"'Good morning' is an oxymoron." ~Anonymous

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!" My eyes snapped open unwillingly as Show Pony barged into the tiny back room where I had been sleeping and bounced on the end of the mattress.

I groaned. "What do you want?" Couldn't he see I was trying to make up for the utter lack of sleep I'd suffered for the past several days?

"I want you to go debut that new album, that's what!" He jumped off the bed and ran eagerly to the doorway. "Come on! Come on come on come on! Let's go!" He left, and I took a few seconds to contemplate how we had ended up as friends (he'd been the only person around willing to help an old, run-down war vet like me start the most successful radio station in Zone 5) before sitting up with a sigh. It looked like I'd be running on six hours' sleep and a ton of stale coffee, again.

After getting dressed and trying unsuccessfully to make my breath smell slightly less awful, I made my way into the kitchen area and snagged some of the coffee that Show Pony had brewed. As I settled onto one of the bar stools, I heard a voice behind me say, "Ready for the big day, Dr. Death?"

I whirled, pulled out my laser, and brandished my cane in the direction of the sound. Not a bad choice of weapons, really: a few feet of solid oak in the right place could break the bones of my opponent, who was-

Actually on my side. Right. I'd forgotten, thanks to the fog in my head, that the woman staring at me in surprise from the nearest booth had agreed to help with today's broadcast, offering her badass technical expertise. I'd turned down her first offer to co-host because I felt a weird need to host the album's introduction by myself. I knew by now that it was a good idea to trust it when I got feelings like that, and she had grudgingly agreed.

She raised her hands in a sarcastic gesture of surrender marred by the touch of fright in her voice. "Okay, okay. I get it. Don't talk to you till you've had your coffee. Geez."

I lowered my weapons and took a sip of my drink. "Sorry. You startled me."

"I can see that."

"Hey, guys," Fun Ghoul sat up in the next booth down, rubbing his eyes. He appeared to have slept in his usual outfit, a combo of yellow and black that made him look stupidly like a bumblebee. "Er, guys and girl," he amended.

"What?" asked our ten-year-old companion, who was very originally called The Girl, as she walked in the double doors of the main entrance. Party Poison, whose eyes were ringed with the same shade of red as his hair because they'd just gone to mail something, followed her protectively.

"Not you," Fun Ghoul started to explain, but then just said, "Never mind." He picked up his green military vest, the source of all his bomb-making materials and battle gear, from the opposite booth and put it on.

"So," Party Poison's voice was flat and tired. "Today's the album debut thing, right?" He was our unofficial leader, but never seemed too happy about that. Not that I blamed him- being in charge of us was like having several kids, not counting the actual kid. And dealing with the death of his totally badass, short-tempered but likeable brother didn't make him feel too great, either.

"It sure is! It's gonna be totally shiny!" Show Pony exclaimed, holding up a record that he'd found on my desk.

"How many times must I tell you to not touch my stuff?" I snapped in pretend anger. That joking complaint was older than the phonograph Show Pony was attempting to figure out, but he gave a halfhearted chuckle anyway. I thought I'd better keep him from breaking something, so I went over and took the record and put it in the right way. Show Pony sighed melodramatically, grumbled something about how I was pushy, and went to get coffee- like he needed more energy.

I rolled my eyes and sat down at my desk. "Okay, so," The caffeine had yet to take effect in my brain, and I tried to think of a way to begin. "Let's get this not-a-party thing started."

"Yay!" the Girl chirped, and took a seat in the closest chair. She had to move a second later because the other female Killjoy was supposed to sit there, but she stared over the top of the booth with wide eyes like she was expecting a miracle. Show Pony returned, mug in hand, and sat next to her, looking at my "tech support" and I with similar enthusiasm.

Fun Ghoul and Party Poison sat across from them. Party looked a little nervous as the woman searched for a clear channel and I adjusted various volume settings, like he was afraid the beat-up speakers would explode. Fun Ghoul, however, was staring at me with a knowing little smile, almost wistfully. It occurred to me that Jet Star had always looked strangely content like that when he played guitar. He'd said that composing and playing music gave him a feeling of complete freedom and peace, as if he was fulfilling his intended purpose.

(Jet Star had been the type of guy who, if you gave him a million bucks, would thank you and donate it to charity. All of it. And if you hit him in the face and stole it back, he'd thank you again, saying that the love of money was the root of all evil, before he apologized for implying that you were evil, and thanked you some more while he went to ice his eye. Dammit, we needed that kind of guy.)

I wasn't sure about my life's purpose, but I did know that being a DJ was probably the second most kick-ass thing I had done in my forty-one years- after being a rock star, obviously. As much as I hated those old clichés, radio gave me a chance to express myself and get my voice heard. Being on the air was my way of staying in touch with the world. And everyone said I had the face for it.

"Ah, here we go," the woman beside me said, snapping me out of my oddly philosophical thoughts- I wasn't normally so deep this early in the morning. She'd found a clear channel, and grinned at me. "Ready?"

I resisted the urge to say born ready, and went with a casual nod instead. She flicked the power switch on the mic and waited for me to begin. The static buzzed intermittently, like a confused, unmotivated swarm of bees. I took a deep breath, leaned forward, and in a whisper I said the words that would begin, not only the album all of us, living and dead, had worked so hard on, but what it meant: a second chance, a memory of a time when everyone had a say in things, and the story of the true lives of the fabulous Killjoys.

"Look alive, sunshine…"