction. But Mikey’s getting the feeling there’s more to the outburst than that. He looks between them all, trying to decode by body language and expressions alone. “Did something happen?”

“Apart from you staying missing you mean? Gerard asks, far too casual. He runs his hand through his hair and glances over at Frank. “No.”

Mikey picks through the words, matching them with the way Gerard’s sitting so close, and hasn’t left his side for a moment. A combination that clues him in to lingering fear that he suspects is bound with guilt. “I’m going to be fine.”

“Because someone found you,” Gerard says, and he picks at the specks of dye that are always splattered over his skin. “If he hadn’t you’d have died, I couldn’t find you.”

“Because I was at Bob’s,” Mikey points out, and then, “I took the bike on my own, Gee. You didn’t make me.”

Blood beads against Gerard’s thumb nail. “I could have stopped you.”

“No you couldn’t,” Mikey says simply, and grabs for a rumpled blanket, pulling it up so it covers his legs. “I needed a new bike, and that one was there.”

“It was a sweet bike.” Frank grins, wide and sly. “Shame it was taken by a sucky rider.”

“Fuck you,” Mikey says easily. “I got away from the Dracs.”

Frank waves his hand dismissively. “Details.” Then elbows Ray hard in shoulder. “Go and make breakfast. I’m hungry.”

“You can open your own can,” Ray says, frowning at Frank. “I’ve seen you do it.”

Frank sighs and gets to his feet. “Busted.” Then looks over at Mikey. “I’ll bring you something.”

Mikey leans so his head is against Gerard’s. “Pancakes, syrup and fresh coffee?”

“Sure,” Frank says, and then, “Or you could have kibble.”

Despite his lack of actual hunger, Mikey says, “Bring it on.”

~*~*~*~

Bob’s surrounded by parts of Kobra Kid’s bike. They circle around him, chrome dented and sooty, paint scratched and splattered with blood. Putting them back together will be an almost impossible task, but Bob’s up for the challenge.

He picks up a crumpled piece of metal, assessing the damage while mentally slotting it together with the other pieces that are laid out on the workshop floor.

“That looks like a headache in the making,” someone says, and Bob looks up, seeing Jet Star standing at the open doorway. He’s holding his helmet in one hand, and the other is held close to his gun.

“Your timing sucks,” Bob says, making no attempt to stand, because if he’s going to go down anyway, why not bleeding out among the pieces of a last engine. “I wouldn’t have done all this if I knew you planned to kill me.”

Jet Star frowns. “Who says I’m going to kill you?”

“You’re preparing to draw,” Bob says, but he’s also starting to doubt his first instinct, because Jet Star’s not moving, just looking at Bob as if he’s insane.

“I’m, what?” Jet Star drops his hand. “Sorry, habit.”

Bob gets to his feet, an expanse of metal separating him and Jet Star. “So you’re not here to kill me because I know where you’re based?”

“Lot’s of people know where we’re based,” Jet Star says, and something in his pocket rustles when he pats it with his hand. “I’ve been on a trade and thought I’d call in.”

“Why?” Still keeping a safe distance, Bob picks his way through the parts until he’s on the same side as Jet Star. “And how the fuck did you know where I live?”

“You’re not that hard to track down,” Jet Star says.

“Bullshit.” Bob doesn’t believe that at all. Even if Kobra Kid did remember the general location, Bob lives so far off the grid that most people don’t know him at all. And even if they do, it’s as a voice on the end of a line, not an actual person. To be found like this means the Killjoys have been looking, hard.

Jet Star shrugs. “Believe what you want.” He takes a step into the workshop, looking around. “We need a mechanic. We’ll trade supplies for time.”

“I don’t do house calls,” Bob says, and he wipes his hands down the front of his t-shirt, leaving behind oily smears.

“Your choice,” Jet Star says, and then turns. “If you change your mind you know where we are.”

Bob watches as Jet Star strides toward his motorbike which he’s left standing close to the workshop. Movements fluid, he sits and starts the engine, pulling on his helmet before roaring away, dust kicked up in his wake.

~*~*~*~

“If you go you’re crazy.” Patrick’s got his modified laptop on his lap, the signal booster tied up high above his head. Keys click as he types, code scrolling down the screen so fast Bob can barely make out the words.

“I haven’t said I am going,” Bob snaps, and dumps the contents of the can into a bowl, kibble splashing against his wrist. He brings his hand to his mouth, licking off the spill.

Patrick’s still staring at the screen, shadowed waves rippling over his face. “But you’re going anyway. Because you’re fucking stupid.”

“I haven’t said if I’m going,” Bob repeats, each word deliberate. He sits, folding himself down on the back seat of a Dodge that’s pushed up close to the wall.

“I don’t get it.” Patrick does look up then, hands held still as he says, “What’s the attraction? I get that you’ve got a fucking savior complex and had to drag in Kobra Kid, but this? Don’t we do enough without helping the Killjoys?”

Truthfully, Bob can’t explain the attraction. Just, he knows that it’s there. It’s not something he’s examined, or even fully admitted to himself but he knows he’s going to agree to the trade. It’s just a case of when.

~~~~~

Less then twenty-four hours later and Bob knows he can’t wait any longer.

A combination of concern for Kobra Kid, admiration, but most of all, curiosity is pulling Bob toward the Killjoys. He wants to experience their world and see how they work, how the parts of the group fit together to make that one perfectly aligned unit.

It’s a practical reason for a practical decision. At least that’s what Bob tells himself as he leaves a note for Patrick, weighing it down with his laptop before going outside.

~~~~

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