(It's 2025. The rock band the Fabulous Killjoys are a staple of killjoy culture, a beacon of what it means to be on the run in the desert: Live free, not easy. But no one has seen them or heard from them in more than a year, and reports are coming through Dr. D that Fun Ghoul died in battle. Where are the Fabulous Killjoys? And without that rallying point, how will the world's killjoys continue to survive in the face of the ever-evolving threat that is BL/ind? Alternate Universe/OC/OOC

I don't own this shit.

Please review! This is going to be a long one guys. I'd love input as I go. P.S. No slash … except this one time, but no one from the band. But plenty of MCR song refs/lyrics … It's fun guys c'mon!

Also let me explain: This fiction is sort of inspired by the killjoys, but it ignores a lot of what's out there in the killjoy "canon" I.e. twitter feeds, some stuff from videos. A lot of stuff is true to canon though. I did my own thing. It's all in fun.)

Part I: Jenny Won't Ya Come Back Home

April 15, 2025-Somewhere in northern Nevada

"Hey there, tumbleweeds-bad news. My caravan just came across a band of fallen killjoys on Route Hyacinth. A moment for our six anonymous bullet-riddled comrades in broke-ass arms."

Dr. Death Defying wasn't the New York Times or even The Love Note, the anonymous pamphlet of underground news killjoys far and wide passed around and kept an eye out for at all times. But his station was accessible, if you knew how to get to it, throughout California, Nevada, Utah, Arizona, Idaho, Oregon, Washington, and New Mexico, and he tried to pass on any bit of news he heard or saw.

"Alright now children," he said in his smooth voice. "This one's for them."

Hundreds of killjoys died weekly-Jackson knew this because he listened to Dr. Death, read The Love Note, inquired of every killjoy he encountered and kept count as he roamed the desert. The Draculoids killed them. They were getting either more numerous or more vicious in recent months, too, because Jackson had the distinct feeling that the body count was higher each week than the last. Or maybe the rumors that they'd begun to use helicopters and small fighter jets in this perennial desert war were true.

"Jackson!"

He looked up. Roland was barreling toward him through the desert, tripping as he went, off-balance because of a ragged bundle clutched to his chest, inside his scuffed white leather jacket.

Jackson shot to his feet, almost dumping the crumpled The Love Note he had been rereading and the pan he had been drinking whiskey from into the embers of the fire. "What?" he asked, alarmed.

He realized the bundle Roland clutched was a small, olive-skinned child.

"Get in the car!" Roland said.

"We have to pack-"

"Get in the car! Now!"

Grabbing The Love Note, a blanket, the pan, and his satchel-where they kept the whiskey, a few cans of beans, and the Angel, the apocalyptic western United States' BL/ind-manufactured and universally ingested drug-Jackson fell into the passenger seat of the bright blue, heavily modified 1973 Grand Am just as Roland dumped the kid-maybe 8-years-old, undetermined gender-into the shiny black leather backseat.

"Those pigs are after me," Roland said, falling in beside Jackson.

Draculoids. As the Grand Am's engine rumbled to life, Jackson saw three white-faced, huge-eyed masks, then three bodies, and then three dusty chrome motorcycles crest the hill Roland had just come over, kicking up red sand and dirt into a cloud behind them, obscuring the setting sun.

"There's only three of them!" Jackson said. "Why are we running?"

"More are coming."

The blue Grand Am pulled out from the abandoned campsite onto the old Interstate 80, known in killjoy code as Route Hyacinth. The mounted Draculoids, jackets billowing behind them, rode straight through the campsite, then swung onto the route behind the Grand Am, trailing by about a quarter-mile.

"Fuck!" Roland spouted, craning his neck to look back at the ruined campsite as it receded from view.

"Where'd you get a kid?" Jackson asked.

"Jackson-fucking shoot!"

"Oh. Right."

Drawing his laser, which he had lovingly modified years before with a secret technique so it hit just as powerfully as a real bullet and which shared his killjoy name-Flash Cannon-Jackson stood up and turned in his seat.

There were now seven mounted figures kicking up the red desert dust collected on the old interstate behind them.

"Boom!" Jackson said, triggering the Cannon. A red beam struck the metal of one of the bikes, bounced, and hit the dusty road. "Dam it!"

He ducked back behind the seat just as bullets began to whiz above him. The Cannon's conversation chamber came loose half the time when Jackson squeezed the trigger too fast-he shoved it back into place with a practiced motion.

Bullets rung in high and low pitches as they buried themselves in the fender and bed or the trunk.

"Lay down on the seat, Jenny!" Roland said, sinking lower in his own seat as he gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.

"Jenny? You know her name?"

"God damn it Jackson, shoot!"

"Oh. Right!"

Jackson's hand was already on the door handle. He pushed it open, leaning out-and pulled the trigger.

"Boom!" He ducked back inside and slammed the door with a flourish.

One of the Draculoids took the beam square in the chest, knocking him backward off his bike. The motorcycle sipped sideways as its rider tumbled backward, and a second mounted Draculoid was swept to the ground as she collided with the fallen bike.

"I'm the shit," Jackson said matter-of-factly as he popped the conversation chamber back into place again.

"Dude, don't cuss in front of Jenny."

"Fuck, you're right."

Jackson stood up again to face the five remaining Draculoids, ducking out to the right of the protective seat. "Boom! Boom, boom!" He ducked to the other side, the Grand Am pinging as Draculoid bullets struck it, and fired twice more.

Two more Draculoids fell for his trouble. But now the three final figures were within twenty feat of the Grand Am's shiny, bullet-riddled fender.

Roland and Jackson were fresh out of explosives. The Draculoids probably were not, and both men knew it.

"They're fast," Jackson said.

"I'm already topped out." The speedometer was straining at 120 mph.

"We're gonna have to use our bulk," Jackson replied.

"Man, motherfucker."

A bullet went through Jackson's headrest, whizzing centimeters above his curled, sandy hair, and broke through the windshield.

"Just fucking do it, Roland!"

"Fine!" Roland reached up and put his seat belt on. "Jenny, strap in! Jackson, stop freaking cursing."

Gradually, imperceptibly, he slowed to 110 mph. The Draculoids gained.

"Little boys!" One of their voices could be heard calling. "We just want the little girl!"

The Grand Am slowed so suddenly and dramatically that it was as if it had hit an invisible wall-causing all three remaining Draculoids to slam into the back of the Grand Am.

Roland winced as he heard the chrome bikes scrape against his classic car's fender and shiny blue backside.

"Ow, motherfuckingshit!" Jackson said. The car was not moving along at about 25 mph, leaving the three Draculoids in a smoking head on the road. Jackson was rubbing the back of his neck. "You gave me whiplash."

"It's gonna take more than a day to fix that," Roland said. "I could hear it. They bent the fender to hell."

A small voice piped up from the back seat.

"Why did you want to hurt them?" it asked. "They were so nice." Jenny sounded like she was on the verge of tears.