"Mama, we all go to Hell." ~My Chemical Romance, "Mama"
Tsow! Tsow!
As white-hot flashes of laser fire streaked over the broken concrete ledge that had once been a wall, Steve crouched in the dust and clutched his gun. He was muttering a song under his breath to take his mind off the fear and adrenaline that made his knees shake and his mind cloud over.
Joey, their squad leader, ducked back down after throwing a grenade over their makeshift shield and panted, "Think we should run for it?"
Steve considered the situation briefly: they were outmanned, outgunned, and the soldiers they had were nearly all complete amateurs and, more often than not, complete morons as well. He was fairly sure that no one would blame them if they retreated when faced with such a risky situation.
"Yeah, we probably should." Steve replied, feeling relieved because Joey always took his advice.
And sure enough, the squad leader nodded and called to the fifteen or so guys huddled with him that they were retreating. All the men looked equally relieved, and even more so when, after lobbing one more grenade to repress enemy fire, Joey turned and started running, crouched down, in the direction of the Humvees. Steve joined the group of rushing soldiers, eager to escape from what had been, like every other battle he'd fought in his two months at war, the scariest thing he'd experienced in his life.
There had been a lot of talk, when he had signed up and gone to boot camp, of bravery and valor, honor and nerve and all those good and righteous qualities that military service would instill in them. While the drill sergeants' fervent patriotism was admirable, Steve had quickly learned that, no matter how much training they were put through, no amount of bravery or righteous ideals, army-induced or otherwise, could make anyone feel better or stronger when they were dodging deadly laser blasts in the middle of a battlefield. Nothing could prepare you for the terror, the uncertainty, the only comfort being the sound of the footsteps of the men behind you and knowing that at least they hadn't been shot yet.
Nothing, he would think later with a rueful smile, could prepare you for life after both your friends and your leg were blown up by a landmine.
Steve drifted slowly into consciousness, his thoughts washing onto his mind like wreckage onto a beach. He groaned internally and tried to sink back into sleep; it was probably early morning, which meant that he had very little time left to get any rest before Pete, whose bunk was directly across from his, did as he did every morning and threw his pillow at Steve's head while beseeching him to "get the hell up, put on some pants, and get your lazy butt down to the chow hall so we don't miss breakfast!"
Steve took a deep breath, anticipating the shock, waiting for that annoying bastard (who was now one of Steve's best friends) to chuck his pillow at him. Bring it, man. He waited, but the blow didn't come. He heard a clock ticking obnoxiously loudly, shattering the predawn silence with its steady, sharp beats.
There were no analog clocks, and certainly not ones as intrusive as this, in the barracks.
As Steve's face contracted in gross, morning-breath scented confusion, his mind noted another rhythmic annoyance: a high-pitched beeping, which felt the need to announce its ability to make high-pitched beeps about once every two seconds, from what seemed like right next to his ear.
What the hell is going on? Steve thought. He was dimly aware of some memories struggling at the corner of his mind, trying to break through the murky fog, but he would deal with those later; right now, he had a potentially manageable problem before him, something he could solve with little to no mental exertion, and that was the itch in his leg.
He reached down automatically to scratch it, but his mind encountered momentary puzzlement as his hand encountered- nothing. Frowning, he felt around beneath the sheets, figuring that maybe he'd slept on it wrong, and his leg had gone numb. But that couldn't be it; he couldn't feel anything with his hand either. What?
He didn't much care to ponder the mysteries of the situation now, though; he still needed to sleep, and so he started to bring his hand back up, to plug his ear and block out that stupid beeping. But he stopped as his fingers brushed against his thigh.
It didn't feel like his at all. It was oddly sticky, as though he'd spilled something on it that had then dried, and there was a strangely textured cloth wrapped tightly around it, much more loosely woven and smooth than the shorts he wore to bed. Of more immediate importance, however, was the fact that both the fabric and his leg came to an end at about mid-thigh.
Steve opened his eyes, quickly realizing that he was in a hospital room. The obnoxious beeping was a heart monitor, and he noticed a second itch in his forearm that reason told him was an IV. He gave none of this more than a passing thought as he tried to remember exactly what might have happened to his lower leg.
He was suddenly hit with memories so strong and painful it was like being bashed over the head with a brick. The explosion…a sharp, searing pain in his leg…being pelted with bits of flesh and not knowing if they were his…hands picking him up, carrying him off…the whir of helicopter blades…and he guessed that he'd passed out after that, because he couldn't remember anything between the chopper and this hospital.
Steve took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, to figure out what to do. That had always been his strong point, planning. It was why Joey had trusted him and-
OhGodJoey. Was he dead? He'd been running right next to Steve, and when the landmine had blown up, he would've gotten the full impact. Maybe it had even been Joey who'd stepped on it.
He didn't know now. He had no way to find out whether Joey, or Pete, or anyone else in his squad, were dead or wounded or had lost a leg…
Steve shut his eyes tightly, but that did nothing to block out the memories. He shifted, trying to find a way to curl up that didn't involve laying on what was left of his leg. He was still hoping that it was all just a bad dream, and that he would wake up to Pete's stupid greeting and find out they hadn't gone on their mission yet.
If this was a bad dream, the nightmares that awaited Steve when he fell into a tenuous half-sleep were far worse.
It was real. That was what Steve had found out with the intrusion of the too-bright sunrise through the thin white curtains. It was real, he had lost half his leg, and he had no idea what to do about it.
He learned that he was in Battery City Hospital, in southeast California. He learned that he had received an award for allowing most of his squad members to escape from what would've been a curb-stomp had they stayed, and they'd lost far fewer people from the landmine than they would have in combat. He learned that Korse, the vice president of Better Living Industries, was planning to assume leadership of the company soon, which meant that Steve, as a wounded soldier- he was still wrapping his mind around the "wounded" bit- would be given a lot of benefits and things. He learned that he would be discharged from the hospital in a few weeks, with a complementary motorized wheelchair, and that maybe later he could get a prosthetic. And nothing Steve learned made him feel any better.
It wasn't just the fact that getting out of bed was ten times harder due to his lopsidedness, or that sitting in a wheelchair all day was making his remaining leg ache like crazy. It was the overbearing sense of pity that he felt from the nurses who attended him, like they thought he was too stupid to understand the predicament he was in. He knew they were just doing their jobs and trying to make his stay as nice as possible (which was obviously not very nice under the circumstances), but it seemed to him as though they were being condescending and acting like he could hardly feed himself. They said very sweetly, "Oh, how are we doing today, Steve?" He'd always thought it was bullshit when people said "we" and meant "you," but now it was like everything that got on his nerves did so twice as much as usual since he had nothing to distract himself from them.
The minor annoyance he felt toward his nurses was nothing compared to what he felt toward himself, a crushing mixture of sadness, guilt, helplessness, and frustration bordering on contempt. Sometimes he woke up and wondered why he should bother figuring out how to maneuver out of bed, if any of it was worth it. He couldn't do anything anymore, and that made him angry.
He'd heard people say that you're often your own worst critic, and true to that he had begun abusing himself in ways he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy. He never hurt himself physically, as he was already fucked up enough, but he indulged in a daily torrent of calling himself every name he could think of and keeping up a constant series of taunts about his inability to do anything the way he was used to, and about his pathetic attempts to readjust. Mostly, he just sat around and felt useless.
A week before he was due to check out, Steve heard on his room's flat-screen TV that there was medical research going on around cell regeneration. Nothing monumental had been achieved yet, but scientists in the city's research labs had managed to heal a paper cut instantaneously. There was hope that, with time, the process could be applied to more serious injuries, like bulletholes, broken bones, or even lost limbs. Steve stared at the screen for a few seconds after the ad was over, entertaining a tiny bit of hope that he wouldn't live like this forever, only to realize again that he still had no plans for what to do until that day, if it ever came; there was no telling whether they'd all be blown up by some terrorist group eventually.
They had tried to give him medication beyond what he took for pain, assuring him that it would make it easier to sleep, make the nightmares go away. Steve hated the thought of being even more dependant on his meds than he was already, and especially of admitting that he occasionally dreaded the thought of going to bed and having to relive the worst moments from his eight weeks in war again and again. He refused the extra meds. That turned out to be the best decision he had made in a long time.
The day he was due to be discharged, Steve was sitting up in bed eating the gross hospital lunch and staring at some trees out the window when a nurse came in and informed him that he had a visitor.
His initial reaction was that there must've been a mistake. No one he knew would want to visit him: all his friends from the army were probably in no state to travel, his commanders barely knew his name, he hadn't seen his parents since last Christmas, and who knew if they were still alive with all the wars going on around them?
He bit back a bitter laugh as he thought in almost childish excitement that it must be someone from his old band. It was a foolish thought because the group had split up in 2012, and he had heard nothing from them since the fires that same year, so it had been over six months since his last contact with any of them. It was ridiculous to think that they would even keep tabs on him, seeing as how they were probably struggling to stay alive just like the rest of Battery City, if they weren't already dead. Steve registered the fact that he'd been using the phrase "if they weren't already dead" pretty often in the last weeks, or if he was being honest, the last months after the fires.
He jerked out of his thoughts when the man who was apparently his visitor strutted into the room, clearly not realizing or caring how out-of-place he looked.
The man was dressed in a shirt that was way too short and had "NOISE" on it in block letters, blue polka dots on his pants, a thong, and to top it off, he wasn't wearing any shoes; he carried a pair of roller blades in one hand and a helmet it the other. He tucked the helmet under his arm as he approached Steve, shook his hand, and said in a high-pitched, fluttery voice, "Hi. I'm Show Pony."
Steve had to work to resist the urge to facepalm, and again considered the possibility that this was all just a very bizarre dream. "I'm Steve," he replied, figuring he might as well be polite; he really wanted to ask this weirdo what the hell he was doing here.
"I know," Show Pony said, rolling his eyes as though it were obvious. "I read your ad a while back and when I heard about what happened to you I thought maybe you could use some help?"
"Wha…" Steve suddenly recalled that he had posted an ad before joining the army, asking for someone with whom to run a radio show; at least that way he could remain connected to music, even if he was no longer in a band. "You…wanna be a DJ?"
Show Pony grinned obnoxiously and said, "Sure! But what's really important is you." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "We have to get you out."
"Out of the hospital? Well, yeah, I can't run a radio station from here- "
"No, out of the city."
Steve stared at him blankly. There was nothing outside of Battery City except nuclear wasteland. Where would they go?
"I heard from your nurse that you haven't been taking your extra meds," Show Pony went on quietly, in a mock-reprimanding tone. He smirked. "That's good. Those things would totally screw you up."
"How?" Steve was curious about why these pills were such a big deal.
"Because they take away emotions and the ability to think normally."
"That makes no sense!" Why would the government legalize something objectively bad like that? It was a ridiculous thought. Perhaps his aspiring co-host was a conspiracy theorist. Fan-fucking-tastic.
"Better Living Industries wants to make it so they don't have any resistance from the free-thinkers," Show Pony replied coolly. "They just want everybody to be 'happy' and 'peaceful'- " he actually made finger quotes around the words "- by not letting them have feelings at all, or have the free will to disagree. That nurse who brought me in? I'd bet my blaster that she's on those meds. All the nurses here probably are. It keeps them from getting too emotionally invested in their patients."
"But…" Steve trailed off, thinking about how his nurses didn't just say the same sorts of things casually as though used to stupid pleasantries, but they said exactly the same things every time, like robots. He wondered how that had never bothered him before, as the idea kind of creeped him out now.
His visitor went on, "And when they discharge you they'll pester you incessantly about it. 'Oh, take these drugs; they're the best thing ever,' all that propaganda crap. The best thing to do is to be a Killjoy."
Steve thought he had heard something about this rebel group, something like they were trying to kill everybody, but he didn't think much of those rumors: If there really were people living outside the city, which was improbable, why on Earth would they be trying to destroy the only stable government around? Years later, he would chuckle at the naiveté of this thought.
"So they exist, the Killjoys?" he asked Show Pony, trying not to let his disbelief be too apparent.
"Oh yeah," Show Pony said with another ear-to-ear grin. "They're out there. And I would know, 'cause I am one!"
Steve decided to play along. "I could be a Killjoy too, then?"
"Heck yes!" the man replied. "You need a totally awesome name, not that it'd ever be better than mine, of course. And we definitely have to get you a laser gun; you'll never be safe in the Zones without one."
Steve noted the way Show Pony spoke, as though they were no longer talking hypothetically. "This is really happening, then?"
"Well duh! We could really use a radio station in Zone 5, and it'd be super shiny if you could host it 'cause then we could send messages and play tunes- I heard you used to be in a band- and announce things and…" He rambled on for a while, but Steve mostly ignored his overenthusiastic chatter in favor of trying to decide whether the weird guy in the tights had a point.
He hadn't wanted to give up music, but had felt powerless waiting around for radio to be the sort of thing people acknowledged the existence of, and had gotten tired of that and joined the military, where he could at least find out more about what was happening in the wars. Now, without a band, a leg, or anyone who cared to recognize that he was still alive, Steve figured, Why the hell not? It'd certainly be more interesting than wheeling around his apartment, and if half the things Show Pony was telling him were true, he'd rather not hang around and wait to be brainwashed anyway.
"Okay," Steve cut through his visitor's babble.
Show Pony's eyes lit up. "Really?" Without waiting for an answer he chattered even faster, "Thisissogreat! We'regonnabethebestradiohostsan dbuddieseverandI'dhug-youbutyoudon'tlooklikethetypewholikeshugs butwhocares!"
A second later, before he could work out anything the man had just said, Show Pony had flung his arms around Steve with a, "YAAAAAY!"
This'll be…interesting, Steve thought, trying to get his new "best buddy" to stop choking him.
It had been certainly been a change of pace.
Moving out into the desert into an old, dilapidated diner off the highway was not exactly luxurious living, but Steve (or Dr. Death Defying, as he had called himself) soon found out that it beat living in Battery City by a long shot.
It turned out that, not only had Show Pony been right about everything he'd said, but the state of the city and its outskirts was far worse than the media had told them. Just the fact that the skyscrapers of the city were the only visible man-made thing for miles around was really creepy. Add to that the transmissions Dr. Death had been receiving from other radio hosts about the Killjoys, like how most of them lived in places that made this abandoned building look like the goddamn Ritz-Carlton, and the constant threat posed by the merciless Dracs he once thought of as simply there for protection and now fled from and fought almost daily, and he could confidently say that the world was far more fucked-up than he had thought.
The only good thing was that Dr. Death had a friend.
He would never tell him this, but he did value Show Pony's company. Just having someone to talk to made his days much better. Their radio show gave him a way to stay connected to the world and to feel like he was doing something- way more than what he could've done had he stayed. He begrudgingly found a lot of Show Pony's jokes funny, and they often teased each other about stupid stuff, which made him feel like he was back in the army again, only with relatively less of the bad things. Best of all, Show Pony, despite his mocking and carefree attitude, always seemed to respect him.
His co-host's "respect" was relative, of course, but Show Pony was never condescending or pitying like the nurses had been. He seemed genuinely interested to hear what Dr. Death had to say, even if he chuckled at the DJ's attempts to master Killjoy slang.
And, as Dr. Death would soon find out, his friend was also secretly badass.
It was during a routine weather broadcast- hot, dry, a hundred percent chance of awesome (er, shiny…damn) music- that a group of Dracs burst down the door and attacked.
This was not unusual; raids on Killjoys hideouts were a common thing to deal with, but it was very bad timing on the Dracs' part.
Dr. Death had loaned his blaster to Show Pony so that the latter could skate down to the store and get some apple juice, which he had been loudly announcing his desire for all day. So he was weaponless and facing four Dracs, all of which had their guns out and pointed right at him.
One walked forward and grabbed him by the collar, demanding to know the locations of other Killjoy bases. Dr. Death patiently explained that he had no idea where his comrades were and intended to keep it that way, since then he couldn't spill the beans on occasions such as this.
Predictably, the Drac punched him in the face, and his shiny (booya!) sunglasses that he had definitely not stolen from the last Drac who had attacked him went flying off. Another Drac stepped on them- accidentally or not didn't matter- and the sad little crunch the lenses made just pissed Dr. Death off. He grabbed his cane, the one he had totally not swiped from the hospital before they left, and clobbered the Drac upside the head.
In the chaos, he was aware that he missed being hit with at least two laser blasts, but before he could think of who to attack next a voice from outside yelled, "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
In rushed Show Pony, neon-pink laser gun at the ready, and he began picking off Dracs so quickly that by the time they realized that he was the one who had yelled and the reason they were getting shot, three lay dead on the floor. The last, who was nursing a bruise from Dr. Death's cane, turned just in time to see Show Pony swing his leg in an arc and, still wearing his roller blades, kick the Drac across the face and knock him unconscious.
"Are you okay?" he asked, coming over to see if Dr. Death was hurt. He wasn't, and a relieved Show Pony gave him a hug. Dr. Death was getting used to his friend's touchy-feely tendencies by now, but was still kinda uncomfortable.
The DJ surveyed the aftermath of the fight, a little irritated that they had more cleaning up to do, but happy that he wasn't dead. Then he remembered his sunglasses, and bent down to find them splintered to bits.
"Not the sunglasses! How could they do such a thing!?" Show Pony wailed in fake sadness.
Dr. Death rolled his eyes at his co-host's theatrics, but had to admit that he was grateful, and even a little impressed that the only casualty had been his shades- not counting the Dracs, of course.
"I got us some juice!" Show Pony announced, holding up the bottle. "You know, it's what I drink when I'm killin'- "
"'Cause it's fuckin' delicious," Dr. Death finished their mutual favorite song lyric with a smirk. "I know. You make that joke every time we have juice."
"Well, it's still true!"
The unlikely friends sat in their broken-down diner and enjoyed their juice together, like the crazy bastards they were.