A/N: Yo, I'm back.

I'm very sorry I couldn't post last week. I think whoever reads this story by now knows that it's a little of a struggle for me to get my hands on a computer for enough time each day, so I couldn't write. I'm so sorry! I still love you all!

*Ahem* So, I have some announcements. One: Turn Away is still up and running, but I MIGHT need another week, see above issue. Two: I'm sorry, but I STILL haven't finished the next chapter of Welcome... To Hell! I'm a little screwed on that. Three: Are any of you shippers? Because I have something in store, coming within this month... And Four: Are any of you ABSOLUTE RAGING Panic! fans? Because if you are, I have been working on a story of sorts with the lovely Inu-Chan the music friend. Look out for that, and in the meantime, check her stories out as well, that girl deserves more views on her stories! Do it. And Inu, I'm sorry if you're embarrassed by me shamelessly advertising you on this site.

Die with your mask on!

~Sunshine

"I can't see where she is."

Skeleton Leopard opens his eyes, and leans back from his forearms, which had previously been placed on his knees.

A small, green-eyed girl curls her fingers around the mussed, braided buns atop her head. "Nothing?"

"Look, Angel, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I can't see her. It's like... She's off the face of the earth."

"You mean she's-"

"Oh, my God, Angel, no, Siren's not dead! We all know that she's too stubborn to die. She's a tough bitch, she's alright."

"Then why can't you see her?" The girl turns to another, roughly the same age, with fawn curls. "This is your fault, Missile Kid! You're the one who convinced her to go, since you knew where she went-"

"What are you talking about?" Missile Kid stands, crossing the Diner to make her way to the other ten-year-old, "Siren went on her own. She just trusted me enough to tell the rest of you."

"WHY THE HELL WOULD SHE TRUST YOU?"

A baby stirs from a makeshift cot on a table, and begins to cry. Jet Star hears the baby, and picks her up.

"Oh, God."

A boy with hair the color of dry leaves looks up from the booth surrounding the table. "Hold her against your chest and bounce her a little; it calms her down like clockwork."

The tall man does so.

Burned Paradise falls into a gurgling peace.

"How did you know that?"

Crimson smiles, almost innocently. "I know a lot of things."

"Huh." Jet Star seats himself in the seat across from the seven-year-old. "So, you're a Freak, right?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Whaddya do?"

"I... I dunno how to say it. It's like... Mind reading, I guess, but pictures. Like, I send people thoughts. Dreams. And I can see theirs. And I can send messages through dreams, but I've only done that a little. And I put stuff in their heads."

"Pretty cool, kid."

"Whaddabout you?"

"Naw. I stayed out of the Rains."

"Oh. Lucky."

"Hey, you have powers."

"Dracs don't hate you as much."

They turn when Angel starts yelling again.

"Leopard, just one more time. Try it."

The twenty-three year old sighs. "Alright, Angel. Once more."

As he leans into himself and concentrates, Crimson starts staring at him, frowning a little.

Jet Star's dark eyes pass between the two Freaks, and they widen in realization, as Skeleton Leopard sighs, saying, "I saw nothing."

The tall, curly-haired man leans over the table. "You're putting images in his head. You're disrupting his thoughts. You're infiltrating them so no one knows where Cyanide Siren went."

"Maybe."

"...Do you know where she is?"

He pulls out the same, innocent, smile. "I know a lot of things."


The boy steps into Zone 6. Finally.

He runs his gloved hand through his hair, his fingers catching on threads of black and white. His eyes blink, and he stares up at the crescent moon. His irises are the same shade as the sliver of heaven that hangs in the sky.

He turns around when he sees light.

A small, curvy woman wears red shorts, a black tee, and a zebra striped belt and converse. Her cherry-red hair is yanked into a high ponytail. A halo of light flickers around her.

"Who are you?" He asks.

She smiles. "That's irrelevant. I'm dead, aren't I?"

"The Dead can be honored, too."

She lets her eyes shut a little in understanding. "For the first living person who can see me, you're very considerate. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Who are you?"

She bites her lip, slips her hands into her pockets. "They called me Savannah Shootout. I'd prefer Daisy."

"Daisy was your real name."

"Dracs aren't after me anymore, so why bother using my Killjoy name?"

"Touche."

"Whaddabout you?"

He clears his throat. "Shotgun Sinner."

"Were you caught in the Rains, maybe?" She smirks.

He rolls his eyes. "No, really?"

"Well, I've heard of people being able to see The Dead without having to be blessed by the motherfucking

Rains."

"Bogus. It's stupid. I never believed it."

"That's probably why you manifested with these powers."

"Mmn. Were you a Freak-"

"No. Only young idiots like you bothered to run outside in the Rains."

"I've heard of older Killjoys with powers."

"Probably going after their kids. I knew that there was something wrong with that water. It wasn't like the Monsoons. It even looked different."

"Fair point. How old were you when you died?"

"Twenty-five."

"Are there more spirits around here?"

"D'ya know about the Mailbox?"

He scoffs. "I talk to the dead. Of course I know about it."

"But have you been there?"

"No... I was trying to get there."

"I can lead you there. It'll take about a week walking, if you wanna sleep at night."


Gunshot stands up in the car and practically screams along to the song that God-knows-which-DJ is

playing right now. I recognize it, vaguely. Something about ice cream and hugs and beer and old school metal and holiday cheer, nonsense shit like that. It's a very upbeat tune. She grins madly into the wind, her sandy hair whipping, the red bows threatening to come apart and fly off.

Siren, is that you?

I know the city is really close, by now. I can see the break of desert dust in the distance.

So Mad Gear must be close, too.

Siren, I see a car with kinda pink tires, is that you?

Yeah, baby.

I'm running out.

I see a small, white-clad form running into the middle of Route Guano.

I've never slammed brakes so fast.

Gunshot flies back into her seat, her body making a smack as it hits the faux-leather, her eyes widening in slight confusion. "Wha... HOLY SHIT!"

The form jumps into the backseat (where'd she come from?) and looks up. "Turn around right now.Dracs are coming in for another sweep. I think they're trying to find me. Or us."

I catch 'Dracs', 'sweep', 'us', and 'right now'. It's enough to make me accelerate, pull a U-turn, and drive the other way.

I'm looking through the rear-view too much.

"Both of you. I need to keep my eyes on the road. Watch the back."

They both turn around, but I watch the mirror anyways.

I catch glimpses of the girl. She has cropped, brown-black hair and very pale skin that seemingly blends in with her dusted white uniform. Her face is turned away from me.

So this is the mysterious Mad Gear.

A little girl, curled up into fetal position, fingertips resting over temples in concentration. A little girl, dressed in dirty pants and matching jacket, dirt smeared over her hands.

She unravels and sighs, falling into the seat. "We can stop worrying."

I still stare at her through the mirror. "What? Whaddya mean?"

I hear the smile in her voice. "I got into the leading Scarecrow's head. They're turning around. They might not be so pardoned by Airi, but who knows? Maybe Korse could defend me."

Gunshot Melody stiffens next to me. "Korse? The Exterminator?"

"...Yeah?"

"Why do you say that he'll defend you?"

She shrugs, still looking away. "Korse has been like a dad to me since my parents died when I was three. He's the only one who really knows about me being a Freak. He encouraged me to use them on... Certain employees. He's my inspiration."

Gunshot curls herself up, burying her face into her knees. "He almost killed me."

Mad Gear stays silent, until she meets my eyes through the mirror. "Thank you, Siren."

"You're welcome-"

I keep myself from gasping.

Her face is interesting. It's oddly developed for a ten year old, high cheekbones, a straight nose, and full, feminine lips already setting in. It's a little oval, with a defined chin and sharp eyebrows. It falls into a long neck and a wave of dark hair.

But her eyes...

I've seen those eyes before. I've seen them at the diner.

But her eyes...

I know them.


Relience sits up. He winces, clutching the bound wound on his chest.

"You really should stop trying to sit up on your own. Put that back at least a week." Newsagogo leans over the injured man, and helps prop him up, stuffing another ripped pillow behind him.

"I can't lie down anymore."

She squeezes his hand. "I'm sorry." She looks away.

"Are you..."

"I'm fine."

He sighs. "Gogo."

She smiles a little, despite what's in her head. Since this boy woke up in the former gas station five days ago, he's taken to calling her that. "It's cuter," he said as he smiled, a hardly noticeable blush creeping onto his face as he said it. She liked Relience's blush. It only bruised a little of his cheeks, but it made is ears turn scarlet. It was a little adorable.

She bites her lip. "It's... Been a year since my best friend died."

Relience's eyebrows furrow, and he squeezes her hand back. "I'm so sorry."

"It's alright." Newsagogo sighs. "Her name was Gina. She was known as Supercentarian." Relience's eyebrows travel up his forehead, and she glares. "Don't ask about the name." She takes another deep breath. "We met during the Fires, we hid in the same shelter and shit, but... She was killed in a raid." She laughs bitterly. "God, she was crazy. She dyed her hair blue and her eyebrows magenta, and she wore some weird stuff, like, fucking grass skirts, and tried making homemade beer once. But I loved her like a sister."

"She sounds awesome."

"She was."

They sit in silence. They meet each other's eyes.

"Hey, I hope you get better."

He smiles. "Thanks."

As Newsagogo gets up, she cups his cheek. "Good luck," she whispers against his ear, before pressing her lips to his. The kiss is silent and quick, but it leaves both blushing redder than blood.

She flees the room, leaving him staring at the blank wall, hurting and confused as hell.


"Good morning, sir," the dark haired woman comments, setting a sterile cup of plain, black, coffee in front of the immaculate man.

"Fetch me my breakfast," is all he says in return.

She straightens her black pencil skirt, letting a little air escape from her nostrils before she clacks her way on black pumps to the kitchen, placing a plate of cheese, pepper, and onion omelet with perfectly buttered toast into her hand. She carries it out, sets it in front of him, on his immaculate, onyx table. He hardly does so much as grunt.

Christa's been working for The CEO for six years now. Since she showed up, nowhere to go, fresh picked from the desert.

They didn't put her on pills. She knew too much about the Killjoys, about their leader, the man that Airi had called Dr. Death Defying. She said he kind of looked like this guy she knew through her husband. But when they asked her about him... She'd just break down.

They made a deal: work for the head of it all. Tell us everything you know. You keep your mind.

And she took it.

But they never tell her anything.

She clears the table as he left for the Headquarters, setting them in the kitchen for the cook.

As she goes back to straighten whatever papers had been left, a small paper slips out.

XmpkH45Re.

The code.

The fucking code.

Christa leaves the room in a hurry, for the office.

She knows every code except the one for the computer, by now. Disarm the door, the fences, the cameras.

Now, she has the key.

She makes it in, closes the door in case the other maid comes by, and starts typing the code in.

A whole database is opened.

It's got every Citizen in all of BL/ind's cities, every official, every Drac and Scarecrow, all listed with their height, weight, where and who they live with, their assignment, even their names before the Fires. Another database reveals Killjoys by the thousand. Every known one, which one's a DJ, a Freak, a rebel, a runaway, who they are and how important they are to the culture.

She first gets something off her chest. "Search Dr. Death Defying."

The database narrows, until a little window pops up on the side. Search: Doctor Death Defying. Results: 1.

She clicks.

The page explodes with pictures, notifications, history, yada yada yada. She reads through it.

Doctor Death Defying. Status: Alive. Occupation: Killjoy DJ, starter of the Killjoy Movement. Pre-Cleansing Name: Steve Montano (Steve Righ?).

No way, she thinks, Steve?

She scrolls down. There are mentions of who he was associated with, of Mindless Self Indulgence. Mostly, it's about how he's escaped from BLI prisons twice, and the security measures taken in return.

Twice. That motherfucker.

Then, it's the real business.

"Search Ray Toro."

No matches.

"Search Ray Toro."

None.

"Search Ray Toro!"

Your server is confused. Change settings from exact matches to possible matches?

"Yes," she breathes.

Search: Ray Toro. Results: 1.

She clicks with unnatural desperation.

Jet Star.

Her brow furrows in confusion. What?

She reads.

Jet Star. Status: Alive. Occupation: Killjoy minor leader, member of Killjoy cult icon group The Fabulous Killjoys. Pre-Cleansing Name: None. Believed to be Raymond Toro.

Believed to be Raymond Toro.

She looks at the picture, the shady fuzz of it. She gasps.

He's alive.