Disclaimer: I own nothing in, of, or vaguely related to the Killjoys universe. This not-for-profit fanfic is written purely for the entertainment of myself and others.

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Work Text:

2017. Zone Four.

Sheet-white sand goes on forever and ever.

In the City, those of them who'd dared to speak of it had had some vague romantic notions about the desert, the junk-punk civilizations of heroes and revolutionaries. In the desert there would be color again. In the desert there was life. Ray is twelve or fourteen miles south of anywhere in the hottest part of the year, and now there is only white and bleached sky and the creeping realization he's dying out here. This. Fuck. This wasn't how it was meant to happen. Find a gang, that was the first thing they'd told him. Safety in numbers is everything in the desert. Hook up with a crew at the first opportunity. They might not accept you at first but at least you'll have some kind of protection. That was sensible as far as it went, but it turns out the first 'crew' Ray guessed he had something to barter with turned out to be not so much for the solidarity, and having been held up at gunpoint for everything he'd brought, he was out here on his own again. Minus water. Tent. Pocket knife. It wasn't like he'd smuggled a treasure trove out of Battery City. Either his years in the sterile labs and corridors of BL/Ind had rendered Ray a poor, poor judge of character, or he just had EASY TARGET written all over him.

Thirst had started in the back of his throat and crept up and downwards, his tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth and the headache had progressed so that he couldn't see so well anymore. The sand was moving. It seemed to be getting dark, but that couldn't be, because it was still morning, wasn't it? The heat was sullen, flattening, sun edging inexorably to the hottest part of the day and the only thing to do was find shade, which meant walking. Keep. Walking. Ray felt kind of sick. Everything seemed to be getting heavier. Or maybe that was just his body and blood. That didn't make sense though, because he was boiling, and surely when you were literally boiling, you should evaporate?

Could blood boil inside your body?

The sand flats were swaying now. Even the sky was moving. A vision of the rebel cities would have been nice, even if it was just a hallucination. Nice way to go out, in any case. Wait no. He wasn't supposed to be thinking that, he was supposed to stay positive-

-the ground lurched abruptly. It was kind of rude.

Lights out.

"...k dangerous to you?"

"...ke that. Korse probably didn't look dangerous when..."

"...stranger, then I don't even know when the point of all this is."

"...ourselves first... t a charity, Poison!"

"..."

The Afterlife was weird.

Ray comes to with the sensation of being watched. He was an impression of large eyes and pale skin. Illegally colored hair. The watcher sits forward eagerly and opens his mouth. Ray passes out again.

A ceiling. There are wires hanging loose and a lot of dust. A few of the beams are hanging loose. He is lying on something hard and cool.

It's cool and dark in here.

"Just so you know, I have a fully charged gun on my belt and anything you were packing is long gone. We searched you." The voice is calm and matter of fact, coming from the shadows in a corner. It's not particularly loud but still has the rough effect of a pneumatic drill applied to the space between Ray's eyebrows. He grits his teeth and makes a sound that must betray the degree of pain he's in, because the voice says, maybe a little mollified, "Water on your right."

It takes Ray an inordinately long time to figure out which one right is. He finally gets it when his fingers twitch with the memory of a guitar. That was – old. He reaches across and gropes blindly at something cold and plastic which promptly slips out of his fingers.

"Oh for – Jesus. Here." The voice is annoyed, but the hand that raises his head is almost gentle, and then water touches his lips and he can't think about anything but swallowing as fast as possible: "Hey slow down or you'll puke again!" Again? "Ugh, I am so not cut out for this Florence Nightingale crap." Water has an amazing effect. Ray still feels like – well, utter shit, but now shit with the desire and ability to sit up and grab the bottle and drink as much as he can as fast as possible.

"HEY! WHAT DID I JUST SAY, DUMBASS?!"

Ray lowers the water bottle. He does feel kind of sick still, but now he's distracted by the clear sight of his captor/guardian, and then he just starts laughing, because the thing is, this guy is tiny, and Ray's seriously not doubting his ability to kill him seventeen ways from across the room or whatever but somehow that just makes it funnier, he's like literally a pixie, all big eyes and small face and he probably comes up to Ray's freaking belt buckle or something –

"Okay, you're crazy," says the guy, throwing his (tiny!) hands up. "That's just great. Hey Poison, he's fucking crazy, in case you were wondering! I'm not dealing with this!" This last is yelled to someone presumably in an adjoining room, or outside. There is no reply.

"I'm not-" Ray wants to deny it but he's not entirely sure he can do so honestly, and in any case talking makes him cough. The guy just glares at him, arms folded across his chest. Now that Ray's eyes are adjusting to the darkness he can make out the brightly colored motorbike leathers, the longish hair. Belt buckle was a slight exaggeration, but the dude is very short and small. And kind of - well, pretty, a fact he's done his level best to efface with a variety of punkish tattoos and piercings.

"So what were you doing out there?" the guy asks when Ray's finished coughing. "You had like – nothing. No water. That's kind of suicidally stupid."

"I got robbed," Ray confesses.

"Huh. Well, it's a good thing for you Poison's kind of a bleeding heart. I figured you were a trap. Or a spy. I'm still not entirely convinced, by the way, though I guess the fact you nearly died and nothing happened means you can't be a very valuable spy."

"I – nearly died?"

"Sure. From dehydration and exposure. We gave you some water but you puked it back and I was like, this guy's a goner, but Poison was like, no, we have to try for good of humanity or some shit, and well, we had space on a bike. So here we are I guess. "

"...Oh." Nearly having died would explain the encompassing feeling of being something squashed on a windscreen, as well as the burned-soreness he was starting to register in pretty much every inch of his skin.

"So you crew kicked you out? Pick a fight with the leader? Or are you just useless or something?"

"No crew." Ray swallowed and lay back on the mattress. The ceiling blurred a bit. "I just got out."

Pause.

"Out of what?"

"Uh – the City."

"You left Battery City. Voluntarily. And alone." It's a statement of scepticism, not a question, and Ray is annoyed.

"We're not all – it's not all the same in there. Some people are awake."

"Yeah alright," says the guy after a long pause. "Whatever you say. So. I have shit to do. There's more water under the bunk and a bathroom –kind of – that way. And no weapons or communications equipment, so don't bother looking. Poison will want to talk to you later."

He leaves and locks the door.

TBC