And the Embers Never Fade 2/5

[turps33]

It’s close to midday when Bob parks in front of the diner. It appears deserted but he catches the glint of a lens from the roof, and Bob hunches his shoulders, chin close to his chest.

He’s expecting to be greeted at any moment, probably finding himself at the end of a gun, but no one appears. Bob ends up standing close to the entrance, looking at the boards that are nailed over the door while listening to the sounds of shouting from inside.

He’s not sure what’s actually being said, and is debating walking away, when the boards are abruptly pushed to one side.

“Your timing is fucking perfect.” It’s Fun Ghoul holding the boards, and for a moment Bob sees a flash of relief before Fun Ghoul’s expression hardens and he stands to one side, holding the boards up with one hand. “Come on already.”

Inside the shouting is louder, and Bob’s got his hand resting on his gun as he ducks low under Fun Ghoul’s arm, then follows him into a second room. Which is when Bob drops his hand, seeing that it’s Kobra Kid yelling. He’s sitting on a mattress, blankets crumpled around him, his face red as he glares up at Party Poison, who’s pacing the room.

Fun Ghoul steps in front of him, holding out his hand to stop Party Poison from moving. “We’ve got a babysitter.”

“I don’t need a fucking, babysitter,” Kobra Kid says, and while he’s stopped yelling, his tone is like ice. “If you won’t take me with you I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Not going to happen.” Jet Star’s pulls on his jacket and tugs it into place, seemingly immune to the way Kobra Kid’s glaring in his direction. “Someone’s staying with you.”

“You’ll be back with us soon,” Party Poison says, and now that he’s still it seems he’s pulling in a new focus, becoming more like the defiant figure on the wanted posters as opposed to the one Bob saw a few days before. He turns to Bob, giving him a long look. “You can shoot, right?”

“Of course I can shoot,” Bob says, and bites back the urge to ask why it even matters, because it’s not like he’s about to stay. Not to babysit anyway. “Look, I don’t....”

“There’s a raid planned in zone three, one of the orphanages.” Jet Star’s movements are abrupt and he checks his gun before sliding it into his thigh holster. “They’re going to attack the kids.”

Bob thinks about the messages Patrick’s received. While none have warned of an attack like this Bob knows the Killjoys methods and contacts will be different, and Bob trusts their intel.

Not that makes staying here any more appealing. He looks down at Kobra Kid, asks, “Can I gag him if he starts yelling again?”

Fun Ghoul grins, amusement briefly breaking through. “If you do, don’t use anything leather, he likes it too much.”

“Fuck. You,” Kobra Kid says, stressing the words.

Party Poison picks up his mask, slipping it over his head, cutting off Fun Ghoul’s reply when he says, “We need to go.”

Fun Ghoul snaps shut his mouth, then he points at Bob, jabbing him in the chest. “Watch him, if we come back and he’s not okay I’ll end you.”

Party Poison drops to his knees on the mattress, says, “No you won’t. Because I’ll have got there first.”

Which is infuriating, because it’s not like Bob ever volunteered to stay, and he’d protest that except Party Poison’s bent forward, his hands on Kobra Kid’s shoulders and their foreheads together as he says something Bob can’t hear.

Whatever it is it’s making Kobra Kid settle, and he remains still, mouth clamped in a tight line and his fists clenching the blankets as Party Poison stands and leaves the room, the others following behind.

“I fucking hate this,” Kobra Kid says, the words bitter. He’s got his head down and flinches at the sound of an engine. “I should be with them.”

“Well you can’t,” Bob says, busy checking out the room. The walls of which are covered with posters, many of the Killkoys themselves, their faces changed with the addition of fangs, glasses and dubious facial hair. Bob peers at one of Jet Star with tusks before turning back to Kobra Kid. “The threats to my life get old.”

Kobra Kid shifts and rubs the heel of his hand down the side of his thigh. “They wouldn’t kill you, not when you brought me back.” He stops moving his hand, mouth twisted to the side as he adds. “They’d probably stop at maiming.”

“Probably. Great.” Bob takes another circuit of the room, not that there’s much to see apart from the art on the walls and a wooden chair covered in a messy pile of clothes. Apart from that there’s bare space and the makeshift bed in one corner, where Kobra Kid is settled into some kind of nest, surrounded by blankets, magazines and bottles, both full and empty, within reach.

He’s also got a radio, the back open and batteries spilt out onto the covers. Picking up a battery Kobra Kid slots it into the case, his head down and hair concealing his face. For a brief moment Bob has the urge to sweep back his hair and see what he’s hiding, but he doesn’t have that right. Instead Bob looks out through the cracks between the boards covering the window, and then settles on the edge of the chair, preparing himself for a long, tedious wait.

Kobra Kid puts in a second battery and looks up, says, “It’ll be more comfortable down here.”

“Are you going to shoot me if I sit that close?” Bob asks.

Kobra Kid pushes the back of the radio into place with an audible snap. “You’d get blood on the blankets, so no.”

Bob’s sure he’s not about to be shot, but still, it feels strange sitting on the mattress, like he’s stepping into a space that’s more intimately Kobra Kid’s. Careful not to rest his feet on the magazines, he stretches out his legs, his back against the wall and a pillow pushed to one side.

Radio on his lap, Kobra Kid’s turning the dial, trying to find a station amongst all the static. There’s nothing, just the hiss and crackle of empty air, but he doesn’t stop trying, and Bob gets himself comfortable, zoning out to the sound of white noise.

“You haven’t asked how I’m doing.”

The words are unexpected and Bob opens his eyes, seeing Kobra Kid has his hand frozen over the dial as he looks over at Bob.

“Most people would ask how I was feeling.”

Bob shrugs. “You’re talking and breathing, your legs haven’t fallen off. I figured you’re doing okay.”

For a long moment Kobra Kid says nothing, then he laughs and grins over at Bob. “You should tell the others that. They might let me off this fucking mattress.”

“So they can shoot me? I don’t think so,” Bob says, taking note of how different Kobra Kid looks when he’s not scowling or threatening to kill. “You’re stuck here.”

“Yeah.” Kobra Kid sighs, and pushes back his hair, looking anywhere at Bob. “I never said. Thank you.”

“You mean for dragging your sorry ass out of the desert, saving your life and then putting up with you for days?” Bob asks.

“I would have saved myself eventually,” Kobra Kid says, chin up as he pushes back his hair. “You just got there first.”

Bob remembers Kobra Kid crumpled on the ground, the sand dark around him, the way he hadn’t regained full consciousness for a couple of days. There’s not a chance he would have got to safety alone, and Bob would stress that, but he’s not that cruel.

Bob picks up a magazine, says, “If you say so.”

“I do.” Kobra Kid picks up a magazine himself and starts to leaf through the pages. Then stops, his hand on a page. “I guess I should say sorry for all the shit I said back then.”

“You should or you are saying?” Bob asks, not looking up from an article promoting the Cleanse Fresh Diet. “Because you’re lucky I didn’t throw you back in the desert.”

“Am sorry,” Kobra Kid says and then. “I’m not the best patient and I didn’t know you.”

“You don’t know me now,” Bob points out, and he’s trying to reconcile this Kobra Kid with the one who spent time at the workshop. It’s like comparing a kitten to a snarling tiger and right now Bob’s got no idea which one is real.

“You brought me home.” Kobra Kid sits forward, wincing as he pulls a pillow from behind his back. Almost flat, it’s got a crimson stain in the middle and he tries to plump it up before giving up and throwing it to one side. “My fucking back’s killing me.”

Bob knows that, apart from bruising, Kobra Kid’s back wasn’t injured in the crash, which means any pain is due to lying around for so long. It also means Bob can help, well practiced with easing muscle strains and aching joints. It’s just, he doesn’t know if he wants to, not when other methods could help first. He looks around, says, “Do you have any pain pills?”

Kobra Kid folds forward, chest close to his legs. “Have them but can’t take them yet.”

Bob looks down at the article again, trying to ignore the pained sounds Kobra Kid makes as he stretches. When Bob’s read the sentence about prune shakes at least five times he slams down the magazine and gets onto his knees. “Lie on your side.”

“The fuck?” Kobra Kid straightens, and goes for his gun. “If you’re trying something I’ll vaporize your dick.”

“I wouldn’t touch you with anyone else’s dick, never mind mine,” Bob says, and sits back on his heels. “I was going to try and help, but forget it.”

Kobra Kid sets down his gun and puts his head in his hands. “Sorry. I’m going fucking insane right now.”

“You were insane before,” Bob points out, and even though he’s still debating the wisdom of offering again, he kneels up and says, “I’ll sort out your back if you promise not to shoot me.”

For a long moment it looks like Kobra Kid’s going to refuse, then he carefully rolls onto his side, his head resting on his arm. “So you’re some kind of masseuse as well as Florence Nightingale.”

Bob turns his attention to the art on the walls, working through his urge to hit Kobra Kid over the head with the nearest hard object. “I’m neither of those things, now shut the fuck up before I change my mind.”

It’s been a while since Bob’s done anything like this, but as he places his hands on Kobra Kid’s back it feels like yesterday that he was easing out knots and relieving tension. Careful of spreading bruising, he uses his thumbs in tiny circles, applying pressure over tight muscles.

Kobra Kid sighs, his face hidden as he says, “Do you always offer massages to total strangers?”

“You’re not a total stranger,” Bob says, but Kobra Kid does have a point. Even if Bob’s not touching bare skin and can tell himself this isn’t an intimate gesture, this isn’t something he’d usually do. He digs in his thumbs a little bit harder. “I’d do the same for anyone in need.”

“Florence Bob of the zone.” Kobra Kid sounds drowsy, and finally the muscles in his back are starting to relax. “And where would you get someone else’s dick to touch me with? Do you harvest them or something?”

“The fuck?” Bob stills his hands, trying to keep up with the jump in conversation. “Why would I harvest dicks?”

Kobra Kid yawns, and turns his head so he can see Bob. “Sex toys, to eat, windchimes maybe. I don’t know. You’re the one who has them.”

Bob can’t decide which one of those options is the most horrific. “To eat? Jesus, I think the crash has scrambled your brain.”

His eyes closed, Kobra Kid shakes his head. “It already was.”

Which Bob can believe, not that he says so, just stares when he realizes Kobra Kid has fallen asleep.

~*~*~*~

Normally they’d spent more time at the orphanage, today they leave as soon as they can.

It’s not that they don’t trust Bob, if they didn’t there’s no way they’d have left him alone with Mikey. But it’s not a trust that’s established, and Gerard has his foot down, hurtling them toward home.

In the back seat, Frank braces his hand against the door as the Trans Am hits a bump in the road, sending the car momentarily into the air.

“You know you can steer around those.” Ray’s gripping the frame of the passenger door, his head jerking forward when they land.

“It’s easier to plow though,” Gerard says, his hands white where he’s gripping the wheel. Between his wrist and the cuff of his jacket burned skin is visible, a livid red mark that starts from under his bracelet. Frank thinks about the supplies they’ve got in the trunk, their make-shift field med kit that seriously needs re-stocking right now.

“We’ll have to go to the city soon.” It’s not something Frank likes to do, going into Battery City is always suffocating, the sterile air feeling like it collapses his lungs, but some things are almost impossible to trade. Especially when it’s supplies that would expose a supposed weakness.

“We’ll go next week,” Gerard says, and when the diner comes into view he goes even faster. “Mikey should be back on his feet by then.”

Frank hopes so, because right now it feels like their group is unsteady. They need Mikey to shore up their ranks, but more than that, Frank misses Mikey. Who’s there in body and spirit, but missing when Frank walks at night, a calming steady presence. Or there when Frank takes one of the bikes and just goes, Mikey’s arms tight around Frank’s waist and his laugh loud in his ear.

“He’ll be back to his best soon,” Ray says, optimistic as always, and Frank leans back in his seat, taking that optimism and using it to bolster his own.

Minutes later they pull to a stop, Gerard throwing open the door and jumping out before the Trans Am fully stops, as Ray leans over and shuts off the engine before hurrying after him, Frank close behind.

Gerard’s already inside when Frank pushes aside the boards. He steps into the diner, and is surprised to hear that it’s quiet. Expecting shouting, or at least some kind of talking, fear takes hold, the days of Mikey being missing fueling imagined scenes of him being dead, Bob standing over his bloody body. Frank runs, Ray a step behind.

“Shush.”

Frank pulls to an abrupt stop before he runs into Gerard’s outstretched hand. Then looks past Gerard, and sees Bob sitting reading a magazine, Mikey fast asleep beside him.

“What the fuck?” Frank takes another step forward, looking from Mikey to Bob. “Did you drug him?”

The question sounds hostile, Frank intends it to be, because he can’t see how Bob’s got Mikey to actually sleep without using drugs or some other kinds of physical means. He peers at Mikey, looking for new bruises.

“You know, you asked me to stay.” Bob sets down the magazine that he’s holding, and while his expression is blank the tone of his words are underpinned with anger. He starts to stand. “I didn’t drug him, I didn’t hit him, I didn’t do anything to hurt him and I’m sick of the assumptions that I have.”

“No, wait.” Gerard stands in front of Bob, stopping him from leaving the room. “It’s just. He hasn’t slept well for a while.

“Which is why we shouldn’t wake him,” Ray says. Pulling off his jacket, he hangs it on the back of the chair and then takes out his gun, checking the safety is on. When he’s sure that it is he sets it on a shelf in the main room of the diner and then looks back into the room. “Come in here, I’ll make dinner.”

“You cook?” Bob asks, and Gerard grins as he takes off his own jacket and throws it on top of Ray’s.

“He can open a tin and pour out water.”

“I’m an expert at that,” Ray adds, complete with a smile. “Come and eat with us, we can discuss that work I mentioned.”

Bob doesn’t look sure at first, then says, “Fine, but if I hear any threats about being poisoned I’m out of here.”

“No threats,” Gerard promises, and with last look at Mikey, heads for the other room, Bob following behind.

Which leaves Frank, but he doesn’t go with the others. Instead he stays in place, and when they’re alone kneels down next to Mikey. Who’s fine, breathing easily, his head pillowed on his arm and a blanket pulled up to his chest. Frank pulls it a little higher, taking a moment to just touch. Because he’s not Gerard who’s stuck close to Mikey for days now, or Ray who’s been helping Mikey move to the bathroom. He’s just Frank, who’s missing his best friend.

“I can feel you staring.”

Startled, Frank sees that Mikey’s half opened his eyes, peering at Frank through his lashes. Frank tucks in the blanket, his gun digging into his side when he bends. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Mikey says. “I’m still asleep, and so should you be. Lie down with me.”

“So you’re sleep talking?” Frank asks, and Mikey nods as he wraps his hand around Frank’s arm and then pulls.

“I do my best talking when I’m asleep.” Mikey keeps hold, his fingers tight as Frank takes out his gun and lays it safely to one side before lying down, his body against Mikey’s.

“Hey,” Frank says, when they’re sharing the same pillow and he’s looking directly at Mikey, who’s looking right back. “I thought you were sleeping?”

“I woke up,” Mikey says, and he drapes his arm over Frank’s side, keeping him close. “Stay a while?”

So Frank does.

~*~*~*~*~

It’s early morning the next time Bob goes to the diner. He’s agreed to check over the engine of the Trans Am in return for a supply of batteries and kibble. It’s stuff he could get himself, but it’s just as easy doing it this way, plus, Bob likes working on engines, and truth is, he’s looking forward to getting his hands on the Trans Am, a car that’s almost as notorious as the Killjoys themselves.

Bob pulls to a stop, and for a moment sits still in his Jeep. This early the diner looks even more ramshackle than usual, the walls sandblasted and at points, seemingly held up by the wanted posters slapped over the weather-beaten boards.

If Bob didn’t know better he’d think the place was deserted, but as it is, he’s waiting for someone to appear, unsurprised when the boards over the door are pushed to one side and Jet Star emerges. Without his jacket and thigh holster he appears unfinished, softer somehow as he smiles at Bob over the rim of a metal mug from which he’s drinking.

“Morning.” Jet Star drains the contents of the mug and then shakes the remaining droplets to the sand. “Want breakfast? I’m making.”

Bob pops open the door of his Jeep and drops down to the ground. “I think I’ll pass.”

“You sure?” Jet Star says, and he moves out of the shadows and into full sun, his head tipped back and eyes closed. “I’m making oatmeal.”

Bob can’t remember the last time that he actually ate oatmeal, or even if he actually likes it at all. But it’s not kibble, that’s all that matters, and he says, “In that case. I’m in.”

“Smart choice.” Slowly, like what he really wants is to stay basking in the sun, Jet Star starts to walk back inside. “Come on, you can help me stir.”

Surprised, Bob asks, “You actually cook the stuff?” because it’s been months since he last ate something that wasn’t from out of a can.

“On the stove and everything,” Jet Star says, and when they’re both indoors, he indicates a small two ring hotplate that’s set on one of the counters. “Or on a burner anyway.”

Already there’s a pan set on one of the rings, while to the side are two small unmarked paper bags and a pile of bowls, spoons in a heap beside them. Jet Star hums under his breath as he wipes a cloth around the pan and looks toward the closed door to the other room. “They’ll wake up when they smell this cooking. Or pretend to anyway, the fuckers just like letting me do all the work.”

Jet Star picks up a bag as he’s talking, and pours some dried flakes into the pan, followed by what looks like a lot of sugar. Bob takes a step forward, says, “You’ve got sugar?”

“We get it in trade,” Jet Star says easily, like sugar isn’t one of the banned substances on the BLI/nd lists. It’s why it’s almost impossible to find, Bob knows, he’s tried often enough. He takes another step forward, watching as the tiny granules tumble into the pan. Jet Star stops pouring and grabs hold of Bob’s hand, holding it up and pouring a small amount of sugar onto his palm. “Enjoy.”

Before, Bob would have thought eating sugar like this was gross, now he licks it off his palm, enjoying the hit of sweetness that cuts through what’s usually a constant diet of bland. Ensuring he’s licked up it all, he runs his tongue over his palm one last time, says, “Thanks.”

Jet Star pours water into the pan and then holds out a large spoon, says, “Repay me by stirring.”

Right now the oatmeal looks disgusting, the water filmed and the sugar lumped at the bottom with the mystery dried flakes. Bob takes the spoon and gives the mixture a stir, trying to maintain an even expression.

Jet Star laughs as he fills a kettle with water from the barrel set close to the wall. “It gets better, promise.”

Bob isn’t so sure, but he’ll take Jet Star’s word for it. Especially as he’s setting the kettle on the other ring, and reaching for a tin painted with coffee beans, each one complete with a smiley face. Bob stops stirring. “You’ve got real coffee?”

Jet Star shakes the can. “Only on special occasions. This is instant.”

Which is fine by Bob, and he keeps stirring as Jet Star switches on the boom box that’s sitting on one of the counters, quiet music filling the air as he bustles around, gathering mugs and clearing piles of papers and pens from the table. It’s nice, domestic in a way that Bob approaches with Patrick, but never actually achieves all that often.

It also makes Bob think about the Killjoys, because while the wanted posters and rumors present stark facts and embellished tales, the reality adds another element. One where while the Killjoys obviously are dangerous, they’re also a family, and it’s that that intrigues Bob.

He’s got countless questions that he won’t ask, but one thing he can ask about is about Kobra Kid, he’s got that right at least. “How’s Kobra Kid?”

“Fucking annoying,” Jet Star replies, and nods approvingly when he sees Bob is still stirring. Then amends, “He’s okay, bored stupid mostly but the stitches look fine. You did a good job.”

“Wasn’t me that did them,” Bob says, the scent of sugar and coffee replaced by sense memories of blood and antiseptic, the feel of Kobra Kid’s slick skin as Bob held his legs still as Gabe patiently cleaned out and sewed up wounds.

“Yeah?” Jet Star doesn’t ask who actually did it. Just spoons coffee into five mugs and unexpectedly says, “I know Mikey told you his name, why don’t you use it?”

Thrown by the question, Bob tries to think what to say. He does know Kobra Kid’s real name, but using it feels wrong. In Bob’s head Kobra Kid is a wanted zone runner, the one whose face is on posters and ended up half dead in the desert, defiant and hostile at all times. Mikey is someone different, the man who clung to his friends when Bob brought him home, and the one who slept next to Bob, trusting him to keep guard.

If he’s honest with himself, Bob’s wary of getting to know Mikey, who from the flashes Bob’s seen, could be someone Bob would like as a friend. But friendship brings complications Bob isn’t sure that he wants, especially as he’s sure one would lead to three others.

He runs the spoon through the mixture that’s solidifying and turning into actual oatmeal, hedging as he says, “No one knows your names, I thought it slipped out by mistake.”

Jet Star shakes his head. “Mikey doesn’t make mistakes like that. And if it helps. Hi, I’m Ray.”

Bob looks at Jet Star’s outstretched hand, trying to decide what to do. He’s been able to push Kobra Kid’s real name to one side, but this is too deliberate, and Jet Star is right here, waiting. Bob has to make a decision, shake and take in the complications of potential friendship, or walk away, back to his already busy life.

This time all he can do is trust his gut instinct, and he holds out his own hand and shakes hands with Ray, says, “I’m Bob.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ray says, and his grip is firm, his smile warm. “If you can serve that up I’ll wake up those idiots.”

Bob reaches for a bowl, says, “On it.”

As he serves out the oatmeal he listens to the sound of Ray talking, then, eventually, someone talking low in reply. Bob’s not sure who it actually is, not Mikey he knows that, but it could be either Fun Ghoul or Party Poison. Whoever it is, they don’t talk for long, and Ray shakes his head when he comes out of the room.

“I swear, it’s like talking to a bunch of zombies.” Picking up two bowls he retraces his steps, says, “Put the other three on the table.”

Wondering who’s eating with Mikey, Bob puts three bowls of oatmeal on the table, and is going back for the coffee when he stops in place, seeing Fun Ghoul who’s standing in the doorway. He’s wearing pants and t-shirt only, the bottoms of the pants crumpled over his bare feet and his hair in snarled knots on one side of his head. Without the glare it would make Fun Ghoul appear almost child-like, but he is glaring, scowling at Bob as if all he wants to do is grab up his gun and blast Bob in the chest.

“I hear we’re trading real names,” Fun Ghoul states, his glare never wavering. “I don’t know you, but Ray trusts you and you brought Mikey home.”

Bob says nothing. Just waits, never looking away from the glare.

“If you ever use this against us I’ll gut you,” Fun Ghoul says, and then. “I’m Frank.”

“And I’m sick of being threatened,” Bob says, because it never seems to end. He glares back at Frank. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with your names? Send them to S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W who probably know them anyway? Or do you expect me to create a fucking song dedicated to you all and send it out on a transmission? Because you’re all zone runners, you live off the grid and hide out anyway. Your real names mean nothing.”

It’s half correct. While what Bob’s said is true he’s well aware that real names do mean something, just not to the authorities. Regretting not getting to eat his oatmeal first, he starts to go, when Frank slowly claps.

“Impressive, have you been storing that up?” Then he grins, his expression changing from surly to sunny in seconds. “If you do that song I’d better get a full verse mentioning my daring deeds and huge dick.”

“I’ll think about it,” Bob says, and blinks when Frank gives him thumbs up before grabbing a coffee and sitting down at the table.

Already eating, Frank says, “Sit down already, or I’m going to eat them all.”

He’s not kidding,” Ray says, appearing out of the bedroom. Grabbing two mugs of coffee he takes them into the other room and then comes back almost immediately, picking up his own mug. Holding it close, he sits next to Frank. “Seriously, eat before it gets cold.”

Taking Ray at his word, Bob sits, sliding along the bench until he’s opposite Frank. Keeping his feet back, Bob eats, surprised that the oatmeal tastes so good.

“Told you it gets better,” Ray says, as Frank scrapes the bottom of his bowl with his spoon.

“It tastes great,” Bob says through a mouthful of oatmeal which he washes down with hot coffee.

“The sugar’s the key,” Ray says, and then grins as he adds. “Add enough and it makes anything taste good.”

Frank shakes his head. “You added it to that scorpion stew and it tasted like shit.”

“You’re just holding a grudge that you got poisoned,” Ray says easily and sets down his own spoon in his empty bowl as he explains. “Frank ate part of the stinger, he had lips like pillows for days.”

Frank pokes Ray hard in the side. “I’m sure you put it in there on purpose.”

“Because I wanted to listen to you bitch for days,” Ray says, rolling his eyes, and then looks toward the bedroom at the sound of a soft knock. “I’m going to take in more coffee.” Sliding off the bench, Ray gathers empty bowls and then disappears into the other room, coming back in to fill two mugs. Holding them in his hands he looks toward Bob. “Want to see Mikey?”

It feels like a loaded question, and Bob isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. But he does want to see him, just to make sure he really is okay, and nods, says, “Sure.”

First though, he drains his coffee, putting the mug next to the empty bowls before following Frank and Ray into the other room. Where he sees Mikey is asleep, his head on Party Poison’s lap.

Bob starts to back out, because Party Poison is running his fingers through Mikey’s hair, the gesture so tender that Bob feels like he’s a voyeur to some intimate moment.

Party Poison looks up, his fingers still against Mikey’s head, and he says, “Stay.”

It’s not said as a command but Bob’s aware this is yet another test, and his skin prickles at the feeling of being watched. His every reaction monitored and stored as he tries to work out what he’s seeing, fitting it together with past pieces.

It’s a puzzle that’s starting to take shape, and Bob walks back into the room, looks down at Mikey and asks. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s doing good,” Party Poison says, “Fucking good,” and then, after he’s studied Bob’s expression, “Hi. I’m Gerard.”

~*~*~*~

“Ashlee’s been in contact, she’s coming in later today,” Patrick announces. He’s wearing his magnifying goggles and when he pushes them to the top of his head red marks are etched around his eyes. He pushes a pair of tweezers behind his ear and kicks out with one leg, his chair squeaking as he turns so he’s facing away from the circuit boards of an electro canon that are arranged on his desk.

“You finished the transmitter for her?” Bob asks, and hands Patrick a bag of water.

Patrick takes a long drink, then leans back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah.” Reaching behind him, Patrick picks up a pin of a bear head, its mouth wide and smiling. “It’s primed and ready.”

“Nice job,” Bob says, admiring Patrick’s work. Not that Patrick ever does bad work, he’s an expert in miniature electronics, and the perfect partner for Bob and his engines and machines.

Patrick accepts the compliment with a slight nod and then says, “You went out this morning.”

“I did.” Bob takes back the bag of water and takes a drink. Fastening the cap, he puts the bag to one side and starts to untie the bandanna that’s wrapped around his wrist, needing to push back his hair. “I went to see the Killjoys.”

Patrick looks directly at Bob, his mouth pursed, then says. “I hope you know what you’re doing?”

Bob could easily bullshit and say that he does. But Patrick deserves the truth, at least, the truth as far as Bob knows it himself. That while the Killjoys aren’t actual friends in the slightest, there’s something there that’s fascinating, and Bob wants to know more, despite his own reservations. He knots the bandanna at the back of his neck, says, “I’ve got no fucking idea.”

“I figured.” Patrick pulls the tweezers from behind his ear, and taps them against his hand. “I’m not going to say be careful, just remember who they are.”

“I know who we are,” Bob says, because methods aside, what they do isn’t much different to the Killjoys themselves. “Knowing them won’t hurt what we do.”

“It’s not that I’m worried about,” Patrick says softly. “If they find out about your past...”

“They won’t,” Bob cuts in, and faces down Patrick. “I’m a different person now, no one knows about that.”

Patrick simply states, “I do.”

“Because I told you.” To Bob that’s an important distinction, Patrick does know about Bob’s past, but it was a story given on Bob’s terms, and only when he trusted Patrick completely. “They won’t find out.”

“You can’t know that,” Patrick says, his voice rising. “They’re not stupid; they’ll have checked you out. What happens if they wonder why you decided to make like a hermit and fix cars for a living?”

It’s nothing Bob hasn’t already thought of himself, but hearing it said out loud emphasizes the risk he already knows that he’s taking. The problem is, though, despite that risk Bob doesn’t think he can pull back -- not now.

Repeating reassurances he tells himself daily, Bob says, “S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W’s employee list is under deep encryption, and my picture was never taken.”

“That you know of,” Patrick says, and he indicates his computer. “It takes me all of a few minutes to hack into S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W’s records.”

“Not everyone’s a hacking genius extraordinaire.” While that’s true, it’s also nothing more than a deflect, and Bob knows it. It’s why he adds, “I’m the one that got away. They don’t like admitting employees can regain their conscience and free-will, especially unit leaders. Even if people ask, they won’t tell.”

“You hope they won’t tell.” Patrick’s mouth is pinched, and he taps his fingers against the arm of his chair. “You’re taking too many risks, what about the zone runners from back then? If one of those remembers you you’re history.”

“They won’t,” Bob says, sure even though it’s something he’s tried to forget, memories of the drones he commanded and the zone runners he ambushed resurfacing via both nightmares and stray thoughts. “None of them got out alive.”

Patrick barely flinches, already knowing this story. “It only takes one to escape. It happens.”

Which Bob’s well aware of; but it’s a risk he’s willing to take. “I’ll be careful.”

Patrick pulls down his goggles and turns, says, “I wish I could believe that.”

~*~*~*~

“If you don’t help me up I’m going to do it myself,” Mikey says, and making the point he begins to turn on his side, ignoring the pull of stitches in each leg.

Frank darts forward, and puts his hand on Mikey’s shoulder, keeping him in place. “Jesus fuck, stay still you idiot. I’ll help.”

If he wasn’t so frustrated Mikey would feel bad about pushing the issue, but he is frustrated and if he doesn’t get out of this room he’s going to go insane. He wants to get up and run, to ride his bike, even going outside would be okay, but no one will let him. Until now, when Gerard and Ray have gone on a routine patrol leaving Mikey and Frank behind.

“If you tear your stitches I’m not redoing them,” Frank says, and steps on the mattress and holds out his hands. Then he grins, his expression showing he’s on board with this escape even if his words say the opposite.

Mikey grasps hold, hanging on as Frank pulls him to his feet. It’s not the most pleasant of movements, and Mikey bites the inside of his cheek as he takes his weight on his knees, but Frank’s right there for support. Together, they walk off the mattress, Mikey more lurching than any actual steps. Not that he’s even tempted to try and bend his legs, not when it feels like his skin is being tugged apart at the seams.

“Where to?” Frank asks, and wraps his arm around Mikey’s waist, holding him steady. “You’ve the choice of the other room or going outside.”

It’s a no brainer question. It feels like Mikey hasn’t seen the sun for days and he grits his teeth and keeps moving, each step stumbling, but also loosening tight muscles, until finally, he’s outside, leaning against the wall as Frank brings out a chair.

Frank sets it next to Mikey and says, “Sit.”

Mikey does, getting himself as comfortable as he can be while wearing a pair of Gerard’s shorts and feeling more filthy than usual. Flexing his foot, he looks at the contrast of pale skin against bruising, black thread and scabbed grazes, so gross that it’s cool.

“They look like patchwork legs,” Mikey says, and he bows his head, enjoying the warmth of the sun. He can feel it against his back, warming his neck, and then Frank’s sitting on the ground next to Mikey, his shoulder against Mikey’s thigh.

Frank runs his finger just over one of the cuts, ending at the stitched knot that sticks out at the end. Then moves his hand, so he’s tracing the line of stitches the curl up Mikey’s thigh. “They look bad ass, and these two like letters.”

Frank’s got his head tilted to the side, his eyes slightly closed and Mikey twists, trying to see what Frank’s seeing. “Like letters? The fuck?”

“A G and S,” Frank says, and then shrugs. “Or just curves, who the fuck knows?”

Mikey reaches down, feeling for the place where Frank’s looking. He runs his fingers over the raised lines, feeling how they loop and curl, but can’t make out any actual letters. “You’re seeing things.”

“Probably.” Frank rests his head against Mikey’s side, still and silent. It’s a state he doesn’t achieve often, his life mostly lived at high speed. Easy laughter and constant motion a barrier against the anger and fear Frank fights to keep hidden.

Mikey rests his hand against Frank’s shoulder, and rolls the chain of his necklace under his thumb. “What happened when I was gone?”

It’s something Mikey’s been thinking about for days now, because he knows something did, he just isn’t sure what. Asking like this is something else that should make him feel guilty, but out of them all he knows he’ll get the answers from Frank. Because while in most cases Gerard withholds nothing, this time Mikey knows he won’t tell, not when it involves Mikey himself.

Frank keeps staring forward, says, “Gerard wasn’t taking it well. He was close to a solo assault on Battery City. I let him throw cans of kibble instead.”

It’s not a surprise. From the start Mikey and Gerard have been each other’s only constant, and even the thought of losing Gerard makes Mikey’s heart clench. So he knows it’ll be the same in return. The problem is, Gerard’s their leader, he can’t afford to lose control like that, and Mikey makes a vow that they’ll talk. Then there’s Frank, and Mikey curls his fingers around the back of Frank’s neck, keeping him close. “You know I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t promise that,” Frank says, and it’s true, Mikey’s making promises there’s a chance he can’t honor.

Bending forward and twisting to the side, he slides his hand under Frank’s head, and tilts up his chin gently, enough that Mikey can brush a kiss against his mouth. “You’re right, I can’t, but I can promise that I’ll never go willingly.”

“Too fucking right you won’t,” Frank all but snarls in reply, and continues the kiss, his hand against the nape of Mikey’s neck, holding him down, his mouth against Frank’s, Mikey tasting dust and sand and the ever present background grit of kibble. Then pulls back slightly, says quietly, “You’re not allowed to leave us again.”

Mikey replies, “I’ll try.”

~*~*~*~

Ashlee’s one of Bob’s oldest contacts. Over time he’s become used to her arriving in the workshop, her outfit always perfect despite time spent riding the zones.

Today she pulls off her helmet and sets it on the seat of her bike, and then takes off her gloves, black leather to match the rest of her outfit. Ashlee’s hair is red right now, tied back in a long plait, a yellow ribbon threading through the strands. It’s a color that matches her nails, cut short and square and she smiles when she sees Bob approaching.

“Patrick tells me you’ve got yourself a pet zone runner.”

“Patrick’s a fucking gossip,” Bob says with a scowl. “And he needs to stop hiding IMs in with the codes.”

Ashlee slips her arm through Bob’s, her grin widening. “Nice deflection, but no dice. Tell me more.”

“Wentz is rubbing off on you, you never used to be this annoying,” Bob says, and winces when Ashlee nips at his forearm, hard. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“So you haven’t been going to see them almost every day?” Ashlee asks sweetly.

“I’ve been working on their car,” Bob says, but doesn’t add how most times, even after he’s finished, he ends up staying a while. Usually with Mikey, who’s on his feet now but still not battle ready, but Bob’s getting used to them all hanging out, handing over tools and making coffee which they share while talking, in some of their cases, talking a lot.

“Working on their car, right.” Ashlee draws out the word and pats Bob’s hand. “But good for you, it’s about time you looked away from your engines.”

Bob steers them past the parts of Mikey’s bike that still litter the floor, heading for the back of the room where, as usual, Patrick’s working. “I told you, all I’m doing is working in trade.”

Ashlee smiles, not the bright beam of before but something smaller as she looks over at Bob. “They’re nice guys.”

“You know them?” Bob asks, because while he knows that Ashlee’s got contacts all over the zones he’d always thought they were the kind more like Patrick. The people who’re rebelling in the form of technology instead of outright conflict.

“Sort of.” Ashlee smiles at Patrick and perches on the edge of the counter, her legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. “They’ve got friends in the family camps, and Pete knows Kobra Kid.”

Which, of course he does. Someone as annoying as Pete would know someone as surly as Mikey. But even as he thinks that Bob’s taking it back, the surly part at least. Pete’s still annoying. The family camp, though, that’s unexpected. “They’ve got people in the camps?”

Ashlee’s eyes are gleaming, her mouth twitching as if she’s aware of Bob’s deliberate change of focus. “They’ve got people running the camps.”

Bob’s only visited the family camps a few times, driving there to drop off reconditioned vehicles and on one occasion, an actual mini tank for Lindsey. One she’d subsequently painted purple with red stripes -- not that Bob’s got any ground to stand on in terms of vehicle color.

Standing close to Ashlee, he thinks about Lindsey, her grin wide as she took control of the tank, and Jamia, guns on both thighs, waving from her tower on watch. When Bob thinks about it, it makes sense that they know the Killjoys, but what doesn’t make sense is how unsettled that makes Bob feel. Experienced in ignoring emotions, he reaches for the pin transmitter, setting it on his open palm.

Patrick turns toward Ashlee. “It’s got a range of three miles, after that atmospheric conditions are an issue.”

“That’s not a problem.” Suddenly all business, Ashlee peers at the pin, turning it around to check the back and running her thumb over the bear head. “I’ll be staying close when I hand it over.”

Bob doesn’t ask any details. While he knows Pete works from inside the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W ranks, the fewer people who know how and where the better. He does say, “Be careful,” and Ashlee nods and stands.

“We always are.” Clipping the pin on the lapel of her own jacket, she brushes a kiss against Bob’s cheek, and then does the same to Patrick. “I’ll be in touch at the usual time.”

Patrick nods, and Bob walks beside Ashlee as she heads for the door, passing the strewn parts of the bike once more.

Ashlee slows, says, “You’re putting it back together? I’d have thought using it for parts would be more practical?”

“It would be,” Bob admits, and truthfully, it would be easier too, even if Bob does like the challenge of making something so battered perfect once more. “But they need the bike.”

“And you’re going to fix it for them.” Unexpectedly, Ashlee wraps her arms around Bob, squeezing tight. “You’re a good man, Bob.”

Awkwardly, Bob pats her back, hating that he can feel himself blushing.

“But I have to go.” A last squeeze and Ashlee’s pulls away, turns and heads for her bike. Giving Bob a last wave before she puts on her helmet and drives away with a roar and a spray of sand.

~*~*~*~

Frank doesn’t ride the bikes when he’s out on business or some kind of trade, but today he’s traveling solo, and it makes sense to leave the Trans Am at the diner. Hunched over, he grips the handlebars tight, feeling the reassuring weight of his bag over his shoulder. The road stretches out before him, snaking into the distance and Frank puts his foot down and just drives.

He doesn’t know how fast he’s going, he doesn’t want to. All he wants is to go faster, asphalt under the wheels and thoughts shoved aside, the only thing that matters staying upright. Frank can feel the bike shake under him, road ready and steady, but always that millisecond away from a slip in concentration and disaster.

This is what Frank needs, what he craves. His eyes streaming and hair whipped back, the muscles of his arms tense as Frank opens his mouth wide, screaming out sounds that get caught in the wind and yanked from his mouth. Anger and fear expressed away from the others, in the way that Frank knows best.

When finally he slows Frank’s shaking, his hands aching and throat dry as he comes to a stop and slumps forward, arms crossed on the handlebars and forehead against warm metal. He takes a deep breath, the first one in days it seems, and finally looks up, trying to see where he’s stopped.

It’s one of the middle zones, and Frank could keep going and head toward home, or else change his direction and travel to find Bob. It’s something he’s been thinking about for days, and while there’s no reason Frank actually needs to do so, just, suddenly Bob’s always there. Frank wants to believe he’s a friend, but there’s that lingering hint of suspicion that Frank needs to confront.

Decision made, Frank starts to drive once again.

Actually finding Bob’s workshop is an exercise in frustration. Frank knows the general location, co-ordinates obtained from friends and contacts, but in this part of the zones there’s little to distinguish one place from another. There’s just sand, a lot of fucking sand crossed by barely there trails and Frank keeps searching due to sheer bloody-mindedness alone, until, finally he sees fresh tracks.

Hoping he’s going in the right direction, Frank follows them deeper into the desert until even the trails are left well behind. Where he is now there’s only more sand, piled in heaps and dotted with scrub, and the faint tire tracks that just keep on going.

Speed kept low, Frank squints against the sun, wipes his hand across his face and follows, the loose sand spraying against his legs and boots. Despite wanting water he doesn’t stop, just keeps watching the tracks until his eyes ache and he’s swallowing hard, trying to at least wet his mouth.

He slows even further when he finally sees a building. At first glance it’s small, a boxy square with a flat roof, the sides made of the same weather beaten boards as the diner. But the closer Frank looks the more he can see the building is deceptive, with rooms extending on the far side. There’s also another building off on its own, and as Frank approaches he sees Bob’s Jeep inside, unmistakable with its bright pink paintwork and battered panels.

Then Bob’s there himself, strolling around the corner, hand on his raygun that’s strapped to his thigh. There’s also someone else following, some stranger who’s glaring at Frank, his gun drawn and held steady.

Frank pulls to a stop and kills the engine, holding up his hands.

“It’s okay,” Bob says, and looks back at the stranger. “It’s Fun Ghoul.”

“I know,” the man says, but doesn’t drop his gun, just takes a step toward Frank. “What do you want?”

Frank stares back coolly, says, “I was in the area and decided to drop by.”

There’s silence then, the stranger and Bob communicating via scowled and blank looks alone. Frank wipes at his face and weighs up the possibility of being shot if he goes for his water. Right now it feels like a risk, but he still opens his bag, never looking away from Bob and the stranger.

“This is the third time, Bob,” the stranger says then, lowering his gun before stalking away.

Frank takes a drink of his tepid water, then another before offering the bag to Bob.

“I’m good.” Bob walks closer then, his expression guarded. “I know you weren’t in the area.”

“I could have been,” Frank says, and blatantly stares at Bob, taking in the small cuts on his fingers, the oil that smeared down the front of his shirt. He looks different here, more guarded somehow, and it’s like Frank’s seeing the Bob from before. Back in those first few visits to the diner when his every word and movement was measured and clipped.

“The others, Mikey, things are okay?” Momentarily concern shows through, and that more than anything reassures Frank. Not totally, he’s learned that complete trust is a hard fought thing, but enough that he swings himself off of the bike.

“They’re fine,” Frank says and pats his bag that’s filled with boxes and bottles. “I went to get supplies, figured I’d stop on the way back and make sure you’re not some Korse puppet.”

“And?” Bob asks. “Did I pass the test?”

“So far.” Frank walks past Bob, heading toward the corner and guessing the door is back there. “If I get inside and see a white suit I’ll still have to kill you.”

“Kobra Kid, Party Poison and now you.” Bob falls into step with Frank and gives him a look. “I just need to be threatened by Jet Star and I’ve got a full set.”

“Ray hasn’t threatened you yet?” Frank says. “He’s slipping.”

“Don’t worry, Mikey took up his slack,” Bob says, his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “At length and creatively.”

“He’s a twisted, fucker,” Frank says fondly, flashing back to the scene when he left, Gerard and Mikey sprawled out together, magazines spread around them and Gerard slapping Mikey’s hand each time he went to scratch at his legs.

“That’s one way of saying it,” Bob says, and when they turn the corner he indicates a large area of packed down dirt around the front of the building, and huge doors pushed back exposing the inside. “My workshop. Feel free to check for white suits.”

“I intend to,” Frank says, feeling no guilt at all for admitting his mistrust. Attention caught by the vehicles inside, he steps from sunshine into shade and organized chaos. Blocks holding up stripped down cars and an engine hanging from the ceiling on chains, while at one side, the parts of a motorbike are spread out on the floor.

While they could be any parts of a bike, Frank knows that they’re not, and he’s pulled close. Needing to see.

“I picked them up along with Mikey,” Bob says, and stands over the seat and exhaust.

Frank crouches, and rests his hand against a blood splattered panel. It’s a reminder of how close they came to losing Mikey and while that’s nothing new -- what they do is dangerous, it always will be -- that reminder catches Frank’s breath.

Chest aching, he grabs onto a distraction and snarls, “I suppose you’re going to sell or trade it. Profit from him nearly dying.”

“No,” Bob says simply, and then, “I’m making coffee if you want some.”

He walks away, leaving Frank crouched down, his hand against metal and hearing the truth in Bob’s ‘no’. And while a single word isn’t a bond formed through years of friendship or through fighting back to back. Right now, it’s a start, and for Frank that’s enough.

~*~*~*~

Mikey’s got the blades of the scissors close to the first stitch when Gerard walks into the room.

“The fuck?” Gerard runs forward and onto his knees, grabbing for the scissors. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Frustrated, Mikey clenches his hand, keeping tight hold of the scissors. It’s already taken him almost ten minutes to psyche himself up to remove his own stitches, and now he has to start again. He pokes at a bare patch on his knee, where the skin is already starting to be pulled tight.

“They need to come out or they’re going to bed in.”

“Not by you,” Gerard says, looking horrified. “Are those even sterile? And how were you going to get the ones at the side? You’re not a fucking octopus.”

Truthfully Mikey hadn’t even thought about sterilizing the scissors, he’d just snatched them up, knowing he needed to get the stitches out today. Letting the scissors drop he crosses his arms across his chest and looks down. “I wish I was a fucking octopus, I’d chop off my legs and grow more.”

“Well you’re not,” Gerard says, and the lack of a rambling conversation about mutant octopi and regeneration shows Mikey that Gerard’s more rattled than he’s showing. Reaching for the scissors, Gerard sets them to one side, like he’s afraid Mikey’s going to snatch them up and start snipping. “Bob’ll be coming over later, he can do them then.”

That’s good enough for Mikey, and he looks up at Gerard. “And then I’ll go on patrol again.”

Gerard shakes his head. “Then you get to rest until I’m sure your fucking knee caps won’t drop out.”

It’s an expected reaction but Mikey’s ready with a compromise. “I can rest on the back seat of the Trans Am. And I don’t need to walk to hack.”

“I guess,” Gerard says, and in this moment there’s nothing Party Poison about him at all, just Gerard, and he folds himself down, his head on Mikey’s shoulder. “That’s if I ever let you out again.”

It’s the opening that Mikey’s been waiting for, but also one he doesn’t want to take. But he knows that he has to, his hand against Gerard’s, Mikey says, “You know I could die any day. I probably won’t live to be old.”

Immediately Gerard tenses, says, “That’s not going to happen, Mikey. I won’t let it.”

Since as long as he can remember Gerard’s been the center of Mikey’s world, the person he loves, admires and aspires to be. It’s why all Mikey wants to do is believe him, to take the easy option that says that Gerard never lies. But he can’t, because he knows it’s not true.

“You can’t stop it, none of us can.” Mikey’s got his own head resting against Gerard’s now, staring straight ahead. With Frank out for supplies and Ray meeting a contact the diner is quiet, the air thick with heat, sunshine striped across the floor, and this moment feels like a confessional. “And if that happens, you have to keep going.”

It takes Gerard a long time to reply, but Mikey gives him the space, knowing Gerard will be picking through his own thoughts. Then Gerard says, “I’ll try.”

It isn’t enough, it can’t be enough. Which is unfair because Mikey knows if Gerard ever goes down it’s more than likely Mikey will go right after. But Mikey’s not Gerard. Kobra Kid isn't Party Poison, and Mikey turns so he can look directly at Gerard and demands, “Promise me, Gee. Trying isn’t enough.”

Again Gerard hesitates, then hooks his little finger around Mikey’s and says softly, “I promise,” and Mikey’s aching, hating he’s the cause of such pain.

“And no throwing stuff at Frank,” Mikey adds. “I know your throwing arm sucks but he’s too important to risk.”

Gerard sighs and reverts to his previous position, head against Mikey’s shoulder. “No throwing either.”

Knowing Gerard’s word means everything, Mikey says, “Thank you.”

~*~*~*~*~

As soon as Frank leaves Patrick appears and slumps into one of the chairs next to the kitchen table. He rests his head on his hand, his eyes shadowed behind his glasses. “I’ve been in contact with Ashlee, things are going to schedule.”

Bob sits, and slides a mug of coffee in front of Patrick. “You need to get some sleep.”

Patrick wraps his hand around the mug, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Bob ignores the snapped reply. Patrick’s been up for nearly two days now, hacking and transferring codes under the eyes of the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W tech bots. It’s no wonder he’s so irritable, and yet again Bob wishes he had the skills to actually help.

Instead, all he can do is ensure Patrick sleeps when he can, and keep up his own side of the operation. Right now that means little more than taking care of vehicle repairs, which is important, the same way as Bob’s knowledge of S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W is important, but somehow that never seems enough.

“Sorry,” Patrick says then, and takes a sip of his coffee. “I’m tired and I’m worried about Ashlee and Pete.”

“And you’re going to bed,” Bob interrupts, and plucks the mug from Patrick’s hand. “I’ll stay here and keep watch.”

Patrick blinks and rubs at his eyes under his glasses, says, “What did Fun Ghoul want?”

It’s a question Bob’s been expecting, and he pauses before saying, “He wanted to check I wasn’t in with Korse.”

Patrick stills and then laughs, short and brittle. “I take it you checked out?”

“I’m still alive,” Bob says, and when Patrick stands, Bob does too, pushing Patrick gently in the small of his back. “Go. Sleep.”

“Going,” Patrick says, but then adds, “But I’m going to set the perimeter alarms, I know you’ll want to go see your pet zone runners later.”

Bob doesn’t even attempt a denial.

~~~~~

Pulling to a stop, Bob gets out of his Jeep and waits for someone to appear. Usually it doesn’t take long and though he’s never seen any evidence, Bob suspects the Killjoys have their own perimeter alarms. If they didn’t Bob would think that they’re insane, when you’re rebelling against authority you always keep watching, it’s just the way that it is.

Expecting Frank or Ray, Bob’s surprised to see it’s Gerard pushing aside the boards before stepping outside. He’s stripped down to one layer, pants and t-shirt, even his thigh holster missing, which would suggest napping or relaxing, but Gerard looks tense as he approaches.

“Mikey was going to take out his own stitches.”

“It’s probably time,” Bob says, unsure why Gerard looks so rattled. “Was there a problem?”

“Yes there’s a problem.” Hands emphasizing his words, Gerard stops in front of Bob, staring him down. “He was going to use scissors.”

Bob still doesn’t get it. In a world where the hospitals heal your body but sedate your mind, this is basic field first aid, something that Gerard would have had to have done before. “You’ve never taken a stitch out before?”

“Of course I have,” Gerard says, and tugs up his t-shirt, exposing a neat scar that slashes across his stomach. “Too many of the fucking things.”

Bob’s still no closer to understanding, and he forces his gaze away from Gerard’s stomach up to his face. “So let him do it, or you do it.”

Gerard lets his t-shirt drop, says, “And what happens if the scissors aren’t sterile enough? And the cuts get infected.”

“Nice positive attitude.” Bob takes note of how Gerard really does seem worried about the possibility. It’s another thing that shows just how close he is to his group of zone runners, and, taking a risk about mentioning anything personal, Bob says, “You really care about him.”

“Of course I do,” Gerard says, looking surprised. “He’s my brother.”

“Your brother,” Bob repeats, and thinks about Gerard and Mikey, picturing them together. “No one said.”

“Not many people know,” Gerard says, and effortlessly morphs from Gerard into Party Poison as he gives Bob a direct look. “It’s another thing they could use against us. So if you tell....”

“You’ll kill me, skin me alive, hack off my flesh and eat it for dinner, I know,” Bob says, and turns away from Gerard and leans over into the Jeep. There’s box on the passenger seat, filled with parts and tools that Bob needs, and he takes his time checking the contents as he thinks over this new information.

“They’ve tried it before,” Gerard says, and the steel of Party Poison is gone from his voice. “But Mikey fought his way out.”

Anger strikes, made sharp by the implications in Gerard’s sparse statement. Well aware of what goes on in the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W cells, all Bob wants to do is demand details, but he doesn’t, it’s not his place. Instead he picks up the box, keeping it cradled tight against his chest and heads for the Trans Am, planning to resume his modifications and lose himself in the engine. Something solid that he understands completely, unlike this fury he feels when he thinks about someone trying to hurt Mikey, or the ache in his chest as Gerard talks about his brother.

Now that Bob’s aware of the relationship he’s unsure how he’s missed it before. The longer he thinks the more facial similarities match up, but more than that. The obvious fondness in Gerard’s voice as he talks, his love for Mikey apparent in every word.

Not that it explains everything that Bob’s seen, and he asks, “The others, Frank and Ray. They’re your brothers too?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, and starts to walk alongside Bob. “But in a spiritual way, we’re bonded against adversity, fighting back to back, raising our voices as one. They’re the most important people in my life and I’d give up my own for them.”

“So, not by blood?” Bob asks, seeking clarification. Really, he’s not sure why he even expected Gerard to give a straight answer.

“Just Mikey,” Gerard says, his grin wide. He takes the box from Bob, carrying it the remaining few feet to the Trans Am. “I’ll go tell Frank you’re here. He wanted to see how you worked over the fuel things and the spark whatever-the-fuck-they-are.”

The box thrust back into his arms, Bob takes hold and then sets it on the ground. Reaching inside he curls his fingers around a selection of sparkplugs, says, “He’s in luck, I’ve got the spark whatever-the-fuck-they-ares right here.”

~~~~~

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