Indigo woke the next morning when Fun Ghoul sat down on the bed beside her. She was comfortable enough that she didn't notice him until he patted her shoulder. Then she jerked awake and turned quickly, prepped for a fight. He lifted his hands to show her he was unarmed.
"I just wanted to let you know we're heading out for the day," he told her. She took a moment to brush off the sleepiness.
"Where?"
"We have things to do."
"I can't come with?"
"You're not well. So no. You'd be more of a burden than an asset." She glared, blue hair a mess on her head, but all the fire still present in her eyes.
"I'm not a burden."
"If you can't run, you'll be a burden."
"Are you taking the Girl with you?"
"We usually always do."
"And she's never a burden?"
"She's six. She's easy to carry."
"Isn't that a little dangerous?"
"Have you ever tried to tell a child she can't leave the house?"
She didn't say anything to that. She'd had a similar interaction with her father after the dust of the wars had settled, and he kept her locked in the church's basement. But she'd been a teenager who was starting to lose her memory of the world before. Not a child born into it.
"I'm sure I could run just fine with a Drac on my tail. I'm just sore," she argued instead.
"You're weakened. It's not your fault. But we can't take you out if you can fall behind. We wouldn't come back for you, and none of us wants to live with that guilt. Also, we don't have shoes for you yet. We'll make a run today to see if we can find any. In the meantime, feel free to make yourself at home. We stocked the kitchen. It isn't much, but it's edible." She nodded.
"When will you be back?" He shrugged.
"Sometime tonight."
"How did you sleep?"
"The couch is cold and uncomfortable."
"I'm sorry. You can take your bed back. I didn't mean to steal it from you."
"It's fine. One of us had to be chivalrous, and I guess I drew the short straw. I'd have joined you, but I wasn't sure you'd appreciate it. We usually bunk up when we can." She considered it. Probably longer than she should have if she didn't want to be noticeable. But still, there was more vulnerability in sleep than in nudity.
"I've been known to wake violently," she decided. He smirked.
"I don't doubt it." He'd left his hand on her shoulder. She didn't really notice it until he stood and his fingers dragged down her arm. She wondered if he'd done it on purpose. Part of the strange mating dance they seemed to be doing around one another. "I'll see you later."
"Bye."
He smiled and walked backward a few steps before turning for the door and leaving her alone. A few minutes later, she heard music starting up somewhere outside. The car engine revved before peeling out, kicking up dirt and rocks that were loud enough to scatter on the outside walls. She wanted to take advantage of the momentary feeling of safety and catch up on sleep. But it was elusive now, even in the relatively cool house. It wouldn't stay that way for long, and her body was attuned to the sun now. It knew it was time to get up and move. They'd been doing this for nearly seven years. Survival was now the most dominant instinct.
She climbed out of bed carefully and tried to force herself to get moving. She made it down the hall to the bathroom with only the help of the old, cracked stucco walls. The light wouldn't come on now. The power was as untrustworthy as she expected it to be. So the bathroom was dark. Lit only by the dim, dingy window high above the bathtub. The water still came out dark at first. It ran in messy bursts and rattled the pipes when she tried to turn on the hot water. It didn't heat up, and she supposed that was more than she could have asked for. But it was nice to wash up again. To get all the dried blood out of her hair and soothe the burns on her skin.
She left the bathroom and examined the rest of the house. It felt important to make sense of her surroundings while she was well enough to do so. She needed to know each exit and each vulnerability. Her father always stressed how important it was to be aware at all times. Even though the desert sometimes made it difficult. Each inner zone looked the same. There was another bedroom across the hall from Ghoul's room. There was a cobra and a star painted on the door. She did a quick glance at it. Only making sense of the difference between their chaos and Ghoul's lack of—well, anything.
A narrow staircase was tucked into the corner at the end of the hall. It was surrounded by boxes and weapons, and canned food. It appeared to be the only way out. And then she realized she was in a basement and not some underground base. That explained the odd placement of the windows and the creaking she'd heard from upstairs the night before.
The trap door at the ceiling pushed open easily, leading her directly into a full-sized kitchen. It was hotter upstairs than it was in the basement. The black and white checkered floor was dusted with a fine layer of dirt and grime left over from years of living in the desert with no broom and mop. The walls were covered in scratches, holes, graffiti, posters, and newspaper clippings. There was a large window that was grimy with grease and dirt, making it challenging to look out of except for the areas where they'd apparently scratched off the grime. The grime was helpful, if disgusting. It made things look unlived in from the outside. Someone would have to press their face against the glass to see inside, and by then, each and every one of them would already know someone was there.
The yard was blocked off by a wire fence that had been broken in several places, further adding to the illusion that it was uninhabited. There was nothing but desert for miles. The mountains were barely visible in the haze in the distance. Nothing but dead blue monoliths, forgotten and empty. The property might have been a ranch at some point, but she didn't have enough memories of them to know what to look for.
The kitchen opened into what was once a living room. Now it looked more like a base of operations. The only homey comfort was the messy brown couch with scratchy blankets and a single yellowing pillow. It didn't look very comfortable. It was sunken in the middle. Like most things, it was something that was barely hanging on now that there were no repairmen or replacements. The floor was just as dirty, and someone had obviously ripped out the carpet, leaving nothing but wood panels on the floor.
The window was painted over with black paint, only scratched and chipped in some places. But the scratches were enough to give her an idea of what was on the other side; a single house across the remains of a pocked and broken street. It was missing a roof. She seriously doubted it was inhabited.
The hallway led to three more rooms. One was clearly another bathroom, which made her think Ghoul had some nerve to call her a Princess when he had luxuries she hadn't thought existed anymore. One bedroom was obviously Poison's. The walls were completely covered in intricate paintings and symbols. The windows were blocked off with wooden panels, making the space dark and hazy. The one across from it, however, looked like a sad attempt at making a home for a little girl in a broken world. Repurposed toys, dolls, and posters stolen from magazines and images of the old world.
Once she'd gotten a good look at the house, she returned to the kitchen to try and find something to eat. Unfortunately, the heat turned sweltering, and she was already sweating by the time she found anything. There was a fridge, but it didn't work. It looked like it was used as nothing more than an extra cupboard. The freezer didn't even have a door. Their collection of dishes was almost nonexistent. So when she found something, she was forced to eat it by hand. She couldn't even see the dirty fork Ghoul had given her the night before.
The top floor made her feel vulnerable and exposed. She didn't like the windows or how they seemed to collect heat even though they were dim. She felt out of place. Unwelcome. And after perusing the table full of scribbled notes on BLI activity, she was bored enough to return to the cooler basement.
The house was quiet, but it occasionally creaked, sending her heart into her throat each time. She tried to read one of the books Ghoul left for her. The cover had been ripped off, and a large stamp on the front page declared it unfit for reading by the BLI. It must have been headed for the ovens when someone got ahold of it. She wondered what he'd traded to get his hands on them. What exactly did he deem worthy enough to trade for books from a dead world? He had a small collection, but it was undoubtedly a collection. And she knew books were rare. So the price had to have been high. She doubted he was the one to save them. But somehow, it didn't surprise her that he was the type to trade something valuable for blocks of paper with words printed on them.
She liked to read, but she couldn't remember learning. It was one of the things that came from before the wars. A dark and hazy time that most people didn't remember after being filtered through Bat City. Especially the young ones. Like she was. She knew her own name, and she knew she had a whole family once. But she couldn't place their faces anymore and couldn't remember much of what made her who she was. The sharpest memories were of the zones and of her father. Of his years of lessons, teaching her how to survive in this world. How to be as dangerous as she could be so that no one could ever hurt her.
He'd tried, for a time, to make sure she remembered where she came from. He'd have her recite things from the old world. Songs she must have liked once and the names of her mother and siblings. But BLI took the memories. And her father eventually gave up.
Sometimes she thought she might be able to recall what her sister looked like if she tried hard enough. She was different somehow, she knew. There was something unique about her. Something Indigo used to be jealous of. She remembered that feeling. Of thinking her sister was so pretty and grown up and how much she wished she could be like her. But that was unimportant too. And her reason for feeling that way, the unique feature in question, had faded in the haze of BLI-issued pills.
Her name was a secret now. She'd only ever been called it by her father and only in private. So no one ever knew who Indigo really was. And she wasn't sure she did either. The name wasn't hers anymore. It was a girl who no longer existed. She was Indigo, and that's all that mattered.
The power kicked back on while she examined the books in the dim light that managed to shine through the blocked window. It clicked a few times before she made out the hum of a generator, and it blinked to life. It gave her something to do for a few hours. Until she was hungry again.
She'd trained her stomach to go long periods without food. She was used to not eating or only eating enough to keep herself going long enough to find more food. But she also knew how to eat when the opportunity presented itself. And the kitchen had enough. It wasn't a glamorous selection of food, but there were bags of freeze-dried potatoes and beans. And now that the power was back on, she could get the stove on long enough to cook something. She didn't know much about the men who rescued her, but so far, they'd only shown her kindness. She thought it might be time to repay the favor.
She searched the cupboards and boxes, hoping to find something that could make a complete meal for six people. She settled on the potatoes since the beans would need to soak. And while she dug around for something to flavor them with, she uncovered the dishes. Unused bowls tucked away at the back of the cupboard behind a collection of miscellaneous cups and bottles.
There were no other signs of life all day. Not unless she counted the trail of ants in the kitchen or the few birds that nestled on the broken fence outside. The first sign of life she heard all day was the sound of a motorcycle from far off, growing louder and louder until it approached the house and went around the back.
She had her blue gun pointed at him the second he stepped in through the back door. But she lowered it when she recognized him—the one who called himself Kobra Kid.
"Sorry," she said.
"It's fine. I'm used to it. Isn't home if someone's not pointing a gun at your head. Did you cook? I can smell something."
"I cooked some of the dried potatoes. There's no salt, but I made enough for everyone."
"Excellent." He shrugged off his dusty leather jacket and made himself a bowl.
"Where are the others?" she asked as she watched him.
"On their way back. I'm just quicker."
"I see." She bounced on her feet. Apparently, whatever they were doing had gone well, or he wouldn't look so calm. He didn't seem to find her as threatening as Poison did. He didn't seem interested in her at all. Definitely not the way Ghoul did. All he seemed to care about was shoving as much potato slop into his mouth as he could.
"Ah," he said after swallowing a shovelful. "Thank you for this. It's been a long time since I've had a meal already cooked when I got home."
"It's not much."
"It's enough."
"It wasn't a problem."
"Still. I appreciate it."
"You pulled me from the desert and brought me right to your nest. It was the least I could do."
"You're bad at taking a compliment, aren't you?"
"It's just food."
Still, it made her feel nice. He smiled and took his bowl into the living room. She followed him just fast enough to see him plop into the couch, right into the divot. But then she paced while he ate. It was hard to stay still when there was so much to be done. She'd been in survival mode for almost seven years. How could she relax and enjoy herself for so long? She felt restless. Caged.
Then she heard the sound of a car engine in the distance. She paused to listen like an animal on the alert for predators. Kobra did the same. He stopped shoveling food into his mouth long enough to listen. The two of them were still and silent until the car honked twice, and he finally swallowed.
"It's them," he said, returning to his food.
She returned to the kitchen as the car pulled into the back. The three other men and the little girl trooped in through the back door. Jet was smiling about something as if someone had made a joke. Poison wasn't, but he seemed more apprehensive of her than the others. Fun Ghoul came in last, just behind the Girl, still wearing the humor of whatever joke they'd just heard.
"Indigo! Hi!" the Girl said, bouncing around her feet. Clearly excited about the new face. "Did you make something to eat? I smell food!"
"She made potatoes," Kobra informed them from the living room. Fun Ghoul sent her a smile. She tried to give it back. The strange, flirting mating dance she could do. The genuine smile was a little more tricky.
"Give her some space, Kid. C'mon, let's get you fed," he said, motioning the Girl away from her to make her a bowl.
Once she had her bowl, she rushed off to the living room while the rest stood back and pulled off jackets and vests and holsters and weapons. Indigo lingered back toward the door, watching them with uncertainty as they made themselves food. The only one who seemed to take any notice of her was Ghoul. He got himself a bowl and noticed the empty sink. Then he glanced at her with a question in his eyes.
"Did you eat yet, Princess?" he asked. She shook her head slowly.
"Not since this morning." He handed out the bowl.
"Back up. Let her have some. Don't be a pig." He gently shoved Jet Star away from the stove.
"It's fine. I can wait."
"Bullshit. Whatever happened to chivalry?"
"I think it died long before the world did, pal," Jet Star said, slopping some of the flavorless goop into his bowl anyway. He walked away, leaving the space open. Poison stood back, arms over his chest as he watched this exchange. Ghoul waved the bowl at her, insistent.
"Eat," he instructed.
She took it hesitantly and scooped some for herself. Careful to leave enough for them even though she could have eaten more.
"Thanks," she whispered to Ghoul, standing close by.
"You made it."
"I didn't trade anything for this food."
"You made it. You get to eat it. Those are the rules."
"Well, still—thank you."
She glanced at him, and he glanced back. There was an awful lot of that going around. They kept it up just a little too long. And then Poison was getting in on the action, too, though his stare said something entirely different. He waited for her to step back and gave Ghoul a look she could only describe as a warning. He served himself, obviously trying to say something without words, and then disappeared into the living room.
When it was finally Ghoul's turn, she stood beside him again. Close enough to whisper without being overheard by the men in the other room.
"What was that all about?" she asked. Ghoul shook his head.
"It's complicated. Don't worry about it. What'd you do all day?"
"Absolutely nothing. It was agony." He smiled.
"We uh—we went to Midnight's today." Her expression paled. She was trying to keep her mind off of it. His face went grim as he watched her.
"Oh?"
"Trashed—just like you said. They uh—they already came for the body. Marked the building." She gulped and nodded.
"Of course they did."
"We were going to try and find something to bring back for you, but there isn't much left. The back rooms have already been scavenged."
"There's a cellar. I know how to get in." He nodded.
"We'll take you back up in a few days when you're feeling better."
She was refusing to look at him now. Her eyes were on the stark white slop in the burned old pot. She could see him watching her. So she nodded once and turned to leave.
She'd brought the book up from his room just to keep her mind busy while she cooked. She had no genuine desire to read it, but it was better than letting them see her battle with her expressions. So she picked it up and pretended to lose herself in it while he finished serving himself.
"I did find something, though," he said when he returned to the living room with the rest of them. He pulled it out of his pocket and then set his fist on her book. "I thought you might want it."
He let his hand go and walked away. He'd left behind a necklace, a black leather chain with a silver emblem on the bottom. It had been custom-made just for Midnight. He'd made one for both of them. Hers had an umbrella, and his was a moon and stars. It was meant to be a calling card, but the truth was, they were more like dog tags. Their way of letting people know who they were if their bodies were left to rot in the desert.
And now she was losing the battle. They believed a piece of the soul lingered in the important things left behind. Masks, jewelry, sometimes even their guns. When they died, their bodies couldn't always be buried. So they'd take what they left behind to a mailbox shrine, hoping the Phoenix Witch would carry the soul onto the afterlife. Someplace happier.
"Thank you," she said, trying desperately to control her tone. "I'll be downstairs."