"Everything I do is inspired by Gerard. I'm the Robin to his Batman." ~Mikey Way
When the final note of "Black Dragon Fighting Society" crashed out of the amps and the crowd screamed their approval, Mikey panted and waved and then went backstage with the rest of the band. When Ray initiated the MCR tradition of exchanging high-fives with everyone present, Mikey joined in with the rest of his friends. When Gerard complimented him on doing a "fucking awesome job," Mikey thanked him, even though he knew the real compliment was in not having a nervous breakdown over the fact that he'd been without medication for more than two weeks; those Better Living Industry morons (who appeared to think they were the kings of the world just because the desperate citizens of the fire-razed state of California had turned to them for aid in the first brutal months of drought and, after the wars broke out, the rest of the country had submitted to them as well) really did have such a level of control over the pharmaceutical industry that, after their first threats to cut off his supply of mood stabilizers- because he wasn't a "registered citizen" under BLI's rule- had been ignored, he'd gone to the drug store to pick up a prescription and actually been denied. But he'd made it through this show, and many others years before too, so he knew that the whole situation couldn't be as bad as it seemed.
So when the band started to carry their equipment out to the trailer and Mikey followed suit, he was pretty damn shocked as they all stepped right into the waiting group of cops, who snatched their instruments from them and clicked handcuffs onto their wrists.
Kobra Kid walked down the desert road as the sun rose behind him. He wore his sunglasses, though they weren't really necessary so early in the morning, and that, combined with his slicked-back blonde hair, holstered gun at his side, and the I-think-I'm-better-than-everybody attitude that his nonchalant expression exuded, gave him the distinct look of a Wild-West gunslinger on his way to a showdown.
He walked with a clear sense of purpose and direction: he knew where he was going, and he knew exactly what he would do when he got there, and the slight smirk that flashed across his lips was a sure indication that it was going to be nothing good.
Kobra's eyes widened in excitement behind his shades as the sound of motorcycle engines reached his ears. They were not far off, he knew, and sure enough, three Dracs soon sped into view, looking perfectly identical on their polished white motorbikes, with their crisp white jackets, and stupid, supposedly intimidating masks covering their faces. They drove past him, but all three turned their heads a little to glance at him out of their eyeholes as they passed.
Kobra Kid waited as the patrol unit made a neat, precise U-turn without breaking formation and slowed as they neared him. He waited as they turned off their bikes, flicked out the kickstands, and dismounted. He waited as the one in front, clearly their leader, stepped cautiously forward, drawing his gun, and he waited as the other two did the same. Kobra stood there in the sand and awakening sunbeams, the epitome of serenity, as the first Drac called to his companions, "He's a Killjoy! Get him!"
After taking a second to chuckle inwardly at the generic evil-grunt-attempting-to-do-something-important line his entirely unoriginal enemy had chosen to utter, Kobra resisted the urge to shake his head pityingly as the three rushed forward.
Only then did he draw his laser blaster and fire two bursts of energy into the bodies of the two Dracs flanking the unfortunate leader. They collapsed onto the asphalt in pain and surprise; predictably, they hadn't been expecting such a quick reaction, as they thought he was like them, lethally slow and unable to think on his feet.
The remaining Drac appeared to panic at the loss of his fellow attackers, but nonetheless continued the charge, ramming his shoulder into Kobra's chest and sending them both sprawling into the edge of the road. The back of Kobra's head collided painfully with the small lip of asphalt, but he still rolled himself on top of his opponent with relative ease; he'd often been tackled like that, so shrugging it off was simple for him. Kobra pressed his blood-red ray gun into the Drac's temple, allowing himself to feel a brief rush of victory.
He'd often considered saying something, in this breathless, sweat-scented moment when his pulse beat in him like a snare drum and his defeated enemy stared at him with a look of despair, something along the lines of, "You had this coming, you know," or "Ah, at last you know what it's like to fear. And now, you will learn what it is like to die."
But Kobra had never been a man of many words, and so he was glad that aggression didn't require a sonnet. He did smile at the Drac as he pulled the trigger, hoping his enemy would get the gist of his empowering feeling of revenge.
With all the Dracs dispatched, Kobra was free to finish what he came for: quickly and methodically, he reached into each of their front jacket pockets and removed the bottles of prescription pills. But he only tucked one into the safety of his own red sport jacket; one of the others was the wrong dosage (he wasn't looking to poison himself, after all) and the third was the wrong medication entirely. He dropped the two rejects onto the ground, and watched them bounce, clatter, and roll a bit among the dead and dying bodies of their owners.
Kobra Kid swung his leg over one of the discarded motorcycles and sped off into the sunrise.
Mikey walked along behind the guards slowly and warily, looking around at the whitewashed concrete walls of the prison. He exchanged glances with a few other prisoners, who had bruises, cuts, and black eyes and seemed to pity the newcomer. Mikey had the feeling that their jumpsuits were covering the worst of their injuries, and he was struck with fear and apprehension as the guards opened the door to what he gathered was his cell.
He was alone, he noticed. There was only one bed- a small, uncomfortable-looking cot- a sink, and a toilet. There was a tiny, barred window with a view of the prison yard. The guards shoved him in roughly and closed the door with a clang. Then they left, and he sat on the bed to contemplate what was going on and why they were here, and to worry while trying to ward off his encroaching despair before he finally sank into a troubled half-sleep.
The guards brought food the next morning, and it was nasty, of course. About an hour later, they led Mikey out to the prison yard, where he saw the one thing that gave him some comfort: Gerard was out there too.
As he got closer to his brother, though, Mikey noticed a number of cuts and bruises on his face, and that he walked gingerly, almost limping. Gerard gave him a weak smile and asked, "How you holdin' up?"
"Fine," Mikey replied; he was clearly doing better than Gerard. "What happened to you?"
"I look like shit, don't I?" He said with a wince. "The guards think we're in some sort of rebellion movement against them because we play music, so we're like terrorists, apparently. They think that beating us into submission is the best thing to do, so they went at it. I think they cracked one of my ribs." He touched his chest lightly and grimaced. "Frank got it pretty bad too- he's in the cell across from me, and he had a really bloody nose and all kinds of bruises."
"But why didn't they do that to me?" Mikey wondered. "I'm in the same band, so if you're terrorists or whatever, so am I."
"Don't take this the wrong way," Gerard began contemplatively, "but I think they think you're sort of the weakest link. They figure you'll be the most likely to crack and agree to join them because you'll end up valuing your meds more than your friends. And they figure that if they don't torture you, you'll end up going more quietly."
That irritated Mikey- did he really seem that easy to break?- and he spat, "But we're not even rebelling against them! This is ridiculous! How can they do this?"
"I don't know, but I'll tell you one thing," Gerard's battered face was set in determination. "We may not have been against them before, but we sure as hell are now."
An alarm sounded to signal the end of "rec time," and Gerard told him to stay strong before turning away from his brother and heading back to his cell.
Kobra Kid sped past the gas station, and the wind rushing through his hair momentarily took on the smell of premium gasoline before blending back into that of cold sand and warming asphalt. He passed the diner as well, and hoped that the sound of his motorbike didn't make the sleeping Killjoys think that they were being attacked.
He drove through the relatively unremarkable desert, fortunately encountering no Drac patrol units as he crossed into Zone 6 and approached a tiny, run-down building that said "ART" above the door in curly, spray-painted letters. He parked the bike and went in, because he had a friend to visit and a bargain to uphold.
They tried their best to break Mikey, but he was not one to be easily converted, and especially not by people who had given him plenty of reason to resent them. In the hours between lunch and dinner each day, a man came into his cell and talked to him about why he was a terrible person and how his way of life was inherently bad.
That alone wouldn't have been that big of a deal; Mikey was definitely strong enough to resist such blatant lies, no matter how much conviction his interrogator might say them with. But he was also reminded of some of the worst days of his life, and those were blamed on the band. His grandmother had died while they were on tour, so he hadn't gotten to say goodbye. He'd had a breakdown due to stress from another tour and briefly considered suicide.
Naturally, the interrogator left out the other side of the stories: how the band had written a song dedicated to his grandma, and how Gerard and Ray had practically saved his life with a song they'd composed the day he'd snapped. But having such things thrown in his face wasn't easy for Mikey, even though he was determined to maintain a stoic attitude and not let them know how much those memories hurt. To add insult to injury, by the second day they had rearranged his schedule so that his rec time no longer coincided with that of anyone he knew, effectively cutting off what little support system he had.
The emotional torment wasn't the worst part, though: that was the waiting, the wondering. When would they realize that Mikey would be of no use to them? When would they give up and start treating him like the other prisoners? Worst of all were the tiny doubts that crept into his mind after the interrogator left him alone with terrible memories of his failings, or when he tried in vain to drift off to sleep, ending up staring blankly at the equally blank walls. What if I can't take it? What if they're right, and I am the weakest link? What if they break me, and I betray Gerard and Ray and Frank?
So Mikey was grimly satisfied when, on the fourth day of his imprisonment, he blandly informed the interrogator that no, he didn't give a damn about his need for medication; yes, he could survive without it; and yes, he would sooner die than submit to the lifestyle the new government was imposing, and the man who had been gazing at him with superiority that bordered on pity stood up in fury at his subject's impenetrable apathy and struck him across the face.
A second later he had flinched back, shocked at what he had done, or maybe…afraid? He looked like he was expecting Mikey to strike him in return. But the reciprocal blow didn't come, because Mikey was too tired to even think of attacking him and inviting further violence or interrogation; he honestly could've gone to sleep right there on the floor with a bloody nose.
"Ha!" the man cried in excitement and relief at his prisoner's inaction. "Well, well. He's not so scary after all." He grinned maliciously.
He and the guards fell on Mikey, punching him and kicking him in the ribs, and by the time they left him with a beaten face, aching body, and a bitter, broken sort of resentful joy, it was the happiest he'd been in three weeks, though tears mixed with the blood on his face. And he felt even stronger when, on his way back in from the next day's rec time, he caught his brother's eye in the second-floor window, received a grin that was half grimace from Gerard, and managed to smile back. He was totally on board with whatever counterstrike his brother was planning.
He would show them what scary meant.
"Hey, Kobra! Long time, no see!" The woman at the counter looked up as he entered, brushing her long, brown hair out of her face.
"Hi, Adrenaline Angel," Kobra replied. He stopped in the middle of the small, dusty room and looked around at the odd collection of items she had assembled. There were all the art supplies that could possibly fit into the floor-to ceiling shelves that lined two of the walls. The other two walls were devoted to musical instruments: there were guitars, tambourines, violins, and a drum set in the corner. More shelves set into the counter displayed records and CDs.
"Wha'cha here for?" Adrenaline Angel asked, stepping out from behind the counter and approaching him. She wore a long, white dress with yellow designs and beads in it that was probably totally impractical in a fight.
"I came to see if you had any bass guitars," Kobra Kid replied, feeling the apprehension he hadn't known was still there drain out of him when an excited smile flashed across her face. He was glad he'd come to see her; she always made him feel comfortable.
"I have just the thing for you!" Adrenaline Angel retrieved a multicolored stepladder from next to the counter and practically ran over to one of the music walls. She climbed up and lifted down a bass covered in, of all things, hundreds of silver sequins.
Kobra arched an eyebrow incredulously as she held it out to him. "It's…sparkly."
"No, it's shiny," Angel laughed. "Go on, try it!" She led him over to an amp and adjusted the settings while Kobra slung the strap over his shoulder and wondered if this had been that great of an idea. Was this flashy stringed instrument really worth all the fear and hard work and risk he would have go through?
But then she handed him the end of the amp cable and a pick, and he plugged the bass in and strummed what few chords he could remember. They thrummed out of the amp and reverberated through his chest, and he was absorbed in the beat as he made it up on the spot, playing random, simple rhythms just to hear how they sounded, nodding his head in time with them, and it didn't matter that this was the single worst practice he'd ever done, save when he was just learning to play; all that was important right now was the pick tugging at the strings, and the feeling of the frets under his fingers and the smooth, polished guitar neck under his palm, and that all-encompassing sound pulsing through him like a heartbeat.
The magnificent feeling was still strong as a memory, and so Kobra didn't really notice when he stopped playing, unplugged the bass, and bought it on the spot. He said goodbye to Adrenaline Angel (she wished him luck, and told him to take care of his new instrument) and walked out of the store and got back on his stolen motorcycle and rode home with his guitar strapped across his back, all with the echo of the music in his ears.
Mikey's small victory was what sustained him over the next two days.
Someone new interrogated him, but used the same old you're-a-worthless-failure-but-you-wouldn't-be-if-you-joined-us brainwashing tactics as the last one. He endured the sleepless nights and growing haze of despair that threatened to drown him, fought back the part of him that told him all the things that were said about him were true, that he was worthless and not good enough, would never be good enough, and certainly never as good as his brother. How could he, in all his antisocial, mentally and emotionally and a-hundred-other-ways flawed weakness, ever hope to be on the same level as Gerard, who Mikey was sure had always been the one the crowds came to see: the famous, inspiring frontman. No one cared about the quiet, bespectacled guy in the back, whose voice and music went pathetically unnoticed all the time.
But he knew their revenge would be worth the wait soon, so he hung on.
Mikey was standing near the grey concrete wall in the yard that was just as grey as all the other walls and staring into space when he heard a loud bang and a lot of yelling coming from inside. He saw several shapes fly past the windows, and then the door near him burst open and two people ran over.
One was his brother, which didn't surprise him as much as the other, who looked like he had just escaped from a circus: he was wearing half a T-shirt and a pair of pants with blue polka dots on them, with a black thong on the outside of his pants. He was brandishing a pink gun that shot what appeared to be laser beams, and he fired at the guards stationed around the yard while Gerard ran up to Mikey, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him towards the door. "We're getting outta here!"
Mikey gathered all the energy he could to run through the hallways after his brother. He was worried that they would be recaptured and tortured again, and he didn't know how much more psychological agony he could take, but he was more worried that this would turn out to be a dream: it felt so surreal, he kept thinking he would suddenly wake up and tuck his knees into his chest and close his eyes tightly to hold in the last fleeting remnants of one of the rare good dreams. Sometimes he even thought he could hear strains of one of their songs drifting through the bars: "Shut your eyes…Kiss me goodbye…and sleep…just sleep."
And then they were outside again, and the sunlight reflecting off the car windshields pierced his eyes, and Gerard jumped into a light blue van parked directly in front of the prison door. Mikey got in after him, and they slammed the doors shut. The other man- who Mikey would later know as Show Pony and nickname his "apocalypse buddy" when they went on raids to retrieve their stolen instruments- hopped in the front seat and started the engine.
As they peeled out of the parking lot, Gerard talked breathlessly with Ray and Frank, who were in the back seats and didn't look too bad considering what they'd been through. Mikey would've been what passed for content to stare out the window (or was it at the glass in the window?), but Show Pony asked him suddenly about his medication. As he tried to remember how to talk, Gerard answered for him what he took and how much. Show Pony tossed a container of prescription meds over his shoulder and Mikey caught it reflexively before not really reading the label.
Show Pony told him that he was sorry, but he hadn't brought any water for him. Mikey mumbled something about how that was okay, and opened the container. He popped a pill in his mouth and swallowed it using a good amount of spit. It tasted awful, but he could swear, whether it was a placebo effect or simple liberation, that he felt better already.
Kobra Kid walked into the diner quietly, not wanting to wake anyone up. But Party Poison was already awake, and he blinked sleepily at Kobra and said, "Morning."
Kobra smiled in reply, as a thought he'd had a while ago resurfaced, finished and polished and true. His brother had once said that he had wanted to be Batman growing up, because he was the only superhero they knew who didn't actually have powers; he was an ordinary guy who had made himself extraordinary through his wits and bravery. Kobra had always thought that was a bit unfair, because he wanted to be like Batman too. He realized now that he didn't have to be- didn't want to be- the famous one, the one who everyone talked about. He could be like Robin, a bit underrated but never undervalued. Batman needed him, he needed Batman, and it worked.
Kobra Kid set his bass on a stand next to Jet Star and Fun Ghoul's guitars, and decided, when he looked at the tiny beams of light that reflected off every facet of each sequin, that Adrenaline Angel was right: it was shiny, and so was he.
"Hey, Party," Kobra said softly. "I'm back."